Employment

Wahoo!

I had an interview as a proofreader at an ad agency. It's for "freelance or permanent" work, and I still am not quite sure what "freelance" means when you're in the office 35 hours a week with your own office with a door. Anyway, I called today to thank the interviewer for having me in, and she said that I aced the proofreading test. She's not sure when she'll need me, because of the nature of the workload, but she is giving my name to a friend of hers at another agency. Folks, I'm employable!

Wahoo! I think I'll take the day off to celebrate.

Supreme Court Gets One Right

The Supreme Court ruled today that captives of the Bush administration's war on terror can have their day in court. Guantanamo detainees can sue to challenge their detention, and Yaser Hamdi, a US citizens held as an enemy combatant, has the right to rebut the government's case against him. They've also agreed to hear a medical marijuana case, and they upheld arrestees' Miranda rights. It's about time there was some good news on this blog.

24

I've been watching the TV show "24" on DVD recently. Why? I have a lot of free time all of a sudden. I watched season 1 over the winter, and I'm over halfway through with season 2. It is a good show, and the thing that keeps it from being a great show is that it should really be "18," or perhaps "21," not "24." There is an inevitable need for filler, and it usually comes in the form of Special Agent Jack Bauer's (Kiefer Sutherland) daughter Kim (Elisha Cuthbert). She's the Little Bald Cancer Boy of prime time. I wish someone would kill her.

In the first season, she got kidnapped about a dozen times. Every time she was safely in the hands of the authorities, she'd find a way to get into trouble again. They'd always transport her to a "safe place," but in a passenger car guarded by one rent-a-cop, and sure enough, the bad guys would grab her again. An important character dies at the end of the first season, and I wish it had been her.

Now, in season 2, they're really stretching for ways to imperil her. A nuclear bomb is not enough; we need an abusive, murderous father. We need cops who think she's a murderer. We need every male who drives or walks within ten miles of her to turn into a leering sex maniac. But that's not enough either. We also need cougars. Yes, friends, they pulled out the old "menaced by cougars" trick. We've all seen it a thousand times.

Perhaps in season 3, she'll end up tied to a railroad track while a leering European guy with a Rollie Fingers moustache cackles above her and a screaming freight train barrels out of the tunnel. I wonder how fast Kiefer Sutherland can crank one of those handcars?

The Private Lives of Politicians

Illinois Republican senate candidate Jack Ryan recently dropped out of the race after his divorce records were unsealed and revealed that he took his ex-wife to sex clubs and pressured her to have sex with him in front of other people. Months earlier, Illinois Democratic senate candidate Blair Hull lost the primary to Barak Obama after his divorce records were unsealed and revealed that he struck his wife and threatened to kill her.

I believe that the first bit of news doesn't have a bit of effect on a candidate's ability to govern. People are into weird sex things, and he didn't force her to do anything. Also, she ended up saying that the allegations she made were untrue. I believe, however, that the second bit of news has a huge effect on a candidate's ability to govern. I don't want some guy who beats his wife and threatens murder representing me. I guess it comes down to this, for me at least: Hull committed a crime, and he could have spent time in prison for it. Ryan didn't.

This post is inspired by a conversation I had with Shawn (forgive me if I misrepresent you, Shawn); we agreed that Ryan's sex life wasn't anyone's business but his and his wife's, and we agreed that Hull's temper and penchant for violence were the business of voters. What I've been wondering since, though, is what the difference is. Both divorce files were opened under the same legal arguments. It shouldn't matter what the effect is, right? If I think the public has a right to know a, then I should think they have the right to know b, especially if the information in both cases is hidden in the same types of files. But I feel like Hull got what he deserved, while Ryan was railroaded.

I suppose I don't know what to think. Ryan's case reminds me too much of the Republican witch hunt over Clinton's affair with Monica Lewinsky. So where's the limit? How much do we have a right to know about the private lives of politicians? Does it make sense that one situation seems more acceptable than the other, or is my moral relativism getting in my way? There's a whole nother question of why Ryan thought he could run for public office as a Republican with that skeleton in his closet, but that's for another day.

