The Eyes of An Old Dog

My English Springer Spaniel, Penny, is about to turn 14.

Penny has persistent arthritis, growing cataracts, frequent ear infections, and a skin allergy that requires us to make her food by hand every week. This month, in spite of the lengths we go to in order to prevent her from doing so, she had a fit of scratching and accidentally damaged the cornea of her left eye.

Now, as a result, she’s totally blind in that eye. Just add that to the poor dog's list of unfortunate ailments. If Candide had a dog... (little literary joke for my Lit Major friends out there!)

A Google search will reveal to those who are interested that the average lifespan of an English Springer Spaniel is also 14. It’s a good thing Penny doesn’t use Google (Poodle?).

Those among us who have presided over the aging process of a beloved animal know that the experience is not for the timid. Aside from the expense of veterinary bills (I recall Penny’s $3,000 knee replacement surgery when she was 10), the aging process is characterized by notable slowing in activity, increased grumpiness, an escalation in the number of naps, and a waning interest in recreation.

The older I get, the more I recognize these symptoms in myself.

However, in spite of the tangible evidence reminding me and Penny which side of the hill she is on, Penny behaves as though the end is far from sight. Then again, this could simply be because she’s half-blind and everything is far from sight. Still, I can’t help but cringe, seeing her limp at times her arthritis is bad or feel troubled at the increasing frequency with which I have to wake her up to remind her it’s dinner time. Once upon a time, it was her job to remind me.

I'm keenly aware of her suffering each time I’m baking her cauliflower or chopping potatoes or cutting up salmon for the weekly slop we prepare for her. In spite of how much I hate to spend my time that way, I wouldn’t trade places with her for anything.

Yesterday, while home alone, I watched Penny sitting by the back sliding glass door, looking through the screen window, presumably working to focus her one working eye on something out there in our yard. I couldn’t help but wonder what it was she was looking at or, perhaps, looking for. Maybe she wasn’t looking at, or for, anything. Maybe she was just thinking, pondering her dog thoughts or canine philosophies or just trying to weigh the benefits or drawbacks of rising on her tentative legs to investigate the uncertain drama caused by lizards or birds or rabbits by the bushes along the fence.

Since her cornea incident, and in the recent months before it, Penny has fought to adjust to the body in which she is trapped. Her mind is still eager to make it all work, whatever “working” looks like to a feeble, but loyal, old dog.

As a man of a certain age, I can relate. Like Penny, I too see a little less well than I used to. I take more naps. I rally against the trappings of a body that doesn’t move like it used to. At some point, like an old pocket watch, we all start to miss a few moments, struggling against the cogs that fail to turn as they used to. And still, like her, I look to what lies ahead with enthusiasm. I think about what’s next and I work to be more defined by what I can do than by the things I can’t (or won’t) do. And, like her, I spend a little extra time contemplating whether an effort is worth it—certainly more than I used to.

But what I also notice is that, in spite of her discomfort, in spite of the protests of her uncooperative, factory-manufactured knees, she still harbors an irrational enthusiasm revealed between lengths of inactivity. She still manages to enjoy the promise of occasional treats, the smell of the summer through the screen window, the cool of the hardwood floor on a hot day, the presence of her family, the value of her life.

And it’s clear to me—clearer than the vision of her one working eye—you may not be able to teach an old dog new tricks, but old dogs can still teach us a thing or two.

© 2016 Herb Williams-Dalgart

Puppy Love

The contempt my newest dog seems to have for unsupervised shoes, belts, socks, underwear, or packages leaves me to wonder what happened to him in the seven months before we adopted him. It’s impressive how quickly and thoroughly he can dispatch, dismember, and disregard these items—usually belonging to my wife—but far more impressive is his ability to forget the humiliating chastisement and painful solitude with which we reward him each time he violates the non-aggression pact we’ve theoretically made. I suppose the same could be said for my wife, whom I’ve warned against leaving such items lying about. She, too, seems to forget the consequences of prior behavior.

Maybe I’m missing the obvious. It has occurred to me there is a conspiracy here by which my wife rids herself of unwanted clothing in exchange for giving my dog the opportunity to unleash his unholy ire on inanimate objects. He gets a recreational outlet. She gets an excuse to buy new clothes. I’m the one left, literally picking up the pieces.

This, of course, could be the result of my overactive imagination which is a feature of my spectacular midlife crisis, currently underway. More to come on that.

My dog has also decided that bringing in pieces of poop from the yard is a fun thing. It’s usually my other dog’s poop, so there’s that. Each time I come home, I have to play “Clear the minefield.” As I scoop the love bombs from the living room and family room, I have to explain to him that poop doesn’t belong everywhere. It just shows up everywhere, a little like the Kardashians. Actually, a lot like the Kardashians.

I just found my dog wrestling with my wife’s pantyhose, entangled like King Kong vs. the Giant Octopus. The world is way more fun when EVERYTHING is a toy. Just ask Donald Trump. He’s really just like an unruly puppy. The groomers would have a field day with him, but I’m not sure he’s had his shots.

The other gift from my dogs that keeps giving is the unrelenting supply of shed fur that is now forming tumbleweeds throughout my house, urged to move across the hardwood floors each time a dog comes racing through. I’m ready for the whistle and music that accompanies noon at the OK Corral. I’m tempted to collect it all and sculpt together a new dog. I suppose when you bring these animals into your house, you do have the inevitable roommate conflicts over such things like grooming and hygiene.

But perhaps the biggest decision you’re making when you adopt a dog is to fill your heart with something new and profound.

Just when you thought your heart was already too full to fit another thing in there (like the aforementioned Kim Kardashian’s closet), along comes this little soul who loves you more than anything after just meeting you. Such a creature reminds you that you’re needed, and while that is not an unforeseen thought when you adopt one, it does evoke unforeseen feelings, especially if you already have an old dog who’s through with new tricks and is unmoved or unimpressed with you, having come to know you well. Sort of like teenagers of the same circumstance.

