Is it just me, or is there absolutely nothing of note going on right now . . . anywhere? I mean, the last two weeks have been a total snoozer in terms of national news and personal buffoonery. It's not like I haven't been looking for topics, either. I'm itching to write and have been ever since my Miami spoof posting was generally well received by visitors to the site. I just haven't seen or experienced anything all that interesting lately. The whole thing kinda makes me nostalgic for the bygone days of Howard Dean media gaffes--though, I must confess, not to the extent that I yearn for the doctor's return to the political spotlight. Anyway, when something happens, I'll write about it. I promise. So if you see something happening, let me know.
According to an article in last Tuesday's Herald, the cops in Miami have begun extensive efforts to infiltrate and document the activity of numerous hip-hop artists who've decided to vacation in that fair city.
To date, Puffy, 50 Cent, DMX, and several others of the commercially successful ilk have been "watched" by a secret . . . but fully payrolled . . . crew of Sunshine State spies. These police officers take pictures of the artists as soon as they enter the airport, and then the real fun begins.
"They stake out hotels, nightclubs and video shoots," the Herald piece notes. "They consult a six-inch-thick black binder of every rapper and member of his or her group with an arrest record in the state of New York. The binder begins with a photo and rap sheet of Grammy-nominated rapper 50 Cent. It ends with Ja Rule."
These actions on behalf of the police are, of course, rationalized by citing the broad, and historically racist rubric that grants authorities a great deal of latitude in efforts at "protecting the public" from potential danger. "We have to keep an eye on these rivalries,'' Assistant Miami Beach Police Chief Charles Press says in the article. "The last thing we need in this city is violence."
Are you kidding me, Chief Press?
Miami residents, I'm quite sure, are more concerned about a whole host of quality of life and personal safety issues than they are about the possibility of Nelly rolling down their street in his Range Rover looking for trouble. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against locking up Nelly for a good, long while. But, come on people, I implore you, not like this. Lock him on substantive grounds for his spate of repetitive and utterly pedestrian, radio-friendly hip-pop hits, but don't go after him simply because he's a rapper. After all, if you put out crap albums that rise to the level of public offenses on their own de/merits, there's really no need for the cops to resort to racial profiling.
But I'm getting a bit off track here . . . back to more racist cop quotes from the article.
"A lot if not most rappers belong to some sort of gang,'' Miami police Sgt. Rafael Tapanes told the Herald. "We keep track of their arrests and associates."
News flash . . . Sergeant Tapanes, the only gang Puffy belongs to is one that gets together every Sunday afternoon at Ralph Lauren's crib in the Hamptons for Scones and Boccie. His fellow gang members are guys like Edward "The Killer" Norton, Ashton "Cold Blooded" Kutcher, and Frankie "Lil' Assasin" Muniz. Oh, and I almost forgot, Oprah stops by Ralph's place occasionally for the gatherings as well. She's the brains of the whole operation.
Come on . . . are you kidding me?
The KKK is a gang. The Crips are a gang. Puffy, Nelly, et al. are not a gang--if for no other reason than they spend too much time in Prada and Versace boutiques to really wrap their heads around any efforts at organized crime. I mean, when's the last time you saw a gang member with a bright yellow mink coat?
Huh? Huh?
Nevertheless, the Miami cops are proceeding according to plan with Operation Player Hater. The baggy-pants-despising police held what they referred to as . . . get this . . . a "hip-hop training session" for three full days last May. ''Everybody that went got a binder with information on rappers that have been arrested, outlining charges,'' Tapanes told the Herald. "They were trained on what to look for in the lyrics, what to look for when they go to hip-hop concerts, what radio stations and TV stations to monitor to keep abreast of any rift between these rappers.''
Good grief.
The article goes on to say that the MC maltreatment isn't just limited to big ticket players in the hip-hop game. "Dozens of rappers are tracked in the black binder," the piece reports, "from minor artists like Black Rob to major figures like Sean 'P. Diddy' Combs, Jay-Z, Nas and Busta Rhymes.