Dead White Authors

Slate.com runs these sometimes interesting, sometimes annoying "conversations" about various topics. They've been doing one where mob experts discuss The Sopranos, for example. They just started one, in commemoration of Bloom's Day—the day when the events of James Joyce's Ulysses take place—in which novelists Jeffrey Eugenides and Jim Lewis discuss the heirs of Joyce and the other early modernist writers.

I can't say I've read a lot of what they're going to be talking about. I've read A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and Malcom Lowry's Under the Volcano (which I think qualifies), and that's about it. I have to admit that I found reading them akin to being punished. Actually, more like eating cauliflower. Sure, it's good for you, but why can't it be enjoyable? I don't mind being challenged, but why can't challenge and fun go together? (And yes, I realize that my idea of fun might be different from other people's ideas of fun.) I have no idea how much post-Joyce modernist fiction is like that—some people say it is uselessly impenetrable, some say it is joyous exercise for the brain, and I guess the rest find themselves somewhere in between. I'm sadly behind on most modern "literary" fiction, although I did just read White Teeth by Zadie Smith.

Ulysses was recently voted #1 on the Modern Library Association's list of the 100 greatest novels written in English in the 20th century. Because I view lists like that as challenges, I'll likely read it someday; I've already read a quarter of the books on that list, and around ten of them I read simply because they were on the list. My reaction to lists like that is a combination two things: my inferiority complex at not having gone to a good school, and my belief that there are a lot of great works of literature that I wouldn't read unless someone (like the MLA) tells me about them. Some of the books I read because they were on the list have become my favorite novels, including Angle of Repose by Wallace Stegner, The Good Soldier by Ford Madox Ford, and Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson.

Back to the subject of the Slate exchange: here's a good quote from Jim Lewis that somewhat illustrates my feelings about "serious" literature (although we could have a good discussion about the merits of novels that aren't "serious literature").

Above all, I would insist that novelists who think they're smarter than their characters, and more sophisticated than the idea of the novel itself, and who cannot resist the temptation to demonstrate as much, ought instead to find deeper characters and better stories to write. I want a book to break my heart; everything else is television.

Lesson #1: Don't Talk to Flunkies

I finally got to talk to a management-type person at my landlords', instead of the usual phone-answering nitwits, and they were (gasp) completely reasonable. They're not going to show the apartment unless I tell them that I've decided to move out. Of course, it took multiple messages from me before they deigned to call me back, but I'm not in the mood to complain right now (check back tomorrow—I'm sure something will come up). I have an ad running in the Reader next week (I missed the deadline for tomorrow), and hopefully no psychopaths will call.

Protect Us from the Press

This article in the Guardian illustrates yet another Bush administration plan to keep us safe: torment and humiliate foreign reporters, lock them up overnight, and then send them packing. The Department of Homeland Security claims that it's just enforcing the law—a law that's been ignored since 1952, and that groups reporters in with slave traders, terrorists, criminals, Nazis, and people with communicable diseases. Here's a background story in Salon.

The foreign press has often been the only reliable source of news on what's going on in the world, and even in the United States. It seems that, post-9/11 and post-Iraq, our fine government wants that to stop.

Rocket Man

Rebecca and I went to see an interesting play on Friday. It was called The Rocket Man, and it was based on Ray Bradbury's Martian stories from The Martian Chronicles and The Illustrated Man. One of the fun parts of the play was trying to identify the source stories.

The story was of a young man, Doug, whose father was killed when the first attempt at a rocket ship to Mars was destroyed. Doug has vivid dreams where he falls in love with a golden Martian girl named Ylla, but he skips his chance to go to Mars on the second rocket ship because of his mother. He has another dream that convinces him to go, and he steals a ship. When he gets there, he's locked up in an institution by a doctor who thinks he's actually a crazy Martian using his psychic powers to convince himself and others that he's an Earthling. Ylla thinks he never came, and when the second rocket to Mars arrives, she agrees to go back to Earth with them to find Doug, who escapes from the asylum too late to stop her. It wraps up in a touching and funny encounter in space.