A new dog or puppy needs you in a very real way and that feeling is so fulfilling that it’s hard to imagine life without them only days after they join your family. 

Give me a second. Something got in my eye.

Okay. In short, you may think you’re ready for a puppy. The truth is, he’s probably more ready for you. Or at least he’s ready for your pantyhose.

© 2015 Herb Williams-Dalgart

Gen-X, Future Days of Past Now Gone

I've been to this year’s Coachella music festival. I know who Kid Cudi is. I have a Twitter account. I can use the word, “epic” un-ironically when describing something far less than “epic.” I’m critical of hipsters, which I think may make me worse than a hipster, though I don’t have an ironic mustache or an Amish beard. I listen to Top 40 radio, but will switch over to Hip-Hop or Alternative when I inevitably get bored.

In my mind (and perhaps nowhere else), I’m cool.

And yet, I still haven’t figured out how (or why) to use Instagram. I don’t know what the hell a “bitcoin” is or what I would buy if I had one/them. I still have to catch myself at Starbucks when I try to order a “Large” and I can’t understand why anyone would want to be on a reality TV show or post an online “selfie.” I write checks on a monthly basis to pay some of my bills, even when I have an online option, and I still prefer books to Kindles.

So, I guess, not that cool.

In a weird convoluted amalgamation of past and present, I did “high-five” David Hasselhoff at Coachella. I may have been the only one there who knew who he was. He looked at me. I looked at him, and I said “Hasselhoff.” He high-fived me and gave me a look that seemed to say, “Thank God someone here knows who I am. I can now write off my Botox expense.”

I don’t think of myself as old (any more than Hasselhoff does) but I’m surely not young. I guess I’m stuck between Baby Boomers and Millenials. I’m allegedly part of Generation X (though I’d prefer to think of myself as an X-man, awaiting my mutant powers to kick in).

Gen-X-ers are defined by the truth-telling Wikipedia as those folks born between the early 60’s and early 80’s. Unlike our historical predecessors, our generation will be known as the ones that broke the economy, screwed up the environment, tainted the food chain, endangered the bees, introduced texting, brought in a new Tea Party, and damaged the moral fiber of our children. While some see that as a horrible legacy, I see that as the result of a whole lot of hard work. That much destruction doesn't happen without some effort, people. You really have to put your back into it.

I want to apologize to future generations, but my apology wouldn't be earnest—I’m not sure exactly what we’ve done wrong. If we Gen-X-ers are guilty of anything it’s this: confusion. We don’t know what the hell we’re doing.

There are many things we deal with today that we had no training to handle. Our parents couldn't model parenting for the post-internet generation. They used coal, washed their own cars, saved money in mattresses, whacked away on typewriters, cooked with lard, picked up hitchhikers, used phone books and phone booths and dialed the operator to make a long distance call. They didn't have to navigate cell phones or the Web. In fact, if your parents are like mine, they’re still afraid of both their phone and the Internet. Just try leaving them a voicemail. Yeah, they’ll get that message real soon. It’s no wonder theirs is called the “Silent Generation.” They have nothing to say about this technology or the rules that govern it. Just mention “net neutrality” to one of my parents and you’ll stop the conversation faster than a fart in church. And that's really saying something. They don't go to church and really love a good conversation.

Still, Gen-X-ers should get some credit for ending the telegram and killing VHS rentals, right?

Fast forward to now and our kids can go anywhere they want with anyone they choose and never leave the house (I’m talking the Internet, people). Web Chat, Skype, FaceTime – these were not even part of the vocabulary when I was a kid. Want the best route to avoid traffic—while driving!—they now hold the tool in their hands.

Our kids are not self-conscious. They’re self-assured. They think they deserve to be famous. That’s what comes from the “everyone-gets-a-trophy” policy. But now, everyone gets a reality TV show. Sixteen and pregnant in our parents’ day meant a sudden and long trip overseas, not cameras in your house to capture every moment of the next nine months.

I got an earring when I was 21 and it was scandalous. “What does that mean?” I remember my father saying.

“It means I got an earring.” I replied. I was a smart ass even then.

Now, I see kids with hula hoops through their noses, doorknobs in their earlobes, hooks in their lips, and tattoos on their faces. And they work at the bank! No scandal. Just curious stares from Gen-X-ers like me who are confused. Here’s our big secret kids: we don’t get it. We try, but we don’t.

That doesn't mean we don’t have opinions about what you do. I can’t claim to speak for everyone (or anyone, really), but here’s what you may consider an old person’s rant, a dispatch from the X-men:

1. You haven’t mastered an issue because you saw something about it on the Internet. Awareness is not the same thing as knowledge and understanding. Expertise is not built on a single Google search or a Reddit AMA (look it up, old people). It’s not enough to just have an idea or an opinion, inform it by working on it. For a while. Work pays off. Really. For instance, I’m working on my own opinion right now about whether or not a hole the size of Ohio in your ear is something to be concerned about. So far, I think maybe.
2. You don’t deserve to be famous. You should have a skill or a gift or have done something worthwhile before you are publically recognized. I beg you, do not make a sex tape. I’m just gonna say it. And not because I’m prude or judgey. I just think the faces you’ll make will haunt you forever. In short, if you get famous, you should earn it. And even then, you shouldn't take it for granted. "Teen Mom" isn’t your ticket to stardom. It’s serious and worrisome, and filled with real challenges. Fame is fleeting. Ask MC Hammer. Don’t know him? Exactly. Look him up. Or, just high-five David Hasselhoff.
3. Actions have consequences. The day will come when you have to take the door knob out of your ear or the hula hoop out of your nostril and you’ll look like a droopy, damaged, old man, even if you got that door knob when you were a svelte, 17 year-old girl. These are called consequences. Think about later when you make choices today. Later is like tomorrow, but maybe even a little later. Look it up. I can wait.
4. Have a non-digital backup plan. Electricity is generated by machines and those machines don’t always work. It’s true. Machines sometimes stop. The Internet relies on electricity. If the electricity goes out, and the Internet stops, will you shut down just like the machines? What happens when you unplug? I don’t mean to scare you, and this may sound crazy, but once upon a time—no Internet. I’m just suggesting here that you may want to ponder a backup plan for those times you won’t have Internet access. It could happen. They still print dictionaries. Just saying.

