...cuz I've got a golden ticket!

Yes, little Charlie Bucket can be seen holding his ticket in much the same way that I was holding mine -- my traffic ticket, that is.

I only mention good ol' Willy Wonka and company as a half-hearted plug for the new Charlie and the Chocolate Factory due to be released in theaters soon. I am excited, and yet, it's half-hearted because the trailer and promo material has given me doubts. The visuals with Burton are always stunning, but I wonder how far this re-envisioning has travelled toward children's entertainment. Of course, maybe it needed to go there, but it's a tough sell.

Anyhow, this is another offing (the fourth, I believe) in what has been a fruitful collaboration between Tim Burton and Johnny Depp. (A fifth in the vein of stop-motion animation features like A Nightmare Before Christmas and James and the Giant Peach, this one entitled Corpse Bride, is also in the pipeline.) This is also the second collaboration between Tim Burton and screenwriter John August (Big Fish, Go). John August's blog is featured in the "Random Links" section for his insight into the life a working screenwriter, and he will be attached to Corpse Bride as well.

While I may have misgivings about the Tim Burton of late, the Tim Burton of yesteryear never failed to amaze. For that, he is afforded another day in court (just like me for my traffic ticket!). And I will definitely be watching to see if he in any way shamed, sullied, or bastardized the legacy of the original, which, even with all the amusing midget musical interludes sprinkled throughout, is still a classic to me.

Johnny Depp, on the other hand, is a wonderful chameleon. He is quite simply one of the most versatile and talented actors of any generation, right up the in the pantheon of the greats, in my humble opinion. He so rarely missteps or miscalculates. He can often be the saving grace of otherwise standard fare. Even he, however, has admitted that it will be difficult to fill Gene Wilder's shoes. Well said.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Now on to my golden ticket:

I am reminded of an episode of "The Simpsons" in which Bart, while skateboarding around town, was struck by Mr. Burns' limo. In a very humorous take on just how malleable the truth can be, the court case that ensues pits Bart's testimony and his version of the events against Mr. Burns'.

Bart paints a picture of himself playing in an "innocent childlike way" when, out of nowhere, Mr. Burns, with Smithers in tow, comes barrelling down the street in their black limo of death. They crash and careen while literally steering toward their helpless victim with devilish intent. At which point, they plow into him. Bart ends with a tearful reminder that, though he hadn't been killed that day, sometimes he wished he had.

Mr. Burns does a complete about face when he testifies in his own defense. He begins by coloring a rosy portrait of a beautiful, picturesque day. Flowers blooming, birds singing, the works. He can be seen driving a brightly-painted convertible VW Beetle down the lane "to the orphanage to pass out toys". All of the sudden, Bart appears and, in a maniacal, inexplicable game of chicken, proceeds to aim directly for the on-coming vehicle. He connects and is left unconscious of the road. At which point, Mr. Burns exists the Beetle and, in shameless, down-on-his-knees fashion, beseeches God to "Take me! I'm old!"

Everyone should probably bare that in mind when I state that:

[court testimony mode on]

It was a gorgeous summer Sunday afternoon in Houston. I was just returning from Beaumont, where I was visiting and dining with my lovely grandmother, father, and an assortment of relatives. I was now on my way to see my mother briefly before returning home to my apartment. I had plans that evening to research more about local charities and community service programs that I could become involved in.

I exited the freeway and merged onto the feeder road, all the while signaling at every opportunity and waving to the children in passing cars. As I approached an intersection, I began to slow so as to yield for a red light. I applied pressure to the break in a smooth, even motion and allowed for a more than adequate distance to slow properly.

I was to turn right, and as I could see that no one was coming from under the freeway to my left, I allowed only the most minimal of pauses before increasing speed through the turn, so minimal, in fact, that a malicious-minded ne'er-do-well with a badge and a gun determined inaccurately that I had not stopped at all.

He came out of nowhere and proceeded to make a mockery of my absolute willingness to pull over and have a friendly chat and spread the good cheer of the day by engaging in cat and mouse tactics of pursuit, no doubt ready at a moment's notice to respond with deadly force to any attempt by me to act surprised by his sudden and utter attachment to my bumper. Sirens blared and lights annouced that I was a criminal of the highest order, wanted for the most egregious, treasonous crime of all: rolling through a right-turn at a red light.

Did I mention that because of my ample charity work and good deeds,
I had failed to update my inspection sticker? It was three weeks passed due. I waited while he verified that he could not arrest me or shoot me and then arrest me for any other infractions that day. His computers must have revealed a clean record, and he did not sense any illicit substances fueling my death-defying antics (haha, gotcha! I was caffeinated at the time!). Therefore, he was inclined to release me but not before he handed me, tada!, my golden ticket. (Actually, it was white, but stick with me here).