The stage was triangular, with the audience sitting on three sides. The costumes and props were imaginative; I really liked the Martians' costumes, especially the crazy Martians in the asylum, and the rockets were especially creative. Since they didn't have a huge budget, they built two-feet-tall rocket models, and on "takeoff," the crew members would lift the rocket into the air and dash offstage dramatically, a plume of smoke in their wake.

I especially liked the multimedia aspects of the play. It featured traditional drama, ballet, choreographed dance/fight scenes, and even 3D animation (we had those silly blue and red lensed glasses for that part). They had a live DJ—a pretty good one at that—and during the big fight scene between Doug and the asylum doctors and guards, Doug shouts "I don't need a doctor, I need a DJ," whereupon the chaotic battle turns into a hip-hop West Side Story fight.

I always say that I should see more plays. I live here in Chicago, in the theater capital of the Midwest; there are over 200 theaters, large and small, throughout the city. I haven't been disappointed yet, except by Shakespeare in the park, but for some reason I still don't think of going to the theater. Sure, tickets are more expensive (these were $17), but unlike movies, I can't just wait for these sometimes unique plays to come out on video. So I'm going to try to make it to a play once a month; when I inevitably fail, I'll sigh and say "I should go to the theater more often."

Gipper, the Musical!

Did you hear that Reagan died?

I think now's the perfect time to write a Broadway musical about his presidency. His theme song would include the refrain, "I can't remember, I don't recall, I am not responsible." Every once in a while, he'd float a few feet offstage (he'd be on wires the whole time, visible like puppet strings), and Nancy would have to scramble to pull him back down to earth. We'd dramatize the Iran/Contra scandal as a musical bucket parade to put out a fire (maybe it's the Constitution that's burning), but instead of buckets of water, they'd be passing weapons, cash, drugs, and hostages down the line. AIDS would be a guy in rags who keeps knocking on the White House door, but nobody answers. Homeless people would dance in the streets in formation, happily singing about being homeless by choice.

Any suggestions for other numbers?

Justifying Torture

http://online.wsj.com/public/resources/documents/military_0604.pdf

If you haven't read this yet, I encourage you to read it. It's the Pentagon memo that authorizes torture as long as inflicting pain is not the primary reason for the torture, and it provides an exhaustive, and incredibly sick, defense of the legality of torture, up to and including the assertion that the President is not bound by the Constitution or federal law when he is acting as the commander in chief of the armed forces (see page 19 of the pdf). It's long and difficult, but I think it's important to read it, or at least skim it, so you can understand the depths of depravity that the current administration is capable of.

I wonder about the members of this "working group on detainee interrogations." Who are the people who put this memo together? How do they go home to their husbands or wives at night, and sleep without nightmares? How do they do such evil work for such evil people without quitting or killing themselves out of despair? I can already hear them, and everyone else who obeys Bush and company, saying "I was just following orders." I have to believe that things will be better under a different president. How could they be worse?

Quiet on the Set

I woke Monday morning with arms and legs that felt so heavy that I could barely move them. My face felt tight and uncomfortable from a fresh sunburn, and I wanted to go back to bed instead of going to work. I worked on a film set this weekend, and it was one of the best experiences of my life. I wish I didn't have to go to work; I wish I could go help out again before next weekend, when I'm scheduled to help out again.

The film is called Quietly on by, and it's directed by Frank Ross, a kid from the suburbs who, in 2002, sent me a copy of his second film, Oh! My Dear Desire, to review. It was good, and I wrote a positive review of it. I interviewed him, and we became casual friends. I call him a kid only because he is younger than me and looks it. But he's an incredibly professional guy, more organized than I will ever be. He writes with an understanding of human interactions that is surprising in someone so young. I put Desire on the Internet Movie Database, and when Frank asked me how he could repay me, I said that he had to let me work on his next movie. He complied.