Now, Gen-X-ers don’t have all the answers. Some say we don’t have any of the answers. Though, by now, I’ve surely convinced you that I’m not only cool, I have discovered my mutant power and it’s the ability to offer sage and useful advice for every circumstance. Even if all of the Gen-X-ers don’t have all the answers, we do have a few questions.

We aren't the Silent Generation. Those are your grandparents. We’re the loud ones. Our first question, or maybe our last is, who will take care of us when we’re old and needy? We want you young people—Millenials or Gen-Y’s or Robots or whatever they’ll be calling you—to have the right skills to fix the things we broke. We want you to heal the damage we caused and to put things right that went wrong on our watch. Bring back the bees. We want you to be better, not so self-involved or self-destructive, but visionary and creative and hopeful and fresh. Your tattoos and piercings and attire and music all imply that you are creative and unswayed. You're fearless and energetic and full of ideas. But we also want you to have better lives, more answers than questions, and the respect of your own children.

We’re just saying that all that work might be easier to do without a face full of fishing lures or if you aren't distracted by all that you can see through your ear lobe. Real solutions to real problems are worthy of your own show. And you can still take a selfie when you’re all done.

I might even write you a check.

© 2014, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Lit Central | O.C. post! My recent interview...

Check out my recent interview with Lit Central | O.C. right here:
http://litcentraloc.com/2014/06/05/o-c-author-spotlight-herb-williams-dalgart/

The French Girl's War - now available!!

Hey fiction fans. It actually happened. I escaped the blogosphere with my new novel, The French Girl's War, now available on Amazon. You may recall, it was honored as a Quarter-Finalist in Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest. Now, it's a real-deal novel and Kindle download that you can own!

For all the news that's fit to print, go to my Website -- www.herbthewriter.com

If you are totally impatient, you can go directly to Amazon now.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/1493570889/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk

And stay tuned for information on how you can earn a FREE bookmark!

Happy reading!

What's in a Name?

Fans of this blog (well, any blog!) know that self-promotion is central to an effective online presence.  Folks that promote themselves effectively have an audience, a fan base, a following.  And, if they provide good content, that following is loyal.  Or maybe it’s just like slowing down to see an accident on the freeway—you just gotta watch the horror unfold.  I’m giving you an out here, people.

Either way, writers often try to make a name for themselves, even if that name is difficult to remember or is uncommon.  Like the name, “Herb.”  Just sayin’.  Sorry, Mom & Dad, it turns out “Herb” wasn’t the “Brittany” of the 60’s.

In today’s day and age, my name is uncommon.  Mostly because the people named, “Herb” are very, very old or very, very dead.  Or, they may be a self-aware, mischievous Volkswagen, but that’s another story.

Nevertheless, our name—whatever our name—is inextricably linked to our identity.  I remember as a kid, wishing my name was David.  That was silly.  David Dalgart?  Yawn.  I don’t think David Dalgart would have had a blog, suffered from cartoon-brain, or been nearly as annoying as I am.  You may have liked him.  Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.

But, now that I’m an adult (or a passable facsimile of one, governed by that cartoon brain), I’ve grown attached to my name.  It was my grandfather’s name, and he died before I knew him.  So, I owe it to him to carry the name forward with some dignity (okay, I messed that one up).  Do I get a do-over?

Still, it’s my name, too (John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?  Was he Jewish?).  But I digress.

When I go into a Starbucks, I sometimes play a name game with the barista without realizing I’m playing it.  Note to those of us over 30:  Remember before Starbucks took over our language, before we called cashiers, “baristas” or referred to our medium cup as a “grande”?  Don’t get me started!

The Starbucks game I play goes like this:  I order my drink (venti iced coffee with easy soy) and they ask my name.  I answer, “Herb” and the game begins.

The barista furrows his or her pierced brow and considers their move:


BARISTA THOUGHT:  “Do I pretend I know what that little man just said and write it on his cup with my sharpie or do I ask him to repeat himself?”

I watch this play out over the barista’s face and then cross my fingers.  I hope they don’t ask my name again.

The reason I hope this is that, nine times out of ten, I am rewarded with a funny name on my cup, usually phonetically similar to “Herb” but not usually my name…or for that matter, not usually a name at all.  This makes me laugh because somewhere between their furrowed brow and their sharpie scribble, the barista decided that “Kurb” or “Burb” was my name.

It’s as though the barista said, “Your name, sir, is as nonsensical to me as calling you, ‘Burb.’"


Now, I grant you the barista is often someone with a facial piercing, or droopy ear lobes with doorknobs in them, or geometric hair, or some other outward example of their lack of good judgment.  And, I’m often left with a nagging desire to say, “Your face is more nonsensical to me than the ridiculous name you wrote on my cup."

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve never said that to a barista.  Sometimes my filter does work, but don’t get used to it.  I haven’t.

Nevertheless, this little game is enough to make me pause and wonder how antiquated and irrelevant I am becoming (or at least my name is becoming) in this new Starbucks world.  When the geriatric Herbs are all gone, and the soon-to-be-geriatric Herbs like me are less common than “Burbs” and “Kurbs,” who will be left?  How soon before they come for your name and create a bizarre facsimile on your cup?

