A Day at the Ad Agency

            “Yes, Mr. Holstrom.  Yes, I realize that this is unacceptable.  I’m going to rectify the situation right- Rectify.  It means to make right.  Yes, I’m sure it doesn’t mean that.  Yes, I’ll get right on it.  All right, thanks.”

            I hang up the phone, and rub my temples.  This is the third time Johnson’s fucked me over.  I open the drawer in my desk by my right knee, pull out a bottle of scotch and a glass.  I hate firing people.  I pour, drink.  Johnson’s office is down the hall, about ten yards from mine.  His office is only about eight by ten, but then again, he’s only worked here for six months.  It took me three years to get a decent sized office. 

            When I enter the room, Johnson is sitting with his feet on his desk, leaning back in his swivel chair, holding a paperback at arm’s length over his face.  I clear my throat.  Johnson looks at me without moving his head.

            “Hey,” he says, “What’s up?”

            “We need to talk,” I say, pulling from my pocket the folded up flyer Mr. Hostrom faxed to me.  “It’s serious.”

            Johnson swings his legs off the desk, and sits up straight, tossing the book behind him.  It hits the wall and some pages fall out.  I lay the flyer flat on the desk in front of him.  “Can you tell me what this is?” I say.

            Johnson looks it over, then says, “It’s the promotional flyer I designed for Mattress Mart’s sale.”

            “And do you see why Mr. Holstrom might be upset with it?”

            Johnson strokes his chin for a moment.  “No.”

            “Well, I see several.  Let’s start with the big bright red letters across the top.”

            “What about them.”

            I can’t tell if Johnson is messing with me, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.  “You don’t see it?”

            “No.”

            “Mattress-Side Sale.  In big red, inexplicably dripping letters, it says Mattress-Side Sale.”

            Johnson shrugs as if he has no idea what I mean.

            “Mattress-side.  Matricide.”

            He shrugs.  “Coincidence.”

            “Coincidence!  How could it be coincidence!  What the fuck does Mattress-side even mean.”

            “It means ‘the act of murdering one’s own mother.’”

            “I know that!”

            “Then why’d you ask?”

            I take a few deep breaths.  “I mean, why did you name the sale the Mattress-Side Sale.”

            “Because we have the best mattresses this side of the Mississippi.” He says.  “I promise, any homophones are coincidental.”

            “See, I have a hard time believing that.”  I point to the image beneath the title, “Could you explain this?”

            Johnson looks it over.  “I think the meaning is quite clear.”

            “So do I, which is precisely the problem.”

            The image is a line drawing of a large number of young men and middle aged women in a mattress store, all of them brandishing weapons of some kind.  Beneath that is the line: Everyone and their mother is going Psycho for our low, low prices.

            “Do you seriously expect me to believe that this has nothing to do with matricide?”

            “It has everything to do with mattress-side.  That’s the name of the sale.”

            The son of a bitch is grinning now.  “Enough,” I say.

            He shrugs.  “Fine,” he says.  “The pun is intentional.  I thought he’d like it.”

            “Why would he possibly like it?”

            “You’ve seen the commercials, always talking about prices so low that he’s got to be insane and all that.  What says crazy better than matricide?”

            I look him over carefully, trying to determine whether he’s still pulling my leg.  “Not that kind of crazy.  He’s quirky uncle crazy, not dress up like a clown and rip out your sternum crazy.”

            Johnson shrugs. “My mistake,” he says.  “I’ll do better next time.”

            I brace myself, take a deep breath.  “There won’t be a next time.  You’re fired.”

            He looks at me, actually serious for the first time so far.  “What!  Because I made one mistake!”

            “This is hardly the first mistake.”

            “Name one other.  I dare you!”

            “That Chef Spyro’s Gyro shop.  You remember that one?”

            Johnson crosses his arms over his chest.  “What about it?”

            “‘Chef Spyro will fill your mouth with his hot meat.’  And the picture was a close-up of Spyro winking.”