What it does not mention is that some sort of remarkably misguided SNAFU has led to the creation of one of these black binder entries on yours truly: mjxm.
While I may indeed be more dangerous than Nelly, I never in a million years thought I'd be lumped with guys like 50 and Black Rob in a book about . . . well . . . anything. But it just goes to show that nothing's impossible these days.
Thanks to an old pal on staff at the Herald, I was able to get a quick peek at my top secret, Miami PD survaillance file. While it encompassed only a single page of the now famous "black binder," the information contained on that page was both astounding and overflowing with all sorts of red flags hinting at potential future violence.
After viewing my "BB Bio" (their language, not mine), I made a quick copy so that I could share it with all of you. Although the cop or cops who wrote it out have very poor penmanship, I'm fairly confident that I got most of the words and phrases down verbatim. So, without further ado, I give you the mjxm black binder dossier:
MJXM
Given name: Matthew James Xavier Malady (note: Xavier part may be made up. Will check on that.)
Rap name: unknown
Known Aliases: Matt, M-ziggie, Sunburn Sam, Killer Khaki, Hat Head, Cheapskate Charlie, 1040 EZ Killa, Straight Chelsea, Brazil, Matt (strike that . . . already mentioned that one)
Attire: 1) Khakis (note: sometimes baggy). 2) T-shirts, usually with no words or advertisements on them, but sometimes of various colors . . . like gray or navy (could be gang related). Did wear one shirt that had the words "Diggable Planets" written across the front in garish, purple letters. No clue what that's about. Maybe a friend's name or a new brand of "hip-hop gear." 3) Blue baseball cap with the letter "P" in white on the front. Very tattered. He's probably been through many fights in that hat by the looks of it. When not wearing the hat, he seems to mess with his hair a lot. At first we thought he may just be vain, but now we're starting to recognize patterns and believe that he might be trying to communicate a message (a hit maybe?) to some of his rapper buddies. Not sure yet.
Recent Known Visits: Two (2002, 2004) known. Possibly another visit in 2001, but only second-hand information on that one.
Posse: Seems to "roll" (ha, ha) with only one other posse member. She appears to be a Latina (Latin Kings member???). Not much information on her other than she seems to be wary of jellyfish and enjoy gelato. Seems to be the brains of the two. Also, appears more willing to spend money, or "scrilla."
Activity Log:
1/16/04
12:17 p.m.: mjxm and posse member ("girl") awaken and lift blinds in hotel room (note: He seems to walk around in his boxers an awful lot, even when the shades are not drawn. Again, possible signal to other gang members)
1:14 p.m.: mjxm and girl exit hotel. Girl seems to forget something and heads back inside. mjxm walks to nearby convenience store and purchases Resee's Peanut Butter Cups (note: supersize pack . . . containing five PB cups. Possibly something to do with the number five here. Like maybe a hit or drug buy is to go down at 5 p.m. Will stay alert at five.).
1:16 p.m.: mjxm and girl reconnect in front of hotel. Forgotten item: sunglasses.
1:17 p.m.: mjxm and girl arrive at beach. mjxm appears to already have a slight sunburn despite only being outside for four minutes and wearing a long-sleeved shirt. (note: Could "P" on hat stand for "Puffy"? Some link there maybe. Also, this guy looks like he might be in Radiohead or one of those other pasty white Brit bands in addition to being a rapper. Are the English involved in this somehow? OASIS ties???)
1:45 p.m.: mjxm proclaims to be "going in the water for a swim," but returns to beach chair mumbling something that we think was "too cold," but could have also been "who told?" or "new mold." We believe "New Mold" is a rapper or posse member in Jay-Z's camp, so he was probably saying that. Will check on the link.
2:15: Girl goes to refreshment stand. Appeared to possibly communicate a message to the woman at the counter, but brings back only a bottled water and a Gatorade. Gatorade color: Orange (note: again . . . does this color mean something?).