The film is about Aaron, a guy who has a breakdown after his girlfriend leaves him. We meet him two months later; he's completely self-absorbed and seems to be manic-depressive. The crew consisted of Frank, his producer/assistant director/friend Joe, Tammy, Day-Day, Drew, and me. The "talent" consisted of Tony, Frank's Robert De Niro, a talented, funny, and kind person who starred in Desire and is playing Aaron here; Danielle, who was also in Desire and who plays Sara, the girl Aaron loves but who finds him a little bit creepy; Lonnie, a quiet guy with a wry sense of humor who has to endure multiple daily hairstyle modifications, who plays Erik, Aaron's best friend; and Jenni, who is new to Frank's orbit (she got her role through an open casting call), who plays Erin, Aaron's troubled sister. There are other cast members, but I haven't seen them yet.

I was part of what Frank is calling the "production team." My job is to do whatever Frank or Joe tells me to do. They all refer to me as Goatdog, because of the review and because Frank is too busy to remember names. I hung up sheets of plastic gel (used for changing the color or quality of light coming through windows) all over the house, including some scary moments atop a ladder attempting to tape them down in a high wind. I fetched Cokes for the actors. I fetched tripods and alligator clips and sandbags. I set up lights, taped various items to various surfaces, and moved equipment out of the way. I concealed microphones and clapped the slate in front of the camera. And I operated the boom mike.

Operating a boom mike is one of the most physically demanding tasks on a film set. A boom mike is a long microphone on a long, thin, retractable pole. It's directional, meaning you have to point it at the person who is talking. It weighs about as much as two pool cues. It doesn't seem so hard at first: you hold the pole over your head with the mike pointing down at the person doing the talking. But then your arms start shaking, your hands cramp up, your shoulders start to ache, you feel pressure on your lower back, the sweat trickles down your forehead and into your eyes, and your nose itches. You struggle to keep the mike high enough so that it's not in the frame, and low enough so that you can pick up the quiet actor you're supposed to be recording. Finally, the director yells "cut," and you can drop your arms. That is, until the next take, and the take after that, and the take after that. Since we were shooting on digital on battery-powered cameras, and since the actors were encouraged to improvise, some of the takes went on and on. The best scene we shot all weekend went on for around nine minutes. Poor Drew, the other crew member who actually did most of the boom-holding, had to hold that thing steady through the whole take. Thank God Frank didn't want to do a retake. (Incidentally, Drew and I are making plans for a backpack-mount for the boom mike, with a support and pivot that extends above the head. We are going to invent it and grow rich selling it to production companies.)

During that scene, I got a really powerful feeling that this, making movies, is what I want to do. I've thought for a long time that I might want to do at it, but never with the conviction I felt at that moment. I wasn't even involved—my job was to hold onto the other boom mike so it didn't fall over, and stay out of the shot. As Tony and Lonnie finished their scene—a little talk next to the tire swing they've just put up—they were on a roll, so Frank let them go with it. It was like they stopped being actors and started being the characters; they were completely natural with each other, as if they had really been friends forever. They added things to the scene that, as Frank told us later, would completely redefine where the movie was going. While I sat there, I got this wonderful feeling in my chest, akin to the feeling you get during a first kiss. It was perfect; I was helping to create a work of art, and we all knew right at that moment, when Frank finally yelled "cut," that it was going to be something special.

A lot of the time was spent waiting, and that was fun too, hanging out with a bunch of people with similar interests. Drew and I talked movie reviewing (he wrote an initial review of Frank's second movie for the Loyola Phoenix) and favorite movies. Jenni and I talked hockey, since game six of the Stanley Cup finals was on Saturday night, when we were sitting around waiting for it to get dark enough to shoot one last scene. I complimented Tony embarrassingly, because he's a really great actor. And we all picked on Frank, who took it with a blush and a smile. They are a great bunch of people, and I hope I don't lose contact with them after filming is done.