            Johnson snorts in derision. “So it happened one other time.  Big deal.”

            “And Bragler’s Pharmacy.  The ad just said, ‘Drugs.  Lots and lots of drugs.’”

            “It got people’s attention.”

            “It got the police department’s attention.”

            “Police are people.”

            “That’s not the point!”

            I take several deep breaths.  “The point is, you’re fired.  That’s it.”

            I stand up and start to leave, but Johnson runs around the desk and grabs my shoulder.  “Let me show you what I’ve got,” he says, clearly desperate.  “If you don’t like it, I’ll go.”

            “Fine,” I say. 

            An easel with a giant pad of sketch paper is leaned against the wall.  Johnson spreads its legs, and prepares to flip over the page.  “It’s for Rico’s Italian diner.”  He flips over the page.

            There’s are two meatballs next to each other, and a cannoli dangling below them.  The tagline says, “You’ll love our big meaty balls.”

            Johnson is smiling self-consciously.  I look at the ad again, then back to Johnson.  I turn around and start walking.  “You’re fired.” I call out over my shoulder. 

The Poolboy

            Times have been tough lately.  Fresh out of college, no jobs for a philosophy major in this economy.  So when my cousin Fred in Orange County offered me a job at the pool cleaning service he works for, I couldn’t say no.  I’ll be honest, I didn’t know the first thing about taking care of a pool, but if Fred can do it, it shouldn’t be too difficult.  I learned quickly enough (memorizing heater specs is nothing compared to Sartre) and was soon on my first assignment.  Fred had warned me that the customers were freaky, but I had no idea what I was in for. 

            My first job was at one o’clock, and, in typical Southern California fashion, the sun was scorching.  The house was a simple two-story family home in the middle of suburbia, green lawn, nice car, clean pool, almost the archetype of the typical suburban home.  I pulled the white pickup truck alongside the curb, grabbed the chemicals and skimmer from the bed, and went around the side of the house to the backyard.  The pool was, I roughly estimated, forty by fifteen feet, with a maximum depth of between nine and twelve feet.  It was surrounded by a gate, which is highly recommended to prevent tragic accidents.  My skimmer was already in the pool when I realized that the client (one Mrs. Benson, according to the billing information), was sunbathing on a lounge chair, on the concrete about ten feet from the pool.  She was wearing a red bikini, sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, a bottle of suntan lotion on the ground next to the chair.  She noticed me looking at her, raised her head and smiled, waved.  I waved back. 

            She called out, “I hope you don’t mind if I watch.” 

            “Not at all,” I called back.  It’s good to see a homeowner take an active interest in their pool’s maintenance.  The surface of the water was spotted with clusters of leaves, which are best to remove before adding chemicals.  I realized soon on that watching the skimmer glide across the water was relaxing, almost hypnotic even.  I walked around the pool, the little blue net filling with soaked foliage, until I got to the filter, which I realized was directly in front of Mrs. Benson.  It was also broken, and I leant down to check it.  This got Mrs. Benson’s attention, as she propped herself up on an elbow to get a better look.  This filled me with a sense of anticipation; if I couldn’t fix the filter, with a pool-owner as astute as Mrs. Benson, I could be in for a hard time back at the office. 

            Mrs. Benson got up from the lounge chair and walked over to me, putting a hand on my shoulder.  “What seems to be the problem,” she said, kindly.

            “It looks like the filter’s broken,” I said, “It’s probably blocked at the pump, Mrs. Benson.” 

            “Please,” she said, “Call me Anne, and it hasn’t been Mrs. for months,” she smiled.

            I smiled back.  “I’ll be sure to change the billing info to ‘Miss’,” I said, looking around for the pump.  It was near the side of the house opposite from the side I entered from, so I walked over there, followed, to my surprise, by Anne.  I was sweating pretty badly by this point, and was tempted when Anne suggested I take my shirt off.  Unfortunately, I burn very easily, and the sun tan lotion by the lounge chair has a disastrously low SPF. 