2:17 to 4:45: mjxm and girl appear not to move in any way. Could the hit be going down now? Calm before the storm?
4:46: mjxm and girl venture into water. He is forced to carry her for the bulk of the time due to what she says are "fish and stuff biting me." mjxm sunburn appears to be serious enough to warrant emergency room visit. Is this a trick? Is something going down at the hospital that we don't know about?
5:17: mjxm and girl leave beach. EVERYTHING IS HAPPENING AT 17s. What is that about?
5:23: mjxm and girl return to hotel. She implores him to take shower. He refuses.
6:15: mjxm and girl visit some shops along Collins. Sunburn on mjxm clearly paining him when he walks.
6:17: mjxm and girl enter Gucci store. Leave without buying anything.
6:19: mjxm and girl enter Versace store. Leave without buying anything.
6:24: mjxm and girl enter Prada store: Leave without buying anything.
6:31: mjxm purchases more Resee's Peanut Butter Cups. Girl shakes head in amazement. mjxm appears to inform her that "It even hurts when I chew." Possible past broken jaw in gang scuffle, or simply sunburn related? Also, he may have said "The shipment is coming in at two." Not really sure.
6:34: mjxm and girl enter Tiffany & Co. Leave without buying anything.
6:38 to 7:21: mjxm and girl enter 13 more establishments (too many to name), and leave all of them without buying anything. Note: In one store ("Quicksilver") mjxm picked up a pair of hideous blue and purple Hawaiian shorts. Seemed interested. Looked at price tag, scratched head twice, and put them down. This was definitely a signal. After second head scratch, harmless-looking middle-aged couple entered store and seemed to make eye contact with girl. Will follow couple tomorrow.
7:36: mjxm and girl have dinner. He orders some chicken dish and scrapes everything on the chicken to side of plate. Girl orders big salad, mjxm makes face upon its arrival at the table. during meal, mjxm slouches in chair . . . a lot. They discuss sunburn prevention issues while eating.
8:45: mjxm and girl walk . . . slowly . . . back to hotel. He still seems to be in pain, or pretending to be in pain. No clubs tonight, apparently.
8:45-12:17: TV appears to be on in hotel room. Another 17 here.
12:17: Lights out. mjxm and girl had to be aware of our presence. This had to be a show. They are a crafty pair.
So, much to my relief, the whole typing-out-and-posting-the-Steve-Martin-New-Yorker-piece gamble turned out to be a smashing success on all fronts.
No one over at Conde Nast sued me. No stern, grown-up-sounding threats were patched through to my voicemail. And my inbox is still devoid of baleful boilerplate.
The good news doesn't end there, though.
mjxm.com ended up being THE spot on the web to read that article. Thanks to some friendly fellow bloggers who, unbeknownst to me, directed people to the Martin piece on my site, more than 1,000 new readers made their virgin voyages to the blizog over the last few days.
For a second there, I was a bit of a blogging celebrity . . . the dork of all dorks. It was great fun, I assure you. I made all sorts of random blog "hot lists" and received thumbs up ratings all over the damn place. Hell, at the peak of the Steve-Martin-aided windfall, mjxm.com was up to about 150 readers a day. So, copyright violation be damned, I was in a zone.
Things are pretty much back to normal from a readership perspective now that I've once again started posting about hip-hop, and people falling off things, and stuff. But some interesting remnants of the most recent uptick in readership survived the subsequent drop-off intact and apt for comment.
I'm referring here, of course, to the reader mail that I received from the Passionate-about-Steve set.
As you'd imagine, when you get 30 or 40 visitors to your side on an average day, emailed comments referencing something you recently penned are not all that frequent. If I had to guess, I'd say I receive an emailed comment from someone I don't know about once every month or so. I've come to view them as akin to celebrity sightings or victories by the Pittsburgh Pirates. That is, it's great when they come around, but to expect their arrival on a more regular basis is setting one's self up for what is almost certain disappointment.
