Four Posts

Howdy.

Just thought I'd interrupt my staccato flow of posting Reverse Quizzes to lay some of my work for the school paper on ya.

Four posts below this one for anyone interested in readin' 'em.

Ta.

The Sunny Side of Terror: Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo

Even from the get-go, watching one man pursue another across the rooftops of San Francisco, the viewer is filled with a distinct sense of dread. It is remains impossible for much of the experience to pinpoint exactly what stirs up such primal feelings of fear and unease. One is left scrabbling for some solid ground, throughout a parade of potentially paranormal events, death, deception, and intrigue, only to wind up profoundly unsettled and, as some might say, “creeped out.”

Then again, what can one expect when watching a Hitchcock film?

And, of all the Master’s work, few have the power to instill terror and unease so subtly and deftly as Vertigo (1958).

The story follows retired detective John “Scotty” Ferguson, a man struggling to overcome his personal demons and overwhelming acrophobia—fear of heights. He is hired by an old college friend, Gavin Elster, a properly oily Tom Helmore, to investigate the man’s wife. Madeleine Elster (Kim Novak) has been suffering from some severe psychological affliction, strange enough to lead her husband to consider spiritual possession. Ferguson reluctantly agrees, and the viewer is taken along with him as he tails Madeleine and becomes further and further embroiled in a confounding, decades-old mystery.

Just as it is difficult to determine what exactly makes the film so disturbing, it is equally difficult to determine what exactly makes the film so effective.

It has been hailed by critics for nearly 50 years as one of the greatest examples of psychological thriller ever produced, and was nominated for two Oscars. But where lies the secret to film’s eerie presence?

The script, from the novel d’Entre les Morts by Pierre Boileau and Thomas Narcejac, adapted to the screen by Alec Coppel and Samuel Taylor, certainly deserves some credit. Nonetheless, storyline aside, the dialogue is not outwardly dynamic or full of tension. Much of it seems more fitting for a romance.

Stewart’s engrossing performance is a key factor. He tightrope-walks above a precipice of madness in his stammering, good-natured, distinctly Jimmy Stewart way, a regular guy, a hometown fella. Only at the film’s climax does he leap from the rope and plunge into insanity.

The film is shot mostly during the day, in an uncharacteristically sunny San Francisco—the usually foggy den of crime noir. Only selective twisting of certain shots, variances in pace and perspective, draw one in to the madness. For most of the film he plays an earnest straight man to Novak’s stunningly unhinged beauty.

And here, I think, we hit on the trick.

It is the combination of mundane and horrifying, of pedestrian and petrifying, that the film finds success.

Under Hitchcock’s gimlet-eyed gaze, the film takes the normal, the everyday, and plunges it into a dark world of obsession and murder.

While much of Hitchcock’s body of work— Psycho, The Birds—transports the viewer to a freakish “other place,” be it deserted motel on some bleak stretch of highway or crumbling sea town infested with an avian menace, Vertigo shows the sunny side of terror, reminding us that our fears aren’t as deeply buried as we hope. It shows us that some monsters don’t need shadows to hide in. They walk along the street with us.

The Ratings Manifesto . . . OR Swimming Against a Sea of Mediocrity

There is a specter haunting Hollywood. Its name is Censorship. And if it continues unabated, the long struggle in the film industry, the battle over whether films should be viewed as an art form or a commodity, will finally be resolved.

Art will not be the victor.

In 1966, the country had reached the wild apex of a decade that was in many ways pure rebellion against all those that preceded it. The Motion Picture Association of America made significant revisions to its Production Code, which had for years drastically limited what filmmakers were allowed to depict in their films. Sex, violence, and foul language in all their irreverent glory flooded into films by the gallon. Portions of the country were horrified.

On All Saints Day, 1968, the MPAA instituted a rudimentary ratings system to alert the public as to what films contained by way of “inappropriate material.” The spectrum was a four-figured scale running G, PG, R, X (now the more consumer-friendly NC-17). And all was well.