I should’ve seen it coming when they replaced the Small, Medium, and Large with the Tall, Grande, and Venti.  They start with your name, and then take your soul.  Of course, you get a hot cup of mediocre coffee in return, but your soul is worth it.

Maybe I should start a new game like this:


ME:  “I’d like a venti iced coffee with easy soy.”

BARISTA:  “What’s your name?”

ME: “Large.”


Then, the barista would be forced to write LARGE on my venti cup—GOTCHA!  A small victory for cups everywhere.  But we could all do it!  Or maybe we can offer other names that will mess up their little system.  Try offering the following names and see what happens.

“You”
[“I have a venti latte for you…”  Mass confusion in the shop.  Who?  You?  No, you!  No, him!]


“Me”
[“I have a double espresso for me…”  Hello, Starbucks customer service?  Yes, you have a barista here that just keeps making coffee for himself.]


“Diabetic Children”
[I have a caramel macchiato for diabetic children…”  What are they doing?  Somebody stop them!]


“Free”
[“I have a tall espresso for free… Oh yes, I am the bringer of chaos.]


“Causing diarrhea”
[Never mind.  You can do this one in your head!]


My point—is there a point?—is that we don’t have to wait for Starbucks or anyone else to take our names or feed us new language.  We can take it back for ourselves.  Or, we can try to make our names count for something.

One piece of advice:  Before you start your blog, get yourself a cup of coffee.



© 2013, Herb Williams-Dalgart

"The French Girl's War" -- Coming Soon!

Hey there, friends and supporters!  Just wanted to let you know that my recently completed novel, “The French Girl’s War,” was not one of the five general fiction submissions to proceed past the quarter-finals in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award contest.  Still, I’m thrilled to have had such great feedback from Amazon’s editors and to have made it all the way to the quarter-finals with my first attempt in such a competitive contest.  I remain excited to see the book published in the coming months and seeing it both in hard copy and digital download.  I wanted to let you all know how much I appreciate your tremendous support, your downloads, and your positive reviews.   I’ll be sure to keep you posted once the entire book is available.  Thanks again!

The French Girl's War - Quarter-finalist on Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest

Friends and blog followers -- exciting news!  The first 5,000 words of my soon-to-be-published novel, "The French Girl's War" are now available for Kindle download as part of Amazon's Breakthrough Novel Award contest, in which I am currently a Quarter-Finalist.  Enjoy!

Retirement Planning

The Vatican called – there’s a job opening that sounds pretty good.  You can work from home, wear slippers and funny hats, and have throngs of people to help.
 
The last guy in the job actually quit, but we don’t know why.  Maybe the gal that runs Yahoo told him he couldn’t work at home anymore.  She’s like Lucy with the football.

Still, if you’re the lucky job holder, you get as much Italian food as you like.  Housing is covered and you’ll have access to paintings, treasures, and jewels from all over the world.  Just don’t ask how they came to have these things in the first place.

You get a car and driver, security detail for life, and the city you’ll live in will actually be its own country with YOU in charge.  It’s like winning the lottery! 

New law – Lollipop Friday!

The job sounds fun, but seems to be held mostly by really old men.  Maybe it’s a second career or one of those “retirement jobs.”  I think the guy that just quit is gonna become a Wal-mart greeter now.  Very friendly from what I hear.

Last week, when discussing retirement with my wife, she said, “After you retire, don’t you want to work the land?”

….

“Work the land?”

“You know, maybe get a cow, a goat, a sheep…”

This is where I apparently get my “judgey” face that starts arguments.  “What would I do with a cow, a goat, and a sheep?”

“I don’t know.  Make artisanal cheeses?  Hasn’t the idea of working the land always appealed to you?”

“Who do think you married?  No, I can honestly say I’ve never dreamed of working the land.”

“Well I want to work the land.”  Now she gets that frowny face that ends arguments.

 ….

Friends, I don’t think my retirement will go well.  My soon-to-be-revealed spectacular mid-life crisis is brewing in the distance like the hordes of orcs from Lord of the Rings, preparing to invade.  I have no imminent plans to retire, but I’ve been fingering the one ring and wondering if I should just put it on and disappear or make the trek to Mordor like a good Hobbit.

Still, I have plenty of work left to do.  There’s the little matter of my meandering manifesto—still have to write that.  I have to complete my screenplay masterpiece, the long anticipated, “Supermodel Astronaut”—though I’m afraid some fifteen year-old studio executive will want to add smooching vampires or zombies and ruin the whole thing.  Shot across the bow:  it ain’t gonna happen, kid. 

Of course, I will simply take my revenge when I inevitably win the Oscar for my original screenplay, “Ninja Leprechauns” or wave around my Pulitzer (in my mind it’s a flag that reads, “Pulitzer") for my hard-hitting novel, “Munchkins Cry, Too,” following the painful abuse and struggles of Hollywood’s mistreated little people.  Spoiler: Glinda was NOT a good witch.

Simply put, I still have too much to do to consider retirement or those go nowhere Vatican job openings.  Though, I’m reminded of the old saying, “Life is like a roll of toilet paper.  The closer you get to the end, the faster it seems to go.”  I think that was either Nietzsche or Shakespeare.  Not sure how much of my roll remains, but I’m determined to use it wisely…. And slowly. 

Then again, maybe I’ll work the land.

 

© 2013, Herb Williams-Dalgart

The Empire Strikes Gold

Obama’s back in the White House, there’s another Kennedy in Congress (taking over for fan-favorite Barney Frank), and the rancor of the campaign will (hopefully) be swept away with the horrible destruction wrought by Hurricane Sandy.  It’s been quite a week and Americans are tired!  Though, daylight savings did offer an hour of well-needed sleep last weekend.  I loved that.