When you're getting 340 readers a day, though, everything changes. Emailed responses fly to your inbox like BBs to pop cans that have been aligned in a row on a fence.
In fact, during my most recent readership extravaganza, I got so many emails that I had trouble responding to all of them in a timely fashion.
While most of the comments offered generalized encouragement and well wishes, a few were a bit more detailed in nature and just too good not to repeat here. For instance, this gem from a woman who I'd guess to be the proud owner of a H2 Hummer:
"I like the cartoon on your site. But I don't think you should be encouraging people to give motorists the middle finger. Not only could it cause traffic accidents. But it is rude as well. What is the point of doing that. If you don't like Hummers, get over it. There are lots of things that I don't like. But I don't go around giving them middle fingers. Are you jealous or something? Just because people buy nice cars does not mean that they are automatically bad people. Give me a break."
Hmm. Well, on the bright side, she liked the cartoon. That's gotta count for something.
Next, I submit to you this recently received diatribe from a manic, exclamation-point-obsessed true believer:
"HOW DARE YOU REPRINT THIS CRAP!!!!! You are mocking our LORD here by even encouraging people to read this garbage. Steve Martin can go to hell!!!! WHICH IS WHERE HE IS GOING TO GO. IT's not a good idea to make fun of Jesus!!!!! YOU SHOULD take this thing down immediately! IT really is an embarrisment."
First off, I know I'm the last one to talk, but it's "embarrassment" . . . with two "s"s and an "a," not an "i." Secondly, I haven't even seen the Gibson movie and don't plan to. I simply have no interest in it. As I stated in the preface to my retyping of the Martin piece, I posted the article here because I found it to be a witty indictment of people who basically make it their job to sap the energy out of more creative folks by inundating them with mindless suggestions and focus-grouped assertions. I had no intent to offend god, or Jesus, or anyone else for that matter. Finally, Mr. Pissedoffexclamationman, I have just one question for you:
Have you seen "The Jerk"?
I mean, come on. Steve Martin is a funny fucking guy. And he doesn't strike me as being the mean-spirtited type. Plus, I don't think Jesus is worried about insults (be they direct or implied) coming from the guy who starred in several Muppet Movies and was utterly huggable in "Father of the Bride" . . . you know.
As for me. I'm not much of a threat to the big guy and his son either. In fact, I may be the only person on this planet who's actually less threatening that Martin. Plus, I have a damn confirmation name . . . It's Xavier . . . as in St. Xavier. So how evil could I really be?
Moving right along . . .
Thankfully, not all of the recent reader responses have been of the cranky or overly exclamatory variety. Check this one out:
"mjxm, I liked your post about George Bush. That guy is such an ass. I really don't understand how anyone in his right mind would vote for that man. You should write more posts that talk about all the ridiculous things that he's done in office. Your stories are good, but the one about Bush was the best. And stuff like that can possibly have an impact on more people."
So, there you have it. Finally . . . something we can all agree on without any argument or duplicative punctuation. That is:
George Bush is an ass.
It may not be the most ringing endorsement of my writing or my website. But hey, a universal truth is a universal truth . . . right? And beggars can't be choosers, I suppose. So I'll take what I can get on the email front. Feel free to drop me a line by clicking the "contact mjxm" button at the upper-right of this webpage.
I welcome your thoughts. Just do me a favor and go easy on the exclamation points.