Until! In 1983, the public, clamoring for further distinction, asked for a rating to straddle the increasingly hazy middle-ground between PG and R. Well-meaning Stephen Spielberg suggested to then MPAA president Jack Valenti a rating of “PG-13,” which would allow children under 17 to watch by themselves, but alert their parents that there might be some questionable content.

And all was well.

Or so it seemed. But since 1984, the number of PG and— not counting the straight-to-video market— R movies released has decreased dramatically.

So what? What does this have to do with the quality of films?

Well, since 1968, when the rating system was introduced, 24 of the 38 films awarded the Best Picture Oscar have been rated R. Midnight Cowboy, the 1969 Best Picture winner, was rated X.

Three have been PG-13.

The undeniable fact is, R films are able to present a broader, richer example of the human experience, in all its flawed beauty. If—God forbid—our lives were ever given ratings, they would no doubt be stamped with an “R.” (Some really lucky individuals might even earn an “NC-17.”)

But it goes beyond all this.

The fault in these ever-increasing intermediate films is not simply that they’re PG-13, but that their ratings are dictated before they have a chance to blossom, to become the films they should be.

The studios of Hollywood find PG-13 films to be the most profitable, because of the wide range of demographics they can appeal to and reach. As such, many films are cut, re-written, or edited to make them PG-13.

These pre-ordained boundaries serve to sever the creative limits films need to reach their full potential. Not even horror films are immune.

There is hope, however. Some brave films-- comedies such as The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Wedding Crashers, action films like Sin City or Grindhouse, and horror shows like Hostel-- have decided to bear the burden of an R rating. What is more, they’ve become popular, infusing the viewing public with a thirst for more unrestricted fare. And, even further, these films, in reaction to an increasingly lukewarm culture, have set out to “earn the R.”—That’s an industry phrase describing films which, when facing an R-rating, go all-out, guns blazing, pushing the very boundaries of the MPAA code.

The problem Hollywood faces is, as always, the greed of the studios and the reticence of a timid public. If films continue to be boxed in by minds guided solely by profit, then we’ll be left with bland, lifeless, naïve cinema. We’ll be facing a marathon of forced mediocrity.

R-ratings of the World, unite!

New England’s Creative Drive Alive and Well . . . OR Local ‘Zines Add Spice to the Scene

It’s grey outside. Grey and windy and cold. But that does not deter Patrick Melhurst, 34, seated on a Northampton park bench, from his reading. A gust of wind picks up, ruffling his shaggy blonde hair and tugging incessantly at the publication he holds in his hands. Without taking his eyes from the pages before him, Melhurst simply grips them tighter and goes right on reading.

What could so distract the man from this weather, not at all conducive to a reading break out of doors? When asked, his response is terse.
“Meat for Tea.”

There is little sense in this to the average citizen.

When pressed he releases a protracted sigh and elaborates, “It’s a local literary magazine. Local artists, local writers,” he holds up a CD that was included in the pages, “even local bands.”

He returns to his reading, apparently done with the brief interview.

No, wait, he looks back up for a moment and adds, “Good stuff.”

Ah. Now he is done with the interview. But he has at least stirred up the prospects of a good story.

In the winter of 2006, two educators from Holyoke Community College founded what remains one of the only privately run literary magazines—or “zines” in the tri-county area. It has one simple intention: to recognize and feature the work of the artists, writers, and musicians living in Western Massachusetts.

The two educators are Elizabeth MacDuffie and Alexandra Wagman. The magazine is called Meat for Tea.

“We felt that local artists were long overdue for some honest recognition,” says MacDuffie, “and we wanted to do something about that.”

She is in her office on the highest floor of Holyoke Community’s Donahue Building, seated behind a desk which is almost completely submerged under an ocean of papers. Despite this heavy workload, or perhaps because of it, she wears a broad smile on her face.