Reagan

I'm having a hard time mourning Ronald Reagan. I'm sorry he's dead, because I don't want to see anyone die. But I rank him on my list of the great unpunished criminals of US history, and he's one of my top three worst presidents, along with Andrew Jackson and Dubya. Record defecits, Iran/Contra and his other adventures with right-wing murderous regimes in Latin America, nuclear brinksmanship with the Soviet Union, the colossal waste of money that was "Star Wars," union-busting activities from which unions will never recover, the birth of mandatory minimum sentencing... and let's not forget his administration's support for Saddam Hussein in Iraq. I realize that he didn't have direct control over all of these things, but he was complicit, much more than he wanted you to believe, despite his loveable and befuddled old codger appearance. Here's a list of things to hate or mock him for. His followers have managed to enshrine him in popular memory as the president everyone loved, but I can only remember him as the best embodiment of the soulless wasteland of the 1980s.

And the sad thing is that I would still vote for him over our current president.

Is the Noose Tightening?

Bush has sought the services of an outside lawyer in the investigation of who outed CIA agent Valerie Plame. There's documentary evidence that Cheney helped his old company Halliburton get their contracts to rebuild Iraq. CIA chief George Tenet has resigned "for personal reasons"; I wonder if he's working on his tell-all book yet? The main source for the US case on Iraq's supposed weapons of mass destruction, Amhad Chalabi, just might be an Iranian spy.

I'd like to see Bush and Cheney voted out of office. I'd prefer to see them in handcuffs.

First They Came for the "Terrorists"

In an amazing collision between stupidity and the abuse of power authorized by the USA PATRIOT Act, four members of the Critical Art Ensemble have been subpoenaed and ordered to appear before a grand jury on possible bioterrorism charges. Their crime? Possession of a mobile biological weapons laboratory. Oh, wait—it's a mobile DNA extraction laboratory used in an art installation where people can test store-bought foods for genetically modified ingredients. Still think the PATRIOT Act only applies to terrorists?

I suppose that, under the ridiculously wide range of definitions of "terror" that have been put forth since 9/11, their art project might qualify. They want to let people know how impossible it is to avoid GM foods, even if you shop at health food stores. This could lead people to get angry and call their elected officials, or even (gasp) stop buying anything that tests positive. This could be construed as an act of economic terrorism, by some definitions.

Or maybe it's just more evidence that the PATRIOT Act gives the government carte blanche to harrass anyone they want to harrass. Lots of people say "if you don't do anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about." The problem is that this Act lets the government redefine "wrong" whenever it suits them.

A Special Kind of Sovereignty

The US government has put forth a radical new definition of "sovereignty" today. Secretary of State Colin Powell stated that Iraq's new government will have no veto power over future military actions by the United States. He then said that the new government will be fully sovereign. He then gazed forcefully into the camera and, using the hypnotic power of suggestion, convinced American voters that there was no inherent contradiction in those two statements. After all, what would veto power actually mean anyway, in the era of the Bush doctrine of preemption?

I have a question, though: wasn't it just last week that the Bushies were saying that if the interim government asked us to leave, we would leave? Perhaps they meant that when we tell them it is OK to ask, they can ask, and we will comply.

Fun with Fundies

In the absence of a new, coherent post, I share some stuff I came across in my research for my review of the movie Saved!, which I saw last Saturday.

A review of the film by Terry Watkins of Dial-the-Truth Ministries. Notice how many times he points out that the producers of the film are either homosexuals or supporters of gay rights.

The folks at Christian Exodus want fundamentalist Christians to pack up and move to the same state, thereby taking it over; they will then set up an independant Christian nation. What I want to know is this: where do I send my check? Do you need help packing? I admire them for following through on the "if you don't like it, leave" rhetoric many of them shout at people who oppose the current administration.

Finally, from Shane, a regular commentator on my comments:

Hey! That would be an AWESOME candy bar. NUTTY CHRISTS! When you can't live by bread alone, have a bite of our tasty NUTTY CHRISTS candy bar. A cookie to represent the wood of the cross, with the strawberry sweetness of the blood of Christ, covered in milk chocolate, 'cause face it folks, Christ was more black than white. It is so good, people will raise from the dead to have one! NUTTY CHRISTS!!

It should be known that I don't hate Christians, even of the fundamentalist variety. Some of my family members bear that title proudly. I just dislike holier-than-thou bigots who cheerfully damn me, and everyone else, to hell for not believing the same thing they do.