While I ordinarily have no problem with political correctness, an experience I had yesterday on that front really bugged me. As I showered, the song "Juicy" by the Notorious B.I.G. came on the radio that rests on our sink here at the apartment. I'm not a huge fan of Biggie Smalls, but the track is undeniably a classic, so I was happy to hear it despite the fact that it contains two of the worst lines in the history of hip-hop: 1) Rhyming "stuff" with "stuff" ("I never thought it would happpen, this rappin' stuff . . . I was too used to packin' gats and stuff.); 2) Attempting to rhyme "worst days" with "thirsty" ("Birthdays was the worst days . . . Now we sip champagne when we're thrist-ay."). Anyway, my beef with the song on this day wasn't, in fact, with the song at all, but rather with what Power 105.1 did to it. As anyone who listens to hip-hop knows, there's a line in the first verse where Biggie says, "Time to get paid, blow up like the World Trade." He put out the song in 1994, and in the line was referring to the World Trade Center bombing that took place in one of the towers' parking lots in February of 1993. Up until recently, the line in question was not a problem for radio stations. But at some point after the 9/11 terrorist attacks on Manhattan and Washington, D.C., things changed. So, now the radio version of the song goes something like this, "Time to get paid, blow up like the spisszap kzzzlmin." When I heard the bleeped-out line from the confines of my shower, I didn't think that much of it. After all, large chunks of the song are already bleeped out when it's played on the radio, so this bleeping episode didn't really phase me. But then I thought about it a bit. As I washed behind my ears and stuff, I became a both curious about and bothered by the bleeping. I mean, what exactly is this bit of political correctness accomplishing? Who, I ask you, is it pleasing? First off, the line was never bleeped on the radio between the years 1994 and 2001. So programmers felt no need to address a mention of the 1993 bombing tragedy. It was the events of 9/11 2001, clearly, that placed the line into the realm of that which is deemed potentially suspect. But, again, Biggie wasn't even talking about the more recent bombing . . . as he was dead at the time when it occurred. And even if the song was referring September 11, I just do not understand what is being gained by bleeping out the words "World Trade." September 11 happened. It was real. And people are actively going about the process of dealing with its ramifications. What does it say about our society if even the mention of something that could potentially trigger thoughts of the most recent World Trade Center bombing are deemed too controversial to be uttered? To me, the whole thing reeks of a sort of twisted paternalism that is bereft of rational explanation. Americans know that 9/11 happened, and they're trying their best to come to grips with the tragedy. To imply that we simply won't be able to handle hearing someone say something about a World Trade Center bombing--and not even THE World Trade Center bombing--is a posture that reflects an amazingly negative view of the American populace. I mean, what do the folks who decided to bleep out that line think is going to happen if we hear it? I just don't get it. Further, an attempt to spurn mentions of the bombing seems to me to be awfully disrespectful to those who lost family and friends in the attack. What could be worse than trying to make people forget that the events that took the lives of their loved ones . . . ever even happened? While there was little I could do about all these gripes at the time when the song came on, if I hadn't been all soapy and everything I would've turned off the radio, cued up the unedited version of "Juicy" on my computer, and proven to myself and the world that my head will not explode upon hearing someone mention a World Trade Center bombing.
I've never seen anyone fall off a treadmill before. I've heard stories about it happening, of course. And I'm friends with someone who claims to have made the famous, fitness-related faux paus. But, I've never been a party to such an event in a see-it-with-my-own-eyes kind of way. Never, that is, until yesterday--when a lanky, pasty, middle-aged woman went down . . . hard . . . right before my eyes. I was riding a stationary bike after an hour or so of lifting, and the woman in question was jogging on one of the treadmills that were located in front of me and off a bit to my right. She had a head of stringy, salt-and-pepper hair that was pulled back in a silver scrunchie and wore the traditional 40-something-lady garb--ill-fitting, too short, navy blue stretch pants . . . check; oversized, butt-covering T-shirt with random law firm name emblazoned on front . . . check; old-school Reeboks . . . . check; football helmet . . . um . . . no check, unfortunately. I barely even noticed her existence prior to the spill, but once she starting flailing my eyes were immediately drawn to the cacophony of chaos that would ensue. It began, as most of these things seem to, with a distraction. In this woman's case, it was her tumbling Discman that set things into motion. And