“Look at all this,” she says, making a broad sweeping gesture at the clutter.—So confident is the motion that one half-expects the paper sea to part as though she were some modern day Moses. – “All of this is from people right here in the Pioneer Valley. Artists, authors, musicians, poets. This place has so much talent. You’d have to be blind not to see it.”

The idea for a local literary mag was hatched, so the story goes, during the commute to the college.

“I was driving in the car with Elizabeth early one morning when it dawned on me that there wasn't a local literary ‘zine,” co-editor Alex Wagman recalls. “By the time we got to campus, it was pretty much decided.”

The dynamic duo immediately started gathering financial support from the community, a process which carried on with satisfactory smoothness.

“I owe that to Elizabeth,” Wagman says, “she's fearless, positive, and persuasive. We walked door to door visiting businesses in Northampton. If it were up to me, I pr

With the donations of local establishments, and a grant from the Northampton Arts Council, the two had the resources necessary to set the project in motion.

Production did not go as smoothly, however. After a stress-filled week collaborating with an outside party, Wagman and MacDuffie decided to design the issues themselves, with help from an intern from HCC, Emma Donnelly.

And, despite the pressures of their careers as professors and the natural lag in inspiration that comes with pursuing a project at length, the two have launched issue after issue into the surrounding towns like so many literary torpedoes, all reflecting themes derived from the ‘zine’s odd title. – The name itself came about after MacDuffie received a misspelled message online, asking if she would like to “meat for tea.”

Since its first issue, “Gristle,” hit the stands in the winter of last year, MacDuffie and Wagman have released five issues in total, an issue for each season.

This year’s spring issue is due out Sunday, May 20th, and with it comes further ventures of the blooming mag’, including concerts by local bands booked by Meat for Tea, writing workshops, and even a fashion show.

While Meat for Tea is possibly the only privately run ‘zine in the Pioneer Valley, it shares the scene with numerous collegiate periodicals, one such being Pulp City, the literary magazine produced at Holyoke Community College.

Pulp City’s faculty advisor, professor Dave Champoux— an occasional contributor to Meat for Tea—sits in his office, face stretched in a beaming smile, eyes twinkling good-naturedly. It’s not every day he gets interviewed on a topic about which he feels so passionately, and he talks freely of his six years with Pulp City and all the triumphs the magazine has achieved.

Soon, however, he becomes a little less cheerful.

“Creative writing doesn’t get nearly enough attention,” he laments.

Champoux feels that the rich tapestry of creative writing is struggling to find a niche in the Valley. Still, Thanks to the efforts of people like him, its struggle is made a little less daunting.

“It’s all getting easier,” Champoux says, referring not only to Pulp City’s production, but finding acceptance and appreciation of creative writing in general. “And the magazines always come out great.”

To coincide with the Pulp City, Champoux has organized poetry slams, fiction composition contests, and even has plans for joint ventures with the school’s drama club and radio station.

Certainly, there is a lot involved in publication, and not all of it is easy.

There are many obstacles inherent in ‘zine production, Champoux admits, and while, “I could say the usual things of deadlines and last minute mishaps,” the real problem is in finding the talent.

Luckily for the incorrigible pair of Wagman and MacDuffie, that problem has never arisen. MacDuffie attributes the constant flow of submissions to the environment, specifically the abundance of local colleges. “Yes, we found a niche, a population of creative people,” she says, “musicians, artists, writers.”

Contributions come from all directions it seems, via mail, internet, or word of mouth. The only criterion for submission is creativity.

And so, taking advantage of the rich milieu of talent the Pioneer Valley provides, Meat for Tea has continued to grow in circulation, now reaching as far as Brattleboro.

“We aim to grow in all directions,” Wagman says, becoming really serious for what may be the first time during the interview. Earlier this year, Meat for Tea launched a website and is looking into merchandizing as well.

What does the future hold for Meat for Tea and, in a broader sense, the emergence of creative writing in the area? Looking back on the rich history of literature in New England, one notes with interest, and, perhaps, hope, that Amherst, one of the towns in which Meat for Tea is widely read, was once home to esteemed poetess Emily Dickinson. Many New Englanders feel that such creative brilliance is still alive and well.