Before I drove away, I inquired about the courthouse in question that I would need to visit (Houston is a large city, after all). To this, he instructed me that I could pick up my lifetime supply of chocolate at the Jersey Village courthouse. Drive safely and goodbye.

[court testimony mode off]

It's the truth. I swear ;)

For those not in the know, Jersey Village is just an unsubjugated indigeneous tribe on Houston's northwestern frontier. It's merely an autonomous barbarian village we allow to exist out of kindness, I suppose. (Thanks, Willie) The natives must have been restless that day.

This incident happened, if I recall correctly, on June 20th. I check my ticket to determine the court date so as not to incite any more saber-rattling from the local population. Gotta be two weeks or so, right? ...October 20th! This year or next year? This year!? Well, I'll never make it! I don't have anything to wear! Do I need to bring a gift?

Suffice to say, I took it upon myself go in 15 weeks early and request defensive driving. I had an inspection as well to appease the local magistrates. But with a court date that far from present, they must lay and wait and wallet-scalp ever jay-walker and seatbelt shirker that has the audacity to stroll into their web.

I wanted to tell them that they could post trolls under their bridges to collect tolls in exchange for safe passage if they needed other sources of revenue for their little one-horse town. I decided I'd better not.

Walking into the "courthouse" only validated that assumption though. The place is nestled in a residential neighborhood in spitting distance of some random citizen's front porch. I enter and go straight to the front of the line. No waiting at all. "No," the lady says. "The other line." (Yes, they had two lines... because they're moving on up).

Paperwork. More paperwork. Uh, words... words... sign here... sign there... initial here... recite the Gettysburg Address... stand on one foot...

"So, let's see. You ran a red light?" To which I reply, "Yes, ma'am. But I was planning on stopping twice at the next one." (hat-tip to Cheech & Chong)

Upon leaving the "courthouse" $105 dollars lighter, I begin to negotiate the suburban streets that lead me back home. I know the major roads in the vicinity, but these neighborhoods are new to me. So, I drive in the direction that I know will get me there. Unfortunately, though, that street curves around and dumps me off on a feeder road of a major highway.

I drive to the closest intersection and get a sense of deja vu. Wait a sec! It's the intersection I got the ticket at. But proving God has a sense of humor, since there probably was no cop around this time to catch me, the light was green. :)

...a cure for what ails ya

I tried to write a piece about the blues... (That's right. I can get moody from time to time.) ...but I erased it because it was cheering me up; I can't write about catatonic despair when I'm all happy! ;)

I wouldn't say I suffer from clinical depression, but my psychiatrist always said not to diagnose myself. He'd say, "This isn't a democracy! I shrink your head! You can't shrink your own head! Even if you could, you can't do it here. ...Insurance purposes. You understand, right? I'm sorry I yelled. Time's up. Uh, I'll see you next week?"

I don't really have I psychiatrist, and I'm not really in therapy. But if I was, that'd be the one I'd get. ...The type of quack that needs a psychiatrist of their own, and where does it end? :D

I have had anxiety attacks in the past that landed me Xanax prescriptions and whopping medical bills that give me more anxiety attacks so I have to go in for more Xanax prescriptions and whopping medical bills that give me more anxiety attacks so I have to... You get the point.

Fortunately, I haven't had those episodes (spells, to the rural folk) in a few years, but when I did, I was given referrals to pschiatrists and psychologists. (One even gave me the number of a ventriloquist! Yeah, yeah, your brother-in-law's a deadbeat and won't get off your couch, but he's very good with puppets. Okay, I'll keep it in mind.)

I never called them... the psychiatrists, I mean, but the deadbeat ventriloquist brother-in-law opened up to me like I was charging a hundred dollars and hour. Heh heh. I kid.

Anyway, once you get locked into to a serious therapy session addiction, they'll psychiatrize until your broke. Keep asking you how things makes you feel until you literally feel like snapping. Try selling you their ghost-written psychiatry self-help books entitled... Baby Steps!!! (What About Bob, anyone? Bill Murray is a badass) I'd have to be just like Murray's character just to even out all the bad blood between myself and my shrink.