            “Sooo…” Anne said as I squatted down next to the pump, “this problem with the pump.  Does it look hard?”

            “Too soon to tell,” I said, “I’m going to need to open her up and have a look inside.” 

            “Do you have a special tool for that?” she said. 

            “Sure do,” I said, reaching into one of the pockets on my khaki shorts. 

            “Can I touch it?” she asked, “Your tool I mean?”

            I stood up, and turned around.  She was rubbing her hands along the sides of her torso. “Sure,” I said, “hold out your hand.”  She placed her hand palm up about waist height, which struck me as odd as I handed her my wrench.  She looked at it, even though she was wearing sunglasses, I could tell she was squinting her eyes in confusion.  “It’s a Foreman 3/8 inch standard wrench,” I said.  She looked at me like I was an idiot, then it hit me.  “Oh!” I said, feeling like a complete fool.  I took the wrench back and started fumbling around with my shorts.  It took me a moment, but I found it and got it out. 

            The filter uses metric nuts, and there I was like an idiot with a 3/8 inch wrench.  I showed her the adjustable wrench.  “Sorry,” I said, her face still shocked by my rookie mistake, “I’m new at this.”  Fixing the pump was a piece of cake, but Anne still seemed put off by my mistake with the wrench. 

            “Sorry again,” I said.  “I’m a bit nervous, but I swear, I’m all business.”

            She seemed to respond well to my reassurances, and her face lit up with a smile. “This is your first time?” she said, stepping a little closer to me. 

            “Yeah,” I said, “There’s a big difference between practicing alone and actually doing it with someone else there.  You know, theory versus practice and all that.” 

            Anne nodded emphatically, “I know just what you mean.”  She leaned over and whispered into my ear, her breath hot and moist, “How about some practice, then?”

            I nodded.  My bucket with the chemical containers was sitting unattended and unused on the other side of the pool, and here I was chatting.  Time to put my training into practice.  Anne seemed flustered when I had finished adding in the chemicals and said my goodbyes.  In hindsight, her behavior throughout the entire ordeal had been odd.  I guess Fred was right about the customers being freaky.

           

            

The Great Gatsby in 3D... Wait, what?

Unlike a lot of people I know, I have no problem when a book I like is adapted into a movie.  I don’t always think that it’s a great idea, but I like the cases where it works as a stand-alone piece of art.  That said, it didn’t come as much of a surprise to me that The Great Gatsby is being made into a major film, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Tobey Maguire.  In fact, I first heard about when I saw the trailer (I was watching MIB 3; don’t judge me), and was surprised to discover that it was being released in 3d.  This begs the question: Why?

I am not inherently opposed to the use of 3d, in fact, there are movies that undoubtedly benefited from its use, whether creating an entire world (Avatar) or going for shits and giggles (Harold & Kumar 3), and I’m actually looking forward to seeing the new Spiderman movie in 3d, because the depth would add something when the character is swinging around the tops of skyscrapers.  But what is added to the overall cinematic experience by making The Great Gatsby 3d?  It seems to make as much sense as a 3d version of Glengary Glen Ross, because it is a character based story.  I’m not given any more insight into any of the characters because of the 3d, in fact, 3d is still enough of a novelty that it would be distracting, instead of immersing me in the movie. 

But I could bitch all day about this, and nothing would happen.  Here’s what I recommend.  If you see the movie, see the 2d version.  Tell your friends to do the same.  If the 3d version isn’t as profitable, Hollywood might just get the message.

The Dark Truth About "Back To The Future"

Analyses of the dark implications of Back to the Future have been done to death.  But this is the internet, and if I see a dead horse, then I’m sure as hell going to beat it.  But I want to do something more.  Most of the aforementioned analyses only refer to the first movie, but I’m going to look at the trilogy as a whole.  If we pick up immediately after Doc Brown flies off in his time-travelling train, we find the epilogue is quite…unfortunate. 