 

Aside from Hurricane Sandy, perhaps the second most shocking event of the month is the announcement that Disney has purchased Lucasfilm for $4 billion—a deal which includes Industrial Light & Magic, Skywalker Sound, and video game manufacturer, LucasArts.  Congratulations, Lucas grandchildren!  You are now modern-day pharaohs and may choose the slaves with whom you will be buried under the Lucas pyramids Grandpa George has undoubtedly built on the ranch.  Of course, I have no way of knowing.  My invitation to Skywalker Ranch has somehow been delayed in the mail.

 

Fans of the blog have known that my love/hate relationship with both Lucas and Disney have been fodder for my maniacal musings (love the alliteration, people!).  I’ve mocked their mutual love of secrecy and their common addiction to control.  I’ve been impressed by Lucas’ obsession with perfection, and Disney’s uncanny ability to predict the future as though Walt’s disembodied frozen head is offering oracle-like predictions from beneath Sleeping Beauty’s castle.  Don’t pretend it hasn’t occurred to you, too...

 

Lucas putting young Anakin Skywalker into Return of the Jedi as a ghost is a lot like Disney working Captain Jack Sparrow into the Pirates of the Caribbean ride.  Make something new happen as though it was always there...  evil revisionists!

 

Now, we’re left to wonder what happens when the Dark Empire meets the Happiest Place on Earth.  Do we feel fear or joy?  Or is it just a moment of, “meh.” 

 

Yoda says, “Fear is the path to the dark side. Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering.” 

 

While I’m the last guy to argue with Yoda, I think he may have it backwards—that suffering might actually lead to hate.  Case in point:  after suffering through The Phantom Menace, I’d say that was when my Lucas hate kicked in.  Nevertheless, there may be more to enjoy than fear when considering this mega-merger of cosmic forces.

 

Part of me marvels at the hilarity that Carrie Fisher is now a Disney Princess!  Think about it, people!  Carrie Fisher may be the first Disney princess to publically acknowledge drug and alcohol abuse (though I think a few princesses have tried apples, potions, and spinning wheels against our better judgment).  Fans of Carrie Fisher’s one-woman show might appreciate her strategic use of profanity, unbecoming a mistress of the realm.  I, for one, like a little sass in my princesses, though I’m not sure little girls should be encouraged to don a Halloween “Slave Leia” costume as they would Ariel or Jasmine costumes. 

 

Nevertheless, as the last princess of Alderaan, Leia really beats out Pocahontas for the most tragic princess, doesn’t she?  Leia’s dad wanted to rule with his son, not his daughter.  Major sexist diss!  Leia should have some serious issues after Episode VI, and who would blame her?  Hey, maybe that could be the plot for Episode VII – Lady Vader’s Revenge.  Whoop!  There it is!

 

How do I start my Lady Vader’s Revenge Website now?!  Hands off.  I call the idea as my own.  I’m working on the screenplay already, people, and I’m setting aside my other masterpiece – Supermodel Astronaut.  Now that I think about it, there may be a place for Supermodel Astronaut in the new “Disney Wars” Universe.  Hmmmm....  Maybe I could clone her...  The dark side is so seductive!

 

Who knows?  The Disney connection may have been pondered all along by the evil genius of Lucas himself.  Jar-Jar Binks is slightly reminiscent of Goofy.  Even Luke Skywalker had hints of Eeyore when he complained about living on the planet farthest from any bright center of the universe, or whining about going to the Toshi station to pick up power converters.  Just watch Episode IV.  Luke Skywalker whines like Minnie Mouse.  Man up, son of Vader!  No one likes a Jedi whiner.  A vengeful Leia?  Think about it.  It has legs, people!

 

I can see new possibilities for mash-up movies, too:  Snow White and the Seven Droids; Winnie the Hut; The Arisitosith; The Emperor’s New Groove (no title change, but a totally new meaning)!

 

Even Pixar can get some mash-up action – Droid Story or Wall-E Strikes Back…  The juices are flowing, folks!

 

While the initial thought of these two cultural juggernauts blending to create a megalithic Empire may give some folks pause, the 11 year-old boy in me who saw Star Wars: A New Hope at the Topanga Mall thinks this makes some sort of cosmic sense.

 

Selling Lucasfilm to Disney may have been the most humane thing Lucas has done with his franchise since the first trilogy (the real one, people, from 1977).  While Disney-fying sci-fi films may create concern for some, I’ve been admittedly happy with what Disney has done for the Marvel franchise movies.  If they can bring the same serious decorum, fun, and special effects restraint and subordinate the glitz of CGI to real STORY in the Star Wars franchise as they’ve done for Marvel, we may have some awesomeness ahead.  They can do this!

 

Do or do not.  There is no try.

 

With Harrison Ford, Carrie Fisher, and Mark Hamill too old to pick up the story where Return of the Jedi left off (or maybe too old to pick up anything), we’re left to wonder if other actors will play those roles or if new characters will now populate the Star Wars world of the future.  I’m excited at the thought of a new Star Wars ride at the theme parks, too—just, please, no virtual shake-and-baking like the current Star Tours ride.  Star Tours at Disneyland usually leaves me with nausea and a headache (and that’s just from the line and the price of admission!)  Insert drumroll and cymbal crash hereà X.

 

Disney and Pixar driving the deep, layered world of the Empire may be something brilliant to behold.  Or, it could just mean more Jawas falling off giant lizards, Greedo shooting first, or the wrong Anakin ghost waving goodbye at the end of it all.

 

Either way, they’ve got my attention and probably a zillion other people’s—and that just may be worth the $4 billion they paid.

 

 

 

 

© 2012, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Ready or Not... Comikaze!