Well, I think writing this blog has helped cheer me up a bit. It was as therapeutic as it has been purported to be. (I purport every once in a while, for those that don't know.) Perhaps, it was the week or so since my last post that has brought me to such a lowly state. If so, I know my prescription and my fate. One of the other voices in my head keeps chanting "more blog, more blog". (His name is diamond_maser) :p

Interestingly, my cynicism about modern psychiatry and psychology is apropos. After all, what was my first degree choice in college before architecture? You guessed it... psychology. You can call me nuts. But thanks to a change of heart, you're wasting your time if you call me for an appointment.

So, get sweet revenge on every therapist you ever had. Next time a doctor asks you, "Do you have a pychiatrist?" You can say, "No. But I have a blog."

And as for those psychiatrists, send them to me. As an architect, I may only be able to build them a clinic, but rest assured; I'll do so at a hundred dollars an hour!

Ahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!

[P.S. - For background reading on mental illness, I highly recommend Ren & Stimpy's "Space Madness" episode. If you are looking to go nuts with laughter, very instructive stuff]

Chess frenzy

I find chess, well-played, to be art. What some people may not know (or want to know, when I'm finished) is that chess can be an almost carnal experience. Now, before all the adolescent boys in the room suddenly drop their daily staple of pornography in trade for chess books, you should all know one thing... Gotcha!!

There isn't anything sexual about chess, and there isn't anything romantic about chess played by candlelight. It's still chess, just harder to see the pieces. But with the bespectacled crowds of geeks that throng to chess tournaments, you'd think the experience had damaged their vision in some way, just not romantically.

No, chess is best played in the well-lit ballrooms and conference halls of upscale hotels near the airport. That or Central Park, where a 10-trillion watt star 90 million miles away can illuminate the venue properly. I would yell "Checkmate" and then do a victory lap on the lawn.

You ask any pawn out there. They shouldn't answer you. Pawns don't speak. If they wink, boy, are you in trouble. And while you're still shaking the affrontery, if you see one king mating another king, get the hell out of there. The chess tournament is down the street at the Hilton, genius. Your egghead strategy might save you on the chessboard, but your poor sense of direction in the real world just landed you at the Blue Oyster Bar! (hat-tip to Police Academy 3, I think) Hence, again, why chess tournaments are held near airports. Avoids the confusion.

In chess anyway, kings must remain separated by at least one square at all times. Phew! That's a buffer gay bars don't enforce. Steer clear.

But the point is: what's the point?

And to answer that, in cyclical intervals, every three months or so, I get an itch to play chess. I will then proceed to play it for several months, rinse, and repeat.

Why the fever comes and goes is beyond me. Maybe, I don't have the finely-honed killer instincts of the die-hard geeks out there. I don't have the anemic build, questionable fashion sense, or bad posture either. Don't believe me? Take a look at my picture. I sit up straight and have one eye and a derby hat, instead. I do wear suspenders, but clockwork oranges can get away with that. ;)

But appearances aside, I have found myself wandering into Yahoo's gamerooms again. Very tense. At first, I just watch. Don't know what to make of that pack of nerds over there lording over one chessboard like it's a new species of fungus. Should I approach? They could be dangerous!

I kid, but really, I've never actually played tournament chess. I have considered it, though, which makes me a bigger geek than those who have not. Yahoo makes playing online anonymous and efficient for those of us who just don't have to the stomach for showing up an hour early at the Mariott dressed head-to-toe as our favorite chess piece, board and time clock in hand, and ready to get it on! (I'd be a rook, btw)

Short story long, regardless of wherever it comes from, that mysterious yen is back. :)

Potpourri

There will be no backspacing in this post unless it is to correct spelling errors.

It is T minus 24 hours until I am officially moved in to the apartment I'm renting. I've had it since Tuesday, but I haven't been able to really get into the chore of unloading all the boxes and actually making the space livable. Let me check my schedule for the weekend... hmm, I free! A quick check to be sure.

No longer will I play referee between my mother and my grandmother. Deciding what is fair and what is a low blow ain't easy. Grandma, watch the kidney punches!

Ironically, living on my own for the first time in awhile might actually get me in better shape than living with these folks. No cable is to be installed. I'm sinking that money into a gym membership instead. My days of playing tennis consistently have run dry, and I think the only way for me to get better exercise is to actually go some place where the only option is to exercise.

Anyway, I'd much rather watch movies or surf the web than watch most television shows. A set of rabbit-ears and PBS was all I really needed last time I was apartmentalized.

I remember that they tried to squeeze it into my rent. I went in and inquired about the one-bedrooms. The girl that helped me also reassured me that the cable would not be a permanent part of the rent. When I came back to sign the papers, however, it was made clear by the manager that, once it was in the lease, it was in there. Okay, then take it out. Your strongarm tactics will not work on me, landlady! I've been drinking milk!