But a word about the train first.  If it’s been a while since you’ve seen the movie, you probably remember that a train smashed the Delorean, then Doc Brown showed up on a flying, time-travelling train, with his wife and kids in tow.  You might have forgotten that right after the Delorean is destroyed, Marty says, “Well, Doc.  It’s destroyed.  Just like you wanted.”  The dangers of time travel and messing with the past was a constant theme in the trilogy, and Doc Brown realized the havoc his creation could cause if it ended up in the wrong hands.  So when he comes back in a new time machine, the best case scenario is that he is a huge hypocrite. 

But let’s put that aside.  Doc Brown flies off into the sunset, and Marty goes back home.  Until he is taken away be the government.  You remember the terrorists from the first movie?  Yeah, that storyline never really got wrapped up.  In fact, their van crashes into a film development booth, which probably wouldn’t kill them.  So the police get there and arrest the terrorists.  In exchange for leniency (this was pre-9/11) they give up the name of the guy who got stole the nuclear material: Dr. Emmet Brown.  They also mention that there was a kid with him.  It wouldn’t be hard to connect Marty with Doc Brown, as even the high school principal is aware of the friendship. 

So Marty is brought in for questioning.  And he can’t adequately answer any questions about his own past, because he didn’t grow up in this timeline.  He grew up in a world where his family was timid and unsuccessful.  The events and people that populated that life occurred differently in his current reality.  If he tried to answer their questions, he’d come across as delusional.  Even if he told them about the time machine, they wouldn’t believe him.  Except…

The only reason no one knew about the Delorean is because it was kept quiet.  Between 1885, 1955, 1985, and 2015, only one person found out about it that they didn’t want to.  Because a car, even a flying one, could be easy to hide.  But a train?  It’s impossible that no one would notice a flying train.  Which, might I add, was built only with parts that existed in the late 19^th century. 

So Marty would become a valuable asset to a government that now has to worry about a madman hurtling through time and space with his family in a flying locomotive.  Because Marty is the only person who has any experience with time travel at all (and is guilty of aiding and abetting Doc Brown), he would be held indefinitely and used to help capture his friend.

House Series Finale: Did House Commit Murder?

            The House series finale begins with House waking up in a burning building next to a dead heroin addict/patient.  The majority of the episode is a series of flashbacks and hallucinations with dead or departed cast members where he debates whether or not he should just die in the fire.  As he decides to live and rushes to the front door, he sees Wilson and Foreman are there.  A beam collapses and they pull out a body that they declare is House’s.  House is revealed to be alive, having switched his dental records with the addict’s.  When did he switch them?  He couldn’t have switched them after the fire, because that would involve going to a hospital that was filled with people who knew him.  So he switched them before he ended up in the burning building, which means he had planned the whole thing.

            Consider: House recollects all the events leading up to his being trapped in a burning building with a corpse, except the period of time between him  diagnosing the patient (with a curable disease) and his waking in the building, which is notably absent.  Furthermore, when he sees Foreman and Wilson outside the front door, he stops.  We’re supposed to believe this is a sentimental thing, but if he was planning on faking his death, he couldn’t have witnesses seeing him leaving the building.  Not to mention that the cause of the fire was never examined.

            Also consider: There were no apparent signs that he had just shot up.  Hallucinations are common in House's life.  If nothing else, the fact that he was still in pain and able to think clearly, meant that he wasn't high.  So if he wasn't doing heroin, why was he there?  Also, the suicide debate he has with his subconscious.  If we accept that he had planned to fake his death the whole time, we have to conclude that he wasn’t originally planning to kill himself.  What could cause him to black out, and consider suicide?  Murder.  House murdered his patient.

'Literally' Is Dead

            Language is a living thing.  It changes with usage and context.  Words like ‘epic’ and ‘ridiculous’ are modern examples of the shifting meaning of words.  Emphasis on shifting.  The meaning of a word generally changes gradually (except in extreme cases, e.g., the word ‘titanic’ after the ship sank), and follows a logical progression.  For example, ridiculous meant ‘deserving of ridicule’ but like other terms (e.g. incredible), it can also be used to refer to something that is bizarre or so impressive that it seems beyond belief.  The use shifted over time, from describing something foolish then incorporating things that were bizarre or confusing, then incorporating things that are so beyond belief that they seem bizarre or impossible and finally including mundane things that seem strange or unlikely.  There is a path between the original and current meaning.  Which is why I can’t stand it when people justify misusing ‘literally’ with the ‘living language’ argument. 