Echoing the sentiments of MacDuffie and Champoux, Wagman says, “We’re slowly beginning to fill a niche in the Valley. These things take time, I believe.”

She would no doubt be heartened by something her colleague, Champoux, likes to say: “Creative writing, it’s the kind of thing that sticks with you.”




Were this published anywhere, I would include this information in a sidebar, as squeezing it into the text would seem cumbersome. Where can people purchase Meat for Tea ?

Room Don 370 at HCC, where the English Dept. is housed.

Also at:

Broadside Books - Northampton
Faces - Northampton
Pinch - Northampton
Halfmoon Books - Northampton
Food for Thought - Amherst

Submissions are welcome and can be sent to MeatforTea@hotmail.com

Lady Cougars: 2007 NJCAA Women’s Basketball Regional Champs

With a flurry of crisp passes and outside shooting, Holyoke Community’s own unbeatable Lady Cougars grabbed the title Massachusetts Community College Women’s Basketball Champions.

HCC hosted the two-day tournament at the Bartley Center.

Four colleges were in attendance: Bunker Hill and Quinsigamond Community Colleges from out east, UConn at Avery Point, our Connecticut neighbors to the south, and, of course, Holyoke Community.

The HCC ladies scored and early victory over UConn’s Pointers on the first day of the tournament. The score stood 47 to 36 in favor of the Cougars after a fairly rough game. The foul count was in the double-digits, both teams being fierce competitors. Amanda Czerwiec, number 22, of Easthampton, was particularly ferocious, shouting and swatting at the members of the other team. Thanks to this aggressive strategy, and some astounding rebounds courtesy of number 32, Dominique Finkley, also of Easthampton, HCC prevailed and moved on to the second round.

Their second match, this one against Quinsigamond’s Lady Chiefs, was fairly one-sided, reaching 31 to 18, Cougars, by halftime. After protracted exhibition of their competent defense, the Cougars cinched the win. The final score was 57-38, solidly assuring the ladies’ title as NJCAA Regional Champs. Their record for the season was an unbelievable 19-3.

What did the ladies think about their stunning display?

“I’m thrilled now,” says Holyoke native Stefany Bushley, “but when we were playing we didn’t really think about how close we were. We just focused on the game.”

A wise strategy, it would seem.

This victory came as a particular triumph for Head Coach Al Wolejko.

“We used to sit in those seats,” he says, indicating the bleachers at the Bartley Center
Gymnasium, “and watch other people take the title. This year it was our turn.”

Indeed, the year has been a stunning one for HCC women’s athletics in general. The Lady Cougars soccer squad took home the New England Championship title as well, ending their season with a 14-5-1 record.

Perhaps this year’s most promising young player, sophomore Rachel Colby, was on both the soccer and basketball teams. She was named to the All-American Team for her soccer-field performance as team captain and high scorer.

Wolejko attributes the win to a combination of factors, mostly the ladies’ positive attitude. Humble to a fault, he takes little credit for the team’s success.

“Everybody shares in the victory,” he says, looking proudly on his Cougars.

And yes, in the wake of the glory brought home by both soccer and basketball teams, the school stands a little taller.

We do all share in the victory.

Some preliminaries

Not too many this time, chaps.

I only wish to add that the subject of Dan has surfaced before on my blog.

You may find it here: http://whiteytighties.blogspot.com/2004/06/double-send-off_29.html#comments

I wish you all fair reading and foul play.

Danimaniacs . . . (Alternate title: A Jerk in Progress)

(That "Jerk" part refers to me)

01. I will write something about you. (No less than one paragraph length.)

All right.
Let’s us two get down to brass tacks.
Let’s us two ride the gauntlet together, eh?
. . .

Fuck.

I am – for what may well be the next time—at a loss for words.
I want you all to know I was coerced—
Nay! Pressured!
Nay! Extorted, entreated, and tricked into even taking up this mad quest.