Anyway, the apartment complex that I've chosen was actually running a special at a reduced rate, presumably to get the spaces rented out. So, if I miss the deadline for rent in the next six months, they jack it back up to the original rate immediately. Suffice to say, I will be religiously paying my rent on the first of the month. So, their strongarm tactics will work on me...

Pool tournament tonight was a wash. I've been playing tournaments off and on for several years now with a little success. Enjoyable and cheap entertainment it is; it is not a cash cow though. I was sent packing in the first two rounds. Its double elimination style.

Friend of mine is down in the Keys right now as the hurricane comes roaring into the Gulf. I picked a bad time to move when needing his help, and he picked a bad time to hit the Keys. Hope everything is alright down there with the storm coming in and all. He and his fiance (spelling?) are down there sunning it up, but not for long, I fear.

I know readers around here that are cat lovers, as am I. Hemingway's home on Key West still houses many of the descendants of his cats, so I've heard. A quick web check revealed that most of them are "polydactyl", meaning they have more than the normal number of toes. Deliverance, anyone?

[summary:]
In truth, I backspaced a little. [shameful look] No spell check was performed though. A good exercise in talking about what I normally don't. I'll try to balance out the blog by talking a bit more about daily happenings as well as more laborious diatribes about art, etc.

And I'm off...

You're gonna die, scanner!

Yes, scanner, you're days are numbered. In fact, it's dead already, but I shall do to it what was done to the fax machine in Office Space if it continues to laugh at me like that clown did to Adam Sandler on the putt-putt course in Happy Gilmore. Michael Bolton, you are my hero. " 'PC Load Letter'. What the fuck does that mean?" :D

I finally found an adapter that was compatible with the scanner. I didn't want to fry the damn thing; I like my scanner a little rare. Anyway, I plug it in but needed to reload software from Microtek's webpage. No problem. Download, download, download. I'm staring at the screen like Ron Livingston's character from Office Space when he was trying to shut down and get the hell out of Dodge before Lumberg caught him. (Incidentally, Ron had a part in The Cooler... heh heh :D

Finally, everything is in place. Should I be a grown-up or scan my ass? Sadly, I never had the opportunity to answer that question. The damn scanner started spitting out gibberish every time.

[aside on:] Since some people here are acoustic guitar nuts, I'll reveal that when you first start playing guitar you don't actually spend much time playing. Instead, you spend most of your time shaking the guitar over your head because you dropped the pick in the hole. It's a little ridiculous, and some smart ass is always standing there to say 'that's not how you play that thing'. Thanks, buddy.

Anyway, the bottom line is: you can't do the same to a scanner and get the same "resolution" (pun intended, hehe). They break... allegedly. Now, I'm not saying I was shaking the scanner over my head, but the thought crossed my mind. In the glut of house-swapping that's been going on around here lately, there is a possibility it was not "strummed" so gently. Ex-Nirvana frontmen are cringing at such wanton behavior, I'm sure. "How could you, Ruby?" Crybabies...

Anyway, if you are getting the picture then you ought to see why I can't provide any more of them... Pictures, I mean. I must abide by worsd alone until I get another scanner or beat some sense into this one. Michael Bolton, would you care to do the honors? :)

Miscommunication, Dogs, etc.

Old but true story from around the office campfire goes: a guy that worked with my firm (prior to my arrival on the scene) had to do a survey of a lease space in an existing stripcenter. The measurements he was going to take would help to finalize the construction documents for a pet grooming business that was to be built there.

Anyway, he had arrived at the spot and was hard at work. The future owner was also present, presumably to unlock the space for our guy and relock it afterwards. No one was gonna run around in that space naked unless it was him! No, no, no.

The lease was basically an empty shell, but a preliminary design had already been done. As a way of making conversation, our survey monkey decided to ask about the layout of the space. What he did not know, however, was that he was mistaken about it being a pet grooming place. It was actually to be a ladies' hair salon.

So, he asked the future owner, "So, is this where you'll wash the dogs?"

Taken aback, the future owner replied, "Well... they're not all dogs."

---------------------------------------------------------

I've found out that this site (rudelogic.blogspot.com) is not in Google's database. [rudelogic.com is under construction though, which means some random bastard came up with the same name] Anyway, this site has not been "crawled", to use Google's parlance. I submitted a request to them about having it "crawled" and was emailed an automated response that basically gave me helpful hints to "improve my chances" of getting this site more accessible so search engines can "crawl" it. Hopeful, maybe if I'm a good boy, it'll happen for me.