            The problem with people misusing ‘literally’, as opposed to almost any other common misuse of language, is twofold.  1. They are using it to mean the exact opposite of its definition and 2. it completely obscures the meaning of the sentence it’s used in.  If a sentence is obviously figurative, using ‘literally’ to mean ‘figuratively’ adds nothing to the sentence.  I wouldn’t say, “I was figuratively scared to death,” because it’s obviously a figurative statement.  Using ‘literally’ instead of ‘figuratively’ doesn’t add anything.  But that’s only a minor problem compared to sentences that are not obviously figurative.  If I said, “I was so scared, I literally passed out,” it’s possible that I’m being figurative or literal.  If I said that to someone who didn’t know me, they couldn’t tell whether I had actually passed out, or was just very startled. 

            Words are meant to help clearly express ideas and events, and this word has lost its ability to do so.  If used incorrectly, it does not provide the listener with any more information.  If used correctly, it adds uncertainty to the meaning of the sentence. It had a good run, but I think it’s time we laid this word to rest. 

How to Make a Good Superman Movie

         The reason it’s almost impossible to make a good Superman movie is because Superman is perfect.  Not just physically, but morally.  If you take that away, you take away everything that makes him Superman.  The first two movies worked because the first was about him discovering his abilities and the second was about him facing a moral dilemma, choosing between Lois Lane and his duty as Superman.  The fact is, his idealism is why people like him.  So instead of changing him, why not change the world he inhabits?  Instead of the cold war era moral certitude that went hand-in-hand with “truth, justice, and the American way,” put him in today’s society.

        At what point is he overstepping his boundaries?  Would a real-life Superman be morally obligated to overthrow brutal dictators?  What good is having a nuclear arsenal if one man can stop all your missiles single-handedly, and you can’t hurt him?  Who is he accountable to? 

        The story would be the logical progression from the first two movies. Part 1: Superman hones his ability, and becomes a force for good.  Part 2: He decides to dedicate himself to his position as Superman, instead of his civilian life (including personal relationships).  Part 3: He learns the limits/consequences of his actions. 

        The story would start with Superman coming back after years, maybe decades, of absence (I know Superman Returns did that, but bear with me).  So he gets back (having aged much less than an average person), and everyone is understandably excited.  But the world is drastically different.  He would stop a military action against civilians in a stand-in for Syria, and the international reaction would be extremely negative.  The military will be trying to stop him, and will contract out to Lex Luthor to develop technology for a contingency in which Superman would need to be killed/contained.  The big thing would be the moral quandary for Superman.  Even at the cost of alienating governments, and in the face of plummeting public opinion, should he do what he thinks is right?  He has to come to terms with the god he could be. 

        Luthor’s plan would pay homage to the original Superman movie.  He would be secretly selling a nuke and guidance system to a North Korea stand-in.  However, unbeknownst to the Koreans,  the guidance system would allow Luthor to remotely launch the nuke, and crash it into the San Andreas fault.  Not for beachfront property, but to cause a disastrous earth quake.  And the only construction firm big enough and prepared enough to take over the government contracts for a reconstruction project are owned by Luthor, making it a multi-billion dollar payout. 

        Superman stops the nuke, but at this point, he’s completely disillusioned.  Instead of sending the nuke into space, he hurls it back to a Pyongyang stand-in, destroying the city.  When he discovers that Luthor was behind it, he goes nuts, and almost kills Luthor.  Luthor makes some comment along the lines of “This is what you really are.  You’re not a hero, you’re not even human.”  And Superman lets Luthor live, if only to prove to himself that he can still hold that moral high ground.