What mad quest?
Shut up, stupid.
Why, the maddest quest of them all.
That most undefeatable of windmills:

Trying to encapsulate into mere words how awesome is Dan McLaughlin.

. . .

I know, right?
I need a drink.

. . .

*returns five minutes later with a glass of milk . . . laced with arsenic.*
*sips*

Aahh.

Jus’ like ma usedta make.

But now no more stalling.
Here we goooooo . . .

Dan is annoying.

Okay. Bad st—off to a bad start.

Nah. He’s not really.
I just think he is.
Bastard.

Okay, really now.

Dan’s great.
You’re fuckin’ great.

Hard to break it down more than that, especially for a simple white boy like me. We can’t break it down at all. Nevertheless, I shall endeavor to do so.

Let’s start with the obvious qualities and then move on to the more abstract.
You’re smart.
In a tactical, pragmatic sense, but also in a contemplative, almost spiritual sense as well.
You’re physically capable.
Not that that is a mark of a good friend, or a good person, but the fact that you’re capable and humble about it, unlike some people I know who might be feeble but boastful, means a lot.
I guess that gets at one thing I love about you: Your sense of . . . hmm . . . dignity, let’s say? You’re hardly ever boastful or ostentatious. But you’re not timid, either.
I remember one occasion; we were walking with some girls in the rain. Normally I would shamble out some question, “W-would any of you like m-my coat?”
(This is the wrong thing to do with women, I’ve noticed. You must force chivalry upon them.)
And so you did.
You simply took off your over-shirt and draped it across a girl’s shoulders and then went on about your business. You didn’t make a show of it, but you acted swiftly and competently. And that makes up one half of you: Capable and competent, but never presumptuous or conspicuous.

The other half is joyously loony and theatrical, but in a more self-aware, self-deprecating way. You’re amiable and chatty and sometimes downright nuts. At times you verge on being whimsical.
We’re all good in our own way at random, nonsense humor, but you’re the only one I know who can keep it up indefinitely with a straight face.
You have a spirit of adventure second to none.

Now, you fuse these two halves together like the lost pieces of a mystical golden amulet and voila, you get Dan: An individual with a very unique outlook on life, who’s almost always fun to be around (so long as you don’t piss him off—he kicks hard.)
Someone who’s always there for his friends and eternally forgiving when they’re clueless enough clods to not be there for him. (Thanks again, by the way.)

*addressing the group*

Dan here is the only guy who kept reading my blog. You realize that?
. . .
Actually, in that case, there is no group to address.

*turns back to Dan*

So, you got this guy who’s equal parts realist and romanticist; lover and fighter, authority and rebel. He never let’s ya down, he’s never harsh or mean to you. That’s another thing here, sidenote. Unlike nearly everybody else I know, Dan is never mean to me. Tony is very big on this nonsense called “tough love,” and dishes it out liberally. Andrew is careless with his words. Caitlin is unconcerned with the effects of hers. Brendan is downright cruel sometimes.
But you’ve always been nice to me Dan.

Anyway, ya got this guy, and you’re thinkin’ to yerself, what could possible make him better?
And I tell you.
He likes comic books!

Yes indeed. You like everything from The Watchmen to . . . *shudders* Ultimate Spiderman, and I love you for that. I love comic books. I think I love them more than anyone else I know. But guys like me, Tony, and definitely Pawel, are snobbish and discriminatory. You appreciate the value in all comic books. I think that’s a fine quality.

Yes. And it is perhaps because of your unique fusion that you’re capable of taking reasonable (usually) but nonetheless emotional stances on topics from pop culture to genocide.
The more intellectual part of you sometimes hides the visceral under a steely façade, but I know it’s still there. I know you can’t detach yourself completely. I think that might be one of your greatest strengths. Semi-detachment.

