I'm ready for it to be warm again. I'm tired of this cold thing. Not because of the increased use of heating, the hazards imposed by icy sidewalks and roads (on which a friend was recently injured, which was most assuredly not cool), or the increased probability of my socks getting wet. As much as these things may suck, I'm mostly very tired of wearing coats.
I'm not opposed to the coat in theory. However, getting dressed every morning is an agonizing experience already. Counting down the minutes before I need to leave for work, I stand before my closet, perplexed and deflated. Every possible garment seems to say all the wrong things. Or I've worn it too much. Or it's too presumptuous. Suddenly, each thread in each shirt is a screaming argument for the ultimate futility of it all. Nothing ever feels right and my imagination prompts me to examine the worst possible scenario for picking the wrong clothes for the day. To select an outfit, I often have to trick myself into thinking of something else entirely, facilitating an almost subconscious decision.
Having to throw a coat on top of my selection just mucks up the process further; I have to do it all over again. Of my three black coats, which one is most suitable? Often, all three look as though they would annihilate whatever minimal statement is being made by what I'm wearing.
I long for the days when I can step outside my apartment without fears that I've betrayed my wardrobe with an ill-conceived coat choice, that my coat conceals some aspect of me that should beam forth from me, or that someone will think I wear my trenchcoat because I think I'm fucking Neo.
In my continuing endeavor to chronicle my various ineptitudes, allow me to relate to you, dear reader, my present problem with pills.
First off, a disclosure: I am sick. I would appear to be experiencing some kind of irritating cold which has specifically affected my throat. My affliction began to manifest itself mere moments for heading off to my second job yesterday. By the end of the night, I was thoroughly miserable and barely had prescience of mind to internally shake my head in shame at the people who look like they should know better than to rent John Tucker Must Die. So, on my break, I darted over to the Smith's across the street and picked up some Theraflu caplets. This process in itself consumed the better part of half an hour, seeing as when it comes to making decisions on medication, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I should do something about that.
Everyone's seen the bubble packaging these caplets come in (but I've included a picture anyway). Reading the back would lead one to believe that anyone aware of the directions should be able to access what's inside with ease.
1) Tear to remove corner 2) Peel back paper 3) Push through foil; use scissors if necessary
Now, I can't seem to get past step two. Not without aide in the form of scissors. Fortunately, there was a pair hanging out in the office at work. And there is a plentiful supply of scissors in my apartment. While this gets me my medication, this does not fully alleviate my problem. Ultimately, I want to do it the right way. I spent about fifteen minutes wrestling with one of these packages, attempting the seemingly simple task of peeling back the paper (I should probably note this wasn't all full-on, dedicated wrestling, but rather intermittent moments of intense frustration, tempered with a few minutes of casual picking). Finally, I broke down and went for a pair of scissors.
I am the cause of global warming. Fine, fine, not the whole thing. But when that tipping point comes and it all goes to hell, know that if it weren't for me, we could have been able to stave it off for probably another couple hours or so. I'm not referring just to my general consumption of energy. As far as that goes, I've been making a concerted effort to reduce the amount of emissions over the past year (I still mean to belatedly take Slate's Green Challenge). However, this is all negated by the sheer number of empty loads of laundry I've run.
This happened just a few minutes ago. My apartment happens to be dandy enough to have its own washer and dryer in the hallway. It's one of the things that sold me on the place. As I was composing an email to some friends, it struck me that a) the washer is taking much longer than usual, and b) hey, that's the dryer, not the washer.
I do this at least once a month. Though my washer and dryer share the same control panel, that's not the sole reason I goof. In my last apartment, where I actually had to pay to use the machines, I still managed to do it with frequency. One outstanding night, I did both an empty load in a washer and an empty load in a dryer. To my chagrin, I discovered this right when I was about to retire for the evening.
I'm trying to conserve. But sometimes, my inept laundry skills trump my good intentions.
Last year, I posted a list of my requisite holiday viewing to my LiveJournal. In the interest of full dsclosure, I should admit that I forewent seeing "A Charlie Brown Christmas" in 2005. My holiday was just that much more deficient in cheer as a result. For -- and please, allow me to echo a sentiment that's far from new -- "A Charlie Brown Christmas" is the best holiday special ever.
Troubled by the prospect of indulging in this piece of nostalgia for two consecutive years, I popped in the DVD yesterday to accompany my gift wrapping. I didn't get very far with the wrapping; I was enthralled.
What impressed me most was something I'd never really noticed before. I feel a little foolish for missing it in the past, but often growing up with something can keep you from reexamining its meaning. Much is made of the boldness of Linus's speech (Luke 2:8-14), ending with "on earth peace, good will toward men." (Personally, I take comfort in knowing that Mr. Charles M. Schulz would eventually come to describe himself as a secular humanist.) Regardless of your religious views, "on earth peace, good will toward men" sounds nice (right, Ahmadinejad? Bin-Laden? Bush?).
However, what struck me as the highlight of the program was the intense humanism exhibited. This is, of course, all topped off by the blatant and beautiful metaphor of Charlie Brown's pathetic, frail tree that is saved when the kids observe that all it needs is "a little love." It's a simple analogy. But it's fantastic.