Alas, it reminds me of another bad dog-related joke that will probably ruin my good boy "chances". When it comes to things that no one has a cure for, Chris Rock said it best: (Google's the doctor in this scenario)

[paraphrased]
"Now you tell a doctor you're blind, he doesn't have shit for you. You go up and say, 'Doc, I'm blind. What've you got?'

Doc: 'Uh, here. Why don't you, uh, take this here dog and have him drag your blind ass around.' "

*sigh* It's gonna be hot in hell. (refer to last post for more heat-related ramblings)
---------------------------------------------------------

Lastly, the unofficial Paul Thomas Anderson (PTA) site has packed it up. Mr. Anderson is the auteur behind Hard Eight (aka Sydney), Boogie Nights, Magnolia, and Punch Drunk Love. And while he will continue to direct, they will not continue to pour over the "excruciating minutia" and inane details of what he's up to for the movie geeks out there.

After a respectful period of mourning, I will remove my link to it in a solemn ceremony. Just as I can't put up a website for Wes Anderson (another of my favorite directors & no relation to PTA, btw), so goes it with Paul. The only difference is that Wes Anderson announces info about upcoming projects, while PTA is much more guarded and secretive.

So, if I (or anyone else, for that matter) want a PTA fix, I'm SOL. I guess I'll just have go say, "Doc, I need a Paul Thomas Anderson fix. What've you got?" :)

This heat is HOT!

The heat will make you look hotter... if it doesn't kill you. There is no denying that people are invariably a thousand times hotter than those who have succumbed and fallen by the wayside. No two ways about it, survival is sexy.

Of course, this may have more to do with water molecules suspended in air that bend light and distort the field of vision or even a cerebral phenomenon associated with heat exposure. I don't know. I'm not a scientist, damnit! I'm a Texan! What do you people think makes George W. act the way he does.? The man graduated from Yale, but he can't string two sentences together. That's not coincidence; that's Texas.

I'm not sure how he got away with it. The cure down here is a usually a cut-off-the-head-to-cure-the-cold approach. People who laugh in excess are suspect as well...

Therefore, to celebrate a heat index in the triple digits today, a quote From Blazing Saddles:

"C'mon boys! The way you're lollygaggin' around here with those picks and shovels, you'd think it was 120 degrees. Can't be more than 114!"

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!!!!!!!
[cut short by paranoia, clutching throat]

Hazard Pay 2

The scanner is still indisposed, so I was obliged to go into past projects to pull this pic. I had to add the black frame in photoshop because tweaking the contrast was bleeding all the detail out in the bottom right. (Afterthought: what black frame, you may be thinking... If you can't see it, I'm not gonna tell you. :) Alas, I put a black frame on a picture posted on a black background. I'm a moron)

Its of a local fountain. All the streaks that you see is water sheeting off textured concrete and then cascading down terraces.

My life was in constant jeopardy taking this shot. The fountain kicked up a fine mist was everywhere. I had to climb up on a soaking wet architectural feature to get this perspective. Steady! Steady! That's what kind of hero I can be :)

I still have the original negative, and I would sure like to rescan it later at a higher resolution so I could get rid of all hint of pixelation, but right now, this will have to do.

Incidentally, it was shot with Tri-X 400 film and a Canon AE camera.

Baby_Maser

Baby_Maser was born to parents married thrice unsuccessfully. The good news is that the divorces worked. Phew! I was but a wee one when last they tied and then subsequently loosened the knot. I imagine my dad sitting in the delivery room and, upon my arrival, standing up in the chair and saying, "Fuck this!"

I kid, I kid.

Since that time, Baby_Maser grew up... well, sort of anyway. :D

Mom, hence then, remarried, but this one went south because my Step-Maser... uh, I mean step-"father", was (we suspect) unfaithful. He has since left, and the upheaval that has caused has seen my mother, grandmother, and myself move to a rental house. The old house has been sold. The prick step-father is no mas!

I'm now in the process of seguing from the rental house to an apartment because I'm 27 years old, damnit! And my mother is finally allowing it... Just kidding ;) I spent a number of good years in college apartments, and I'm looking forward to getting out again.

Anyway, Mom and Grandma will have to move to a permanent residence in five months. So, we get to do it all over again! Yippee!

First five people to sign up for moving duty get a free back-brace and a coupon for fifty cents off Doan's backache pills. Not all at once! :)

Photography and Hazard Pay

Who says photography isn't dangerous?

The Timeless Art of Seduction from Seinfeld:


A pic I found in the process.... I didn't see it in the tabloids recently. It appears even they have their standards. Not to worry though; I do not share their scruples.



*-D