So what’s bad?
Well, you do seem overly harsh on some issues sometimes (almost to the point of scaring me.)
And arguing with you is like ramming an ice cube up my ass and running around in circles. If the object of debating was to turn your opponent into a gibbering mess then you’d win every debate match ever.
You coulda successfully defended Charlie Manson or convicted Rosa Parks, I think.

So you’re like a simple chemical compound, say, mixing hydrogen and oxygen. Separate, to fine elements. Together, much greater than the sum of its parts, with properties that still manage to stun and amaze.
And, of course, bring life.

So, as I’m verging on the precipice of sappy, I’ll cut off here.
I love ya, buddy, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.

02. I will then tell what song/movie remind me of you

The Terminator. Oddly enough, I can see you as both Michael Biehn’s heroic character from the first film, or as Robert Patrick’s inhuman murderer from the second.
Desperado. Just watched this one today, and I was reminded of you for some reason. Maybe it’s your Latin flair for the dramatic.
Harry Potter. More the books than the movies, but you’ve certainly cast a spell on me, nonetheless. (It’s hard to be both gay and lame all at once, but I find I pull it off quite nicely.)
Batman Begins. ‘Nuff said.
The Nero Wolfe mysteries from A&E. You’re very much like Archie Goodwin.
Goldeneye. I see you as the Trevelyan type.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (every one of them, but mostly the new, animated feature.)
Jurassic Park
Independence Day (I hope one day aliens invade, just so you can give that Bill Pullman presidential speech before you fly off to kick their asses. Also because I’m tired of the White House.)

Songs?
Well, anything classical rendered by electric instruments.
TSO, baby!

Also:

Captain America, by Jimmy Buffett
Don’t Mess Around with Slim, by Jim Croce
The Mob Song, from Beauty and the Beast
Northbound Train and, even more so, By the Sword/Sons of Dixie from The Civil War: The Musical
Any song performed by a Muppet

I think of you when I hear any bombastic, trumpeting show tune. Also, the James Bond theme.

Mike Doughty song:

Super Bon Bon.


03. If I were to apply a time to you, it would be:

Okay, okay. I can do this one, I think.
It’s summer time.
Night.
Hot, humid, electric.
Late.
Almost dawn.
One finds oneself strung out from a night of sugar and shenanigans, wild-eyed and not the least bit sleepy.
What shall we do?
Find someone, pick a fight with them, and pretend we’re super heroes, of course.

You’re 3:45 AM on July 5th. The air is still tangy with the smell of gunpowder and ozone. It’s madness to be awake and cavorting at this hour, but it’s a welcome sort of madness. A madness that makes one feel complete. Whole. Home.

Let’s rock.

(Hurry the fuck up and get home, huh, soldier boy?)



04. I will try to name a single word that best describes you. (Or, that failing, a half dozen words.)

Brave is kinda a bland word, ain’t it? So I’ll skip that one for now.
Determined and capable also come to mind.
But, let’s see now, surely we can do better.
Loyal? For I have never known you to turn your back on a friend, though you have been harshly betrayed many a time.
Astute? Unflinching?
Intelligent?
Bah! This is getting us nowhere.
I’ma go with decent. Yes. I know it’s bland, but it pretty much sums you up. You are one of the few completely decent human beings I have ever known. In every sense, you are above moral reproach.
Essept for what you did with that underage hooker. Gave me nightmares for a week.
. . .
No! Wait, that was me.
Sorry.
Haha
Good times.



05. I'll tell you one of the most memorable moments I've had with you.

Well, I gotta say, the parking lot brawl in front of Cinemark ranks highly among my most memorable moments, period. I wish we had dragged it out a bit more, though. I think if we had been watching an action movie instead of a comedy the fight woulda been more all-out.
Yes. If I had to pick, I’d choose that one and one other.
All the time we spent exploring St. Hyacinth during The Clearing rehearsals. From the basements to the roof, swiping keys, stealin’ pencils, blinding each other with the spotlight . . .
*heaves a heavy sigh*
Man, I miss you, buddy.