it was only a second--the time it takes for one false move--before things got ugly. As the CD player began to fall from the stand attached to the monitor at the front of the treadmill, the woman--in a move that would be wholly rational but for the fact that she was on a treadmill--reached down and attempted to stop its downward trajectory. In doing this, she accomplished two things . . . neither of which included the preclusion of CD player damage: First, she managed to actually accelerate the Discman's fall by failing to grasp it and, essentially, knocking it to the floor; Second, she ensured her own doom and resigned herself to a buttload of bruises. The moment this lady focused on that Diskman and took her eye off the three-foot-wide moving surface beneath her feet, she was, for all intents and purposes, history. Immediately after the CD hit the black, rubberized floor, this jogging Judy toppled, face-first and head-over-feet, to the very same resting place. More precisely, her legs shot out to the right simultaneously, whereupon her left knee and then her face smacked into the treadmill's running surface. About three-fourths of a second into the affair, she cried out in a quick, shrill manner, producing a sound that I'd imagine to be reminiscent of that which would be made by a medium-sized dying bird. Thereafter, only clunks and grunts would be heard. Following her rendezvous with the running mat, the woman bounced off the machine like a crash test dummy made of ham and came to rest on the gym floor that resided at its hind end. By this time, she was crying--albeit it was a grown-up, non-sobbing type of cry, but she was crying nonetheless. Now, before progressing, let me just say, regardless of how much you're drawn to things like "America's Funniest Home Videos" and all those FOX specials where the kangaroos decide to go nuts and kick petting zoo patrons in the . . . well . . . nuts, viewing one's fall from treadmill grace is not something I could imagine anyone enjoying. It's a violent, disjointed, and devastatingly brutal series of events. In the case of the woman at Ballys the other day, the end result was, at first blush, a few scrapes around the forehead and what she asserted to be a "really sore shin." But I'm quite sure the unseen damage exceeds that which was visible by a factor of at least 10. In addition to dealing with the embarrassment that goes hand-in-hand with biffing and smacking your face off the ground in front of 40 or so historically pretentious Manhattan gym-goers, she'd likely have to visit a physician in order to determine the precise extent of the damage done to her body by the Discman dive. I felt really bad for that lady after seeing it all go down, and I tried to add my assistance following the debacle. But, really, what the hell could I do. The woman bit it . . . hard. And short of turning back the clock so as to allow her to rethink that fatal reach, there was little that myself or anyone else could do or say to make things any better. While the entire gruesome event lasted only about five seconds, tops, those were some fucked up five seconds . . . and neither I nor the treadmill tumbler will likely forget them any time soon.
While it's not been my practice to simply provide readers of this blizog with a link to this or that site without adding a detailed, individualized commentary on that which I'm recommending, there are always exceptions to every rule. Steve Martin's back page piece in this week's issue of "The New Yorker" represents such an exception. It's one of the most clever, observant, and entertaining things I've read in that or any magazine in years, and I have very little of my own to add to the article in terms of comment. I just thought it was really good. So, after finishing the piece, I decided to provide a link to it here, while adding only that it's an uncannily accurate portrayal of the type of "insights" that are routinely given by every production-type person I've ever met. Martin's spoofed dialogue offers readers a truthful glimpse into how these people talk and think, and that's what makes the piece so great. Anyway, after discovering that www.newyorker.com offers no on-line version of Martin's masterwork, and being a bit crestfallen by this reality, I decided to just type the whole damn article here myself. You'll find it below. But first, two disclaimers: 1) Any spelling errors in the piece as typed in below are wholly my fault and were made by neither Martin nor the editing staff at the magazine; 2) I'm republishing this piece without express written consent from "The New Yorker," so if you're reading this and you're on staff, please don't snitch or initiate conversations that would lead to litigation (as an aside, if "The New Yorker" did somehow catch wind of this reprint and contact me on the subject, it would mark the first time that someone at the publication ever read something that I wrote and got back to me with a response that didn't involve some sort of nicely worded rejection). All that said, and without further ado, I present to you "Studio Script Notes on 'The Passion,'" by Steve Martin (and, by the way, yes it is THAT Steve Martin, from the movies), via "The New Yorker."