Once again, I found myself at a comic book convention—this time at Stan Lee’s Comikaze at the LA Convention Center.  You may recall my last pilgrimage to the Mecca of all comic book conventions, San Diego’s Comic-Con.  That convention left me exhausted but excited, yet not all-too-eager to jump into the fray of another human flood of costumed super dudes.  Of course, if I had a cowl, a shield, and a body full of super-soldier serum, I’d be ready for anything, but don’t get me started.

Any reservations I may have had were quickly dispelled; Comikaze did not disappoint.  It had all the usual features I’ve come to expect from comic conventions: 

·        The attendees...  Open-mouth-breathing, wide-eyed hordes of social misfits, MENSA members, rocket scientists, outcasts (or as I like to call them, “my peeps”).  You’ve never seen such a wretched hive of scum and villainy.  Shout out to my Jedi fans—Holla!

·        The food...  cardboardy pizza, rubber hot dogs, mystery tacos, surprising and rather wonderful noodles, and junk food the likes of which these folks haven’t  seen since... well, probably yesterday

·        Memorabilia... Shirts, comics, statues, collectibles, clothing, trading cards and just about everything else from every age of super hero-dom, the Potterverse, Who-dom, The Shire, Horror-ville, and whatever other alternate universe conflicts with ours.  No passport required.

·        The aroma... The slight pungent odor of sweat coming from too-often-worn elaborate costumes, headdresses, and masks.  Maybe it was just the sweat coming from the Quidditch pitch or perhaps the hundreds of Magic Card players hunched over tables.  After Halloween, we used to throw away our costumes; not these folks – they just enhance, bedazzle, and re-don (the parent in me would like to recommend they consider “dry clean” as well)

Of course, all this eye candy was accompanied by the occasional conflicting feeling that I was both exactly where I was meant to be and that I was entirely out of my element.  Then again, that just may be one of the many manifestations of my soon to be spectacular mid-life crisis.  Stay tuned.

At Comikaze, the celebrity encounters were a-plenty.  I got to meet with and speak to Stan Lee, my hero.  You may recall I only saw him from afar at the last “con.”  Some of you know I also got to meet him way back in college, too.   And just like it was back in college, the drooling was once again up close and personal (poor Stan!).  I got to shake his hand, hug him, take my picture with him, and have a chat.  Sort of like meeting Santa, without the sitting on the lap and wishing for toys.

My Stan chat went like this (imagine me wide-eyed and Stan graciously smiling):

Herb:  Hey Stan!  My name is Herb!

Stan:  Well, hello, Herb!

Herb:  It’s been 25 years since I last met you.

Stan:  Really?

Herb:  Yeah.  Andromeda Bookstore in Santa Barbara.

Stan:  Of course.  I remember you.

Herb:  You do?

Stan:  Yeah, you were wearing the brown pants. [He grins mischievously and I know I’ve been duped. He is a riot, it should be known.]

Herb:  Very good!  [Here, I’m interrupted by a Stan staffer who positions us for taking our picture.  When we’re done, my family joins]

Herb:  Hey, Stan this is my son, his friend, and my wife!

Stan:  Oh, I see a lot has changed in 25 years.

Herb:  Oh, yeah! 

Stan:  Well, I hope I see you in another 25 years.  [He shakes my hand, more firmly than you’d think for an 89 year-old man]

Herb:  Me too! 

My wife says it’s an honor to meet him and he says, “The pleasure is all mine, my dear.”  Such a classy guy!

In case you’re still wondering, Stan is an awesome dude.  Whether you’re a comic book aficionado, a fan of Marvel hero movies, or simply a citizen breathing air on Earth, there’s no escaping his legacy.  The guy invented Spider-Man for crying out loud!  Wake up, people!

Clearly, this was the highlight of my weekend.  I have a Stan-the-man-crush.

Of course, Stan was not the only celeb at the con.  I did take some perverse pleasure watching some of the other celebrities attempt to approach Stan’s level of fame. 

For instance, I enjoyed watching the ill-advised, post-plastic-surgery Morgan Fairchild, dolled up, sitting in a booth, watching the throngs and hordes of orcs, Iron Men, ninjas, Jedis, Freddy Kruegers, and Doctors Who, Doom, and Strange pass right by her, not even knowing who she was.

Kids, if you don’t know Ms. Fairchild, get on those Internets and Google-ize her.  It may take a little work. 

I must say, Ms. Fairchild looked very disgruntled at being so ignored, and I half-expected her to grab a “batlith” from a passing Klingon, jump the draped folding table, and disembowel some pimply teen or maybe throttle her agent, if just for the attention.  That would’ve been awesome though, given the mock battles that routinely broke out not unlike flash mobs, I suspect very few people would have noticed.

Oddly (and counter-intuitively) Lou Ferrigno was similarly passed over by the nerd minions, though a lot of people squinted in confusion at the life size 1970s picture of him dressed as the Hulk which was propped next to his booth, probably not fully understanding what that was about.  

I was sorta sad for ol’ Lou.  He was alone and clearly forgotten, though seemed like a nice guy, if not just a bit forlorn.  I guess the modern variety CGI Hulks are cooler than the old school big dudes painted green.  Sorry, Lou.  You’re just an analog superhero at a digital con.  Please don’t smash me.  Blame the new Hulk, Mark Garofalo and those guys at Marvel studios.

There was a bit of a Batman reunion with booths hosting Adam West (TV’s Batman), Burt Ward (TV’s Robin), and Julie Newmar (TV’s Catwoman--the sexiest of them all if you ask me, which you didn't).  It was practically a bat cave with all the bat-action goin’ on!