06. I will tell you what animal you remind me of.

Tiger shark.
Lemur.
Heron.

(Tell me that that combination makes any sense at all.)

Dog:

Doberman Pinscher. Slightly militaristic, fierce in a fight, but, like all dogs, cuddly.

07. I'll then tell you something that I've always wondered about you.

I suppose I sometimes wonder (not always, sometimes) just how serious your plans for ascension in the government actually are. I realize some of it’s pure conjecture. Hypothetical musings on what you’d do if –
But if anyone I know has the chops necessary to become El Presidente, it’s definitely you.

What else I wonder, you ax?
I wonder if your bi.
Sometimes, you look at me, and . . . your lip quivers . . . and I can tell.
Or, remember that game we played in the backseat of someone’s car once? When we ended up grabbing each others’ sacks? “Nervous” you called it.
Was I sworn to secrecy on that?
Hey, I won’t lie.
I see you sometimes and I think about it. Y’know. Hot man on man action.

08. I'll tell you which hanky signal you'd probably go by.

Dark blue.
Robin’s egg blue.
Khaki/olive.
Cream.
Gold. (The kind with two guys. Oh, shit. It’s pretty obvious what this one means, huh?)
Mustard. (Has one.)
Rust. (Offered me one once.)

09. I will describe my ideal day with you.

I’m striding briskly down a tiled hallway that looks as though it’s been chiseled though solid rock.
It has.
I’m in a bunker, concealed within a mountain in the northern Appalachians.
Before me, a pair of brushed steel doors slide open with a hiss a second before I reach them.
I enter a massive room with a vaulted ceiling. All around are holographic maps, digital displays, conference tables, and weapon racks.
You stand, palms flat on one such table, leaning your weight on your outstretched arms, surveying a radar screen. You look up as I enter, and your grim expression momentarily lightens, then returns.
You straighten up and give me a nod.
“What’s the report?”
“News from the satellites, Mr. President. It appears the alien armada has returned. They disappeared behind the moon, but have slingshot back around and are headed right for here.”
You roll your sleeves back down and button the cuffs, then sling a heavy green commander’s jacket over your broad shoulders. The epaulets and medals glitter in the light from the halogen bulbs overhead, and match the gleam in your eye.
“Prepare my fighter jet,” you say to an aide, and hen turn back to me.
“Suit up, Sundance, we’re goin’ for a ride.”

Your shuttle jet has a sophisticated cloaking mechanism that makes the aliens believe it’s one of their own. The mother ship lets us in without a fuss, and in so doing seal their fate.
Out of the hatch leap you, me, and an able crew of the meanest Marines available. Also, Sam.
“Troops,” you say to them, “Make me proud. Take out communications and weaponry, and rendezvous back here at o’ eight-hundred.
“Sam—,” but Sam is already gone. Off in the distance we hear a riotous explosion followed by the deadly buzzing of laser fire and Sam’s maniacal laughter.
You look at me.
‘Rich, you an’ I got a date with destiny,” you say grimly.
“I’ll bring the roofies!” I reply.

The alien overlord takes up a space about eight feet by five. He glares at us with his seven eyes and clicks his mandibles furiously.
Raising his battle saber, he charges.
Never one to back down, you charge, too.
I, meanwhile, am momentarily distracted by one of his harem. She’s six feet tall, slim and curvy, with long flowing tendrils. I gaze into as many of her sea-green eyes as possible. And what a rack! Check that, two racks!

“Rich!” you call after being hurled across the room by a fist the size of a basketball, “Lil’ help here?”
“My hands are full at the moment,” I say, and I speak the truth.

I manage to tear myself away—no small feat, considering two of her four arms have powerful suction cups (for which I was most desirous to find new uses)—and come racing across the room. I throw myself onto Overlord Dralkraxx’s vast and spike-ed back and begin punching him in the back of his bulbous head.
He howls and shakes me off violently. I go flying across the room and land on a pile of gelatinous eggs.
Disgusting, yes, but they did break my fall.