STUDIO SCRIPT NOTES ON "THE PASSION" WRITTEN BY STEVE MARTIN (NOT WRITTEN BY mjxm) PUBLISHED IN THE MARCH 8, 2004 ISSUE OF "THE NEW YORKER" (GO BUY SAID ISSUE SO THEY DON'T SUE ME)
Dear Mel,
We love, love (ital) the script! The ending works great. You'll be getting a call from us to start negotiations for the book rights.
--Love the Jesus character. So likable. He can't seem to catch a break! We identify with him because of it. One Thing: I think we need to clearly state "the rules" Why doesn't he use his superpowers to save himself? Our creative people suggest that you could simply cut away to two spectators:
SPECTATOR ONE: Why doesn't he use his superpowers to save himself?
SPECTATOR TWO: He can only use his powers to help others, never himself.
--Does it matter which garden? Gethsemane is hard to say, and Eden is a much more recognizable garden. Just thinking out loud.
--Our creative people suggest a clock visual fading in and out in certain scenes, like the Last Supper bit: "Thursday, 7:43 P.M.," or "Good Friday, 5:14 P.M."
--Love the repetition of "Is it I?" Could be very funny. On the eighth inquiry, could Jesus just give a little look of exasperation into the camera? Breaks frame, but could be a riot.
--Also, could he change water into wine in Last Supper scene? Would be a great moment, and it's legit. History compression is a movie tradition and could really brighten up the scene. Great trailer moment, too.
--Love the flaying.
--Could the rabbis be Hispanic? There's lots of hot Latino actors now, could give us a little zing at the box office. Research says there's some historical justification for it.
--Possible title change: "Lethal Passion." Kinda works. The more I say it out loud, the more I like it.
--Is there someplace where Jesus could be using an iBook? You know, now that I say it, it sounds ridiculous. Strike that. But think about it. Maybe we start a shot in Heaven with Jesus thoughtfully closing the top?
--Love the idea of Monica Bellucci as Mary Magdalene (yow!). Our creative people suggest a name change to Heather. Could skew our audience a little younger.
--Love Judas. Such a great villain. Our creative people suggest that he's a little complicated. Couldn't he be one thing? Just bad? Gives the movie much more of a motor. Also, thirty pieces of silver is not going to get anyone excited. I think it'd be very simple to make him a "new millionaire." Bring in the case on a tray. Great dilemma that the audience can identify with.
--Minor spelling error: on page 18, in the description of the bystanders, there should be a space between the words "Jew" and "boy."
--Merchandising issue: it seems the Cross image has been done to death and is public domain--we can't own it. Could the Crucifixion scene involve something else? A Toyota would be wrong, but maybe there's a shape we can copyright, like a wagon wheel?
--I'm assuming "The dialogue is in Aramaic" is a typo for "American." If not, call me on my cell, or I'm at home all weekend.
By the way, I'm sending a group of staffers on a cruise to the North Pole, coincidentally around the time of your picture's release. Would love to invite your dad!
