Author Archives: Dave

Author, blogger, thinker, developer, and all-around digital creative. Applied theatre professional. Mac enthusiast. Coffee fanatic.

A Modest Proposal

If I might have a moment of your time, permit me to make my case.

I. I caught my share of virtual grief from Facebook friends today. It was the “first snow” of the season in Virginia. Soon after waking, the white stuff began to dust the parking lot outside, and everyone just seemed so happy about it. I wasn’t. I dared to tweet my unhappiness. Thus, the grief I received. You’d think that, because I don’t like snow, I was un-American or something.

II. This leads me to the observation that one tends to enjoy whatever weather patterns or climate that they might have seen themselves as having been deprived of during childhood. Several of those friends who booed my virtual opinion are those who grew up in areas that saw little to no snow. Conversely, I was forced to deal with nasty North Eastern U.S. winters my entire life prior to 5 years ago. I moved south, in part, to escape snow. While there is obviously still some snow in Virginia, there is significantly less than I experienced during my childhood. If I might be blunt, however…any snow is too much, and if I never saw the stuff again I could die a happy man. I guess I should have moved further south.

III. Is there any worse feeling than being cold? I suppose I might concede that there could be some fleeting beauty in white stuff falling from the sky (usually lasting about 10-15 seconds before it  fades), but as soon as I stepped into the breezeway outside of our apartment today, the cold sliced through me and I wanted to retreat. Then followed the headache of negotiating traffic on wet streets, and being pelted by snow/rain/nastiness immediately upon stepping out of the vehicle, not to mention dragging soggy wet winter into the floorboard of the car with you when you get back in. Seriously, someone tell me what’s good about this? And don’t even get me started on how much longer it takes to do laundry in the winter!

IV. Snow is accompanied by dreary, grey skies, punctuated by bare tree limbs that scratch at the light-less canopy with their naked, tortured bodies (Did that sound nihlist? My bad). In all seriousness, I suffer from what was previously labeled in the psychological community as “seasonal affective disorder.” While the diagnosis technically does not exist in the current incarnation of the DSM-IV, it remains a very real event for me. Take away my sunlight and leave me trapped beneath perpetual dusk, and I get depressed quickly. This began occurring in college, and has grown progressively worse since. So, realize that my opinion comes through the lens that snowy weather really is not a pleasant emotional experience for me.

V. Disliking winter (I really have no use for the season at all) does not make me a “scrooge,” as I fully recognize that snow is not a pre-requisite for “getting into the Christmas spirit.” If anything, in fact, it probably hurts that process more than it helps it for me.

VI. Incidentally, I’m more into observing Advent than the materialistic mess we’ve morphed the holiday of Christmas into, anyway, but…that’s a post of its own.

VII. So, might I present a modest proposal? And not even nearly as bleak as other proposals of that identification have been. You see, I think there’s something to this whole “Christmas in July” concept. Why? Because there’s light in July. Besides, if my studies served me correctly, Christ’s birth likely didn’t happen in the winter, in any case. And light, my friends, is the source of much spiritual imagery in the Scriptures. Recognizing that light was such an important poetic symbol in religious writing, I find it ironic that we observe Christ’s birth at a time when sunlight experiences a very notable absence, and we feel forced to compensate by stringing electrical lights around our dwellings in a losing battle to offset the cold and grey appearance of death that we face outside as most of the greenery has fallen and the ground become hard (I know, I know…there I go being nihilist again). So, I say, let’s observe Christmas in the summer, and all find warm places to go for vacation in the winter. It makes more sense anyway that you would want to travel from somewhere cold to somewhere warm in December, as that would entail the sense of escape that a good vacation should have…instead of just moving from warmth to warmth. Let’s learn a lesson from birds, here, shall we? Migration just could be the answer to many of our ills. This way, everyone experiences more sunlight and its vitamin-D-produced happiness year ’round, instead of just bingeing and purging in our existent lifestyles. And that whole ridiculous mythology about an obese gift-giver finding his way down your chimney? Well, that can be conveniently re-written. Now, he can just leave things by your pool instead.

Besides, I’ve always thought palm trees had such a pleasant look with Christmas lights on them, don’t you? Replace the eggnog with little drinks with umbrellas and…well, now we’re onto something! Then, those of us who suffer from November to March would have such a great reprieve from the mess, from the weather delays for holiday travels (I sat in an airport for 7 hours on Thanksgiving day due to fog…how did you celebrate?), and an all-around more pleasant disposition with all of the sunlight we would enjoy.

Yes, I’m convinced. This whole “Christmas in the winter” tradition is just over-rated, and due for a change. Let all of us who have been called “Scrooge” unite and champion the Christmas-in-July cause! Our hearts aren’t two sizes too small…its just that our thermostat is set a few degrees higher! Down with tradition