Perhaps I shouldn't have been as floored by this as I have been. But my heart was warmed. Seriously. As if it were in a pot on a stove. I found myself transported to that magical, impossible world where I give the awful dictators and leaders of the world a copy of this. They watch it come to a close, tears barely held back, and then give me a giant bear hug. "Aww," they'd sigh. Poof! No more genocide. No more poverty. No impending climate crisis.
So I place "A Charlie Brown Christmas" at the top of my holiday special pantheon. For reasons new to me.
Naturally, I can't finish this write-up in good conscience without at least a minor rave about Vince Guaraldi's score. It's phenomenal. One of the best albums I own. Period.
I initially conceived of the idea for my latest film, The Mustache while shooting Patrick Svensson's Hopscotch Hotshots. The original idea consisted pretty much of this: Sam Butler in a hideously fake mustache. That was back in the Summer of 2004.
Over the next year I figured out what to do with it. Ultimately, I decided that Mark Andrus -- pretty much playing Mark Andrus -- would be the perfect foil for a guy who just wants to wear his mustache. So I hammered out a script (the last hammering of which occured the night before the first attempt at shooting) and we were ready to go in Spring 2006. As I chronicled on this blog back in April, that shoot was a bust and we reshceduled for a couple weeks later. The shooting was arduous (largley because it was fucking hot), but we shot everything we needed in about eight hours. That was May. This is December.
Finally, though, it's out. Follow that link to see what will have been Bombdotcom's only completed film for 2006.
However, I've been talking with a couple of people. Joey Schlegel has written a couple of scripts that I'm poised to direct early next year. Jon Fairbanks has something in the pipeline. He might even get me to appear on camera (gasp!). And there's myriad whispers and rumblings for what else might happen in 2007.
Also, look forward to some new features on the Bombdotcom Productions website. For all the movies we did back in 2004, I produced a DVD with a host of special features (including commentaries) for each film. Expect to see those uploaded some time in the next few months.
Well, please watch my film if you have five minutes to spare. And if you have an additional couple of minutes, feel free to let me know what you think.
Last night finally saw the unveiling of my most recent film, The Mustache. This one took me way too damn long to edit. However, WiL Whitlark emailed me the music this weekend (and they're very good), and I was able to assemble it all in time for the Tower Theatre's Open Mic Night. I'm rather a fan of the Open Mic Night concept. For a mere fee of $5.00, I got my movie on the roster, under the condition that it was under ten minutes (it is). Admission was free, so a few friends came along. I was impressed that as many people stayed as they did and weren't simply there just to see the movie they were there for. That made it all the worse when the screenings came to an abrupt halt.
The bulb burnt out in the projector. This apparently doesn't happen frequently. It sucked. Perhaps even worse, I had hoped to do a little bit of shoulder-rubbing, getting to know a few of the other local Salt Lake filmmakers. But alas, the confusion and irritation at the end of it dampened the mood and the possibilites of that happening. And I'm probably too chickenshit to really approach anyone myself, anyway. So the lot of us came back to my apartment and had pie.
There will be another Open Mic Night in February. We're planning for it.
Audience response to my movie was pretty positive, I hear from my friends. I was there, of course, but I was far too anxious and nervous to judge objectively how people reacted. In my mind, it's not wholly improbable that a disgruntled audience member, after enduring five minutes of my brand of torture, will turn around, recognize me instantly as the one responsible for the film, and stab me to death.
Unfortunately, I don't have a copy of The Mustache ready to view online quite yet. Hopefully, it'll go up tomorrow, when I'll have higher quantities of free time. It will be the first content update on Bombdotcom's website in not yet two years. Part of me feels that I should launch a new design for the site at the same time. Another part realizes I need less obstacles to prevent me from making timely updates.
The jars were nearly identical. They always are. However, what subtle differences there were would prove critical over the next few weeks. They even had the same price, one dollar and ninety-nine cents. Standing at my position above the bottom shelf, where the cheap grape-based condiments rested, I locked in on the proper jar and set my right hand on a course for it. On the descent, I chuckled to myself about a recent conversation with I had with a friend, who claimed that there was no difference between the two. Naturally, I corrected him. The main difference is that while the texture of grape jelly is awful and unnatural with a taste that borders on negligible, jam is actually pretty alright.
My hand swooped up its target. The quest for groceries may continue.
Later, now, I stand in my kitchen. Despite the usual quiet of my apartment, I can tell at this late hour that whatever virtually inaudible noise filters in through my walls has now gone to rest. This, of course, is a realization I save for retrospect. My energies are currently focused on the peanut butter and grape jam sandwich I am making. With effort, I twist off the cap for my new jar of grape goodness. A spoon is retrieved from the drawer. I dig into the flat surface near the mouth of the jar. Immediately, I can tell something is awry. Nonetheless, I proceed. The grape-flavored gob lands too neatly on the bread. It jiggles too much. It's too red. It's too gelatinous. Gelatinous.
In my continuing endeavor to chronicle my various ineptitudes, allow me to relate to you, dear reader, my present problem with pills. 
What impressed me most was something I'd never really noticed before. I feel a little foolish for missing it in the past, but often growing up with something can keep you from reexamining its meaning. Much is made of the boldness of Linus's speech (
I initially conceived of the idea for my latest film, 
Last night finally saw the unveiling of my most recent film, The Mustache. This one took me way too 