You’ve stolen one of Dralkraxx’s huge daggers, which you hold in two hands like a war sword. Now you and the Overlord slash and hack at each other, Pynomian alloy clanging a tuneless song in the cavernous throne room.
You dodge a thrust and move in close, too close for his saber to be of any use. You grapple with the giant for a few tense moments, teeth gritted and eyes wild. He catches you with a right hook—using both right fists, the brute—and you roll across the floor and collide with the far wall.
He slithers toward you, leaving a trail of noxious slime.
His two mouths twist into a freakish and horrifying insectoid grin.
“You have come so far only to fail now,” he chuckles, making a sound like a bag of wombats being ground into paste in a rusty cement mixer. “You humans are a foolish race. Your bravado only puts you into greater peril. With your death, the Earth will be mine.”
Lying on the floor, propped up on your elbows, you stare unflinchingly into the monster’s face. You drag your knuckles across your lips, wiping away some blood, and your bruised but handsome visage lights up in a savage grin.
“We are characterized by our bravado, you alien scum, but I tell you now it is rarely used foolishly.”
Then you hold up the punch line to your little joke, a detonator. While you were struggling with him, you slipped something into his jeweled belt.
Dralkraxx whips his gaze down in horror to the blinking grenade on his hip. He reaches for it—too late!
“The Earth will never be yours!” you say.
You ram your thumb down on the button. We’re both deafened by a distinctly wet-sounding blast and for a moment the whole room is whited out in the glare of the explosion. We’re both hurled backward, you not so far, as you’re against the wall, anyway.
Then the entrails of the fallen villain hit us like a warm, stinking rain.
I wipe crud out of my eyes and look around for you.
You’re getting shakily to your feet at the far side of the room, also covered in blood and gore and slime.
You see me and give me a dashing wink, then a thumbs up.
We meet over the bubbling pile that was once the most feared warlord in the twelve galaxies.
“Rest in pieces, Dralky,” I quip.
“Beat me to it,” you say.
And, supporting each other like two old warriors, we stumble out of the throne room and back to your ship.

Behind us, as we head back to Earth, the mother ship and then the rest of the fleet explode in a neon blaze. Sam bursts out laughing, pleased with his handiwork.

Back on our home soil, we’re standing on a balcony overlooking the Bush monument (a marble rendering of the Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil monkeys, all with Dubya’s grinning face.
You’re behind a podium, before a crowd 2 million strong. I’m standing to your right, slightly behind.
You cover the mic with one hand and tap me on the shoulder with the other.
The first lady is wearing a tight violet dress and I have to forcibly I tear my eyes away from her purple mountains majesty.
You give me another smile. Given the cuts an bruises on your somehow still regal face, it must hurt like hell, but you don’t show it. Your eyes are weary but content.
“This is my favorite part of the job,” say quietly.
“Better than blowing up alien warlords or romping through Charlotte’s (the F.L) fruited plain?”
“Yes, I like it even more than that.” Your grey eyes survey the multitude. “There’s nothing like giving my country-men and -women some good news.”
Your hand slips off the mic and you begin your speech in your famous stentorian roar.
“My fellow Americans,” you yell over the silent crowd, “victory!”
The cheers are deafening. Fists clutching American flags (thirteen stripes, 73 stars) beat the air. Pennants wave, whistles tear through the clamor, as a mighty bellow of love and triumph rips from the throats of two million citizens. Even Pawel, in his (as he requested) dimly lit cell, hears the cheer and pauses in his furious scribbling of his seventh guide to revolution to smile.
As the jets scream by overhead, painting the dusky sky with red, white, and blue stripes, I close my eyes and think about the future. Thanks to our President, we have one.

. . .

Or, something of that nature.




10. I will tell you which villainous character actor you remind me of.

Michael Biehn, a lil’ bit.
Watch Tombstone and ya might get it.
If not him, Joaquin de Almeida.
Watch 24 and ya might get it.
But, beyond those two: Sean Bean. Definitely.