Richard Anderson (TV’s Oscar Goldman from “The Six Million Dollar Man”) was there to sign autographs.  I have nothing but respect for Mr. Anderson, but if someone told me he was 109 years old, I would’ve believed him.  That dude could use some bionics of his own.  What is the shelf life of celebrity?  A sad question.  Maybe we can rebuild him.

Elvira, vampyric TV icon and host of early 80’s TV horror marathons was there.  She had lots of Elvira memorabilia and was quite nice to everyone who came to see her.  Unlike Ms. Fairchild, the mistress of the dark seemed to fit in quite nicely with the nerd minions and was ready for fun.  Didn’t get to chat with her, but wish I did!  She floated my boat back in the day and maybe just a little even now.

Although I refrained from donning my own costume, I did wear my Captain America and Super Soldier shirts that weekend.  I still admired the earnestness of those more bold and brave in how much time and money they spent to dress themselves and then commit to their characters.  And though I recognized most of the superhero costumes, I didn’t have a clue about the pink and blue-haired manga dress-ups, nor the self-designed, self-named monsters like last year’s Shark Commando. 

I heard one guy in a draped, boney/hairy costume explain to someone that he was a Level Three Oranga-Lith (I think that’s what he said).  The person on the receiving end of the explanation nodded and said, “cool,” but I was just confused and admittedly more than a little amused.  But, you gotta give points for creativity, right?

There was, however, a bunch of zombies!  This was cool.  I get zombies.  No explanation necessary.

In fact, the convention had set up an indoor area the size of three football fields surrounded by chain link fencing.  Within the fenced area, they set up ten of those big bounce houses that create slides, climbing walls, fortresses, and such so that the area was one big maze of obstacle course elements simulating a decimated city.  Then, they turned down the lights, filled the place with actors dressed as zombies, set off occasional sirens and let a roving spotlight search the scene.  With the mood set, they sent people through the maze at $30 a pop!  They called it “Zombie Apocalypse” and it was all kinds of awesome.  Genius, in fact. 

“Survivors” got a limited edition “Walking Dead Season 3” poster.  If you don’t know about AMC’s TV show, “The Walking Dead,” I’ll forgive you, only if you promise to get on the ol’ Google, figure out what you’re missing, order the DVDs/Blu-Rays and become hopelessly addicted.  You can thank me after the apocalypse.

Anyhow, back to the con.... my son and his friend went through the apocalypse twice (I love that you can survive two apocalypses... apocalypsii?).  I was excited more that I didn’t have to pay again.  I make it a policy only to pay for one apocalypse a day.

Thinking the fun was over, I was pleasantly surprised to learn the next day that my son and his friend convinced the show runners to let them dress as zombies and torment the other wanna-be survivors.  Unbelievable!  Thirty minutes in hair, costume, and makeup with professional makeup artists transformed these kids into very gruesome zombies.  They were then instructed to chase people for three hours.  To say they had the time of their lives would be an understatement (time of their deaths?).  If I knew being dead made my son happy, I would have killed him years ago!

The weekend offered opportunities for the boys to play Quidditch, traipse around as zombies, play Magic Card games, buy comics and posters and shirts, play video games, and gawk at their favorite purple-haired “Hit Girl” (look it up, people.  This blog is interactive).

Throughout it all, I couldn’t help but wonder how such events reflect human nature and pop culture.  Deep inside, we all like to pretend.  Some lead real lives and come to conventions to pretend and some just pretend in real life and come to conventions to get real.  I say, give in to your inner nerd.  Embrace your hidden geek.  Become the hero/zombie/princess/ Level Three Oranga-Lith within you!  Of course, if there’s a monster in there, I’ll advise you to keep pretending you’re just a regular human, but love your inner monster anyway. 

Of course, once that mid-life crisis hits, you may not be able to control your inner Ferrigno.  Then again, no one may notice.

© 2012, Herb Williams-Dalgart

Obsessed with Perfection

When I learned that George Lucas was re-releasing the Star Wars saga in 3D, I had a single thought—leave it to Lucas to find yet another way to disappoint me. 

Now he can offend me in the 3^rd dimension, too.

The original Star Wars trilogy was awe-inspiring and exciting—kids, these were Episodes 4, 5, and 6, before anyone really considered them episodes.  Come to think of it, we didn’t really know about special effects or understand what “action figures” were back then, either.  These movies set the bar.  They spawned the nerds of a generation.

Of course, in the new generation of flat screens and iPods, the prequels were released (or perhaps, like a plague, are better described as “unleashed”).  Unlike their predecessors, the new films were nausea inspiring.

Poor dialog, racist caricatures (Jar-Jar Binks? the Trade Federation?  Come on!), thin plotlines, and lazy direction were the result of Lucas’ obsessive focus on visual effects and his unwillingness to share the writing, development, and directing responsibilities with brave souls who might speak truth to power.  If you doubt me, watch the extra features on the DVDs that show how Lucas oversees his minions who fear him.  He literally carries an “approved by Lucas” stamp around the spacious Lucasfilm studios and puts a mark on concept art presented to him when he approves it.  Creative modelers and artists tremble when he comes by.  He strikes fear into his team as he inspects their work.  Watch it.  Try not to laugh.  And then cry.

Lucas is no longer the rebel director, doing something new and risky as he did with Star Wars in 1976.  Now, he’s a mega corporation, crushing all who would oppose him.  Lucas has become Vader, hell bent on ruling the universe.

He’d find my lack of faith disturbing.

His obsession with visual effects has harmed his storytelling, not helped it.  Awesome explosions don’t make up for bad stories, bad direction, or silly dialog (look at me, giving advice to one of the most financially successful directors in history.  Dang, I’m a badass... Part of me just worried that Lucas would read this and send stormtroopers to my house to disappear me).  Remember, you read it here first, people.  If I go missing, look for me or my remains at Skywalker Ranch.