One drawback associated with the ever-quickening pace of technological advancement is that it's become increasingly difficult to be creative without seeming duplicative in one way or another. It's been months, literally months, since I've seen something new and interesting that hasn't reminded me of something that came before it. Now, it's possible that this scenario--wherein nothing seems new or completely different--has remained constant throughout recent history, and that I'm simply attempting to distinguish the modern version of something from its indistinguishable historic counterpart. If this were the case, of course, supreme irony would be present in the fact that the central flaw tugging away my argument . . . would actually make the overarching argument stronger. That is, writing about the fact that nothing is new under the sun when that notion itself is one that's not new or in any way different from its past manifestation . . . is akin to cheating for the sake of making one's point. Thankfully, and despite my long-winded explanation, I don't believe this to be the case here. I'd bet that advancements in modern communications media (television and the internet, predominantly) and production have indeed tended to make it more likely that Americans will be exposed to more things, more often. And, thus, it seems only natural that this barrage would result in our becoming increasingly less apt to run across something that is altogether new or unique. More simply put: Her shirt looks a lot like that other girl's shirt; that CD sounds like this one; his car reminds me of that other one; this Hollywood blockbuster seems an awful lot like the one I saw two summers ago; and on, and on, and on. Anyway, in this land where everything seems to be reminiscent of something, it's now clear to me that even attempts at getting pissed off in a creative fashion have become exceedingly difficult. An example: I harbor a strong dislike for Hummer H2 SUVs. They're just too damn big. Also, they look like tanks, are notorious for excessive pollution emissions, and . . . yeah, I'll say it . . . are usually driven by outrageously rich bastards who enjoy purchasing expensive things simply and wholly because they are expensive. While it's true that I've despised these boxy buggies since their explosion onto the American popular mechanics culture scene a few years back, disdain levels were ratcheted up a notch or two on Sunday afternoon . . . when a school-bus-yellow H2 driven by some jerk with expensive-looking sunglasses almost ran my ass over as I exited Grand Central Station onto 42nd Street. "That's it," I told myself. "These people, and this monstrosity of a car, must be stopped." My immediate thought, for whatever reason, was to create a kickass anti-Hummer website. "There had to be others like me," I thought. "This is going to be brilliant. The Hummer haters of the world just need a place to unite against our common foe." And that place, of course, would be my soon-to-be-created website. I was midway through a conversation with my web designer about the idea when this little website popped up on my screen subsequent to a Goggle search under the heading "H2 Hummers suck." "Never mind," I told Mr. Kriheli. "Forget it. It's already been done. What else is new?"
There are lots of wonderful things about living in Manhattan, and there are tons of perks that go along with freelancing. But seldom do the benefits associated with the two combine more perfectly than they have today. New Yorkers are notorious for living hectic, sometimes harried lives. People here work long hours and, more often than not, leave precious little time for the enjoyment of what this city has to offer. On the vast majority of days, this reality is not such a big deal, because we workaholic New Yorkers aren't really missing all that much. For approximately four months during the winter, the place is bitterly cold, and residents have little impetus to even venture outdoors--much less attempt to spend a chunk of time enjoying the city environs. Similarly, during the summer, this town becomes unbearably hot, sweaty, crowded, and stinky. It's a little better than it is in the winter--because going outside becomes a realistic option, and various breezes can serve to abate the sweltering heat--but it's still tough to spend a thoroughly pleasing day outdoors when any and all movements result in the production of massive amounts of sweat. So, give or take a few weeks, that leaves about four spring/early-fall months that must be maximized by Manhattanites looking to enjoy their surroundings. At least half of those days, I'm sure, are rain filled. So now we're down to about 60 days . . . total . . . that New Yorkers can truly enjoy outside. It is on these days that I most fervently thank my lucky stars that I live where I do, and that, for all intents and purposes, I'm my own boss. Today, I am pleased to report, is one of those days. It's nearly 60 degrees in the city. The sun is shining. And I am sitting in the middle of Bryant Park--as I am wont to do on days like this--writing. The beauty of this, though, is that I'm not just writing. I'm also checking out the glistening skyscrapers that surround me, watching little kids run around as though they were equipped with boundless energy, serving as a muse for photographs taken by German tourists, and experiencing all the other cool things that usually go along with plopping one's self down in a park situated right in the middle of the nation's most diverse and vibrant city. Bryant Park is located in midtown, directly behind the New York Public Library, and thanks to the free wireless internet service that permeates the verdant, tree-lined oasis, it's the only place in the city where one can spread out a blanket, partake in a lawn-based picnic, and use the internet . . . all at the same time. When the weather cooperates, as it has done today, the park serves as my office, and the city is my inspiration. Tomorrow, they're calling for rain; same for Thursday and Friday. But today . . . today most certainly was a good day.