I’m neither the first nor only critic of Mr. Lucas—the guy is sorely abused by the public, particularly over “The Phantom Menace” (“The Fandom Meanness?”).  People have dedicated blogs, websites, fan-made video remakes, and full-blown edits of his films as forms of criticism.  Go surf the inter-Webs.  If you Google “Hate George Lucas,” you’ll get about 12,300,000 results.  Go see.  I’ll wait right here...  It’s truly an awe-inspiring body of handmade hatred.

Re-releasing his epic saga in 3D may further fill his already deep pockets and secure the financial futures for generations of Lucas children and grandchildren and great grandchildren to come.  Am I too old to be adopted?  Herb Lucas?  Nah.

But, finances aside, on some level I have to admit, I sorta get his obsession with doing things over and over until he’s happy.  He wants everything to be perfect.  An illness?  Perhaps.  But the little George Lucas inside him just wants it all to be perfect.  My northern European father built that into my DNA.  The force is strong in my family.  What’s Lucas’ deal?

Maybe this is the same thing Joan Rivers struggles with, too.  She felt so unhappy her whole life, she had a face do-over; and over; and over...  I love Joan, but I’m not sure she got the face she wanted.

Or Priscilla Presley.  She, too, had some special effects wizardry on her face.  Is it me, or does she look like Jack Nicholson’s version of Batman’s “The Joker?”  What would Elvis say?   He’d probably kick my ass and sing “Don’t Be Cruel.”

In truth, I shouldn’t throw stones.  I have a little obsession with perfection, too—though clearly, I don’t care about my face.  Sorry, people and mirror.

About a year ago, I got myself a Lego keychain—a miniature model figure of Woody, the cowboy from Pixar’s “A Toy Story” trilogy (a superior trilogy that does not forget to put story above everything, though still offering breakthrough special effects.  Pay attention, Mr. Lucas.  Pixar’s schooled you!).

Two months into my proud ownership of the keychain, my son dropped my keys and one of Woody’s little Lego legs broke off.  Like a scene from the actual “Toy Story” movie, my toy was dismembered.

There was something oddly sweet about my one-legged cowboy.  He reminded me of the Hans Christian Andersen story, “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” where a one-legged tin soldier falls in love with a one-legged paper ballerina.  Read it sometime.  Here’s a spoiler—both the soldier and ballerina die horribly in the end.  Hans Christian Anderson was a disturbed dude.  Did you realize Anderson was the author of the original “Little Mermaid?”  Perhaps you didn’t know in his version, the little mermaid dissolved into sea foam at the end?  No pretty Disney wedding there!  And no special effects to make it look like Greedo shot first.  Wait, wrong story...

Anyhow, happy with my one-legged Lego cowboy keychain, I tucked away the disembodied leg in my desk and went on with life, proud to have a battle-scarred Toy Story veteran in my pocket.  Then, the unthinkable happened last month:  the second leg broke off.  This incident and my reaction to it revealed a prejudice I didn’t realize I had.  While I found my one-legged cowboy charming, my no-legged cowboy was a problem.

True confessions—when I originally bought my Woody keychain, I was so excited I bought TWO.  Woody #2 has been residing in my desk drawer, tags still attached, ready to be deployed in case of just such an emergency.  Now that I think of it, he’s probably horrified to be lying in a drawer next to a severed leg identical to his own....

Like another episode from the original “Toy Story” movies, I had a toy horror show with parts and pieces in a drawer (like Toy Story 1), and a doppleganger to my hero (like Buzz Lightyear’s “twin” in “A Toy Story 2?”).  Life imitating art?  Toys imitating life?  Herb imitating a grown man?

Now, let’s pause a moment.  If you’ve seen neither the Star Wars saga nor the Toy Story trilogy, you’re probably annoyed with me for the onslaught of cultural references. If you have no idea who Woody, Buzz, Greedo, or Vader are or what I mean when I say “Lego keychain,” your probably lost.  Then again, if you’ve seen neither Star Wars nor Toy Story, or have never seen Lego, you’re probably a Unabomber living in a tree house or you’re so countercultural that you don’t read blogs anyway.

Let me help you catch up:  Pixar is great; Star Wars was great and now isn’t; and I’m struggling with a broken cowboy-shaped key chain, having endowed the entire broken keychain event with some sort of existential importance.  If you’re still behind, that’s where I’m leaving you.  Moving on.

At first, I tried gluing the legs back on.  They were originally designed to move, but when glued, they would not.  I could live with that (and if my cowboy could talk or think, I figured he’d agree).  Of course, the glue didn’t take.  Then, I taped them.  That lasted a month, and then the legs fell off again.  I barely heard the sound of plastic hitting the pavement and it took a moment for me to realize what had happened, but once again, I’d saved the legs.

Now, the dilemma.  Do I try a third time to affix the legs or, do I deploy “Plan B” Woody—the doppleganger in the drawer?

Like Lucas, I’m plagued by the need for perfection.  Part of me just wants to continue forward with my original, broken, pieced-together, keychain.  Broken is sort of perfect in its own way, isn’t it?  I feel a poem coming on...

Another part of me wants to stop fretting, stop accepting a broken keychain, replace Woody 1 with Woody 2, and move on.  But somehow I know, one choice will make me a rebel and the other will make me an evil overlord.  I refuse to become Vader, but what kind of keychain cowboy has no legs?

Maybe the answer is just to get another keychain altogether.  Not a Woody, but some other Lego guy... The best choice could be to make no choice at all.  Then again, what kind of cowboy, what kind of Jedi, would bow out when the going gets tough?

Let’s leave it to you, my honored readers.  Using the poll on the sidebar, tell me what YOU would do!

Most votes wins!  And you won’t need 3D glasses!



© 2012, Herb Williams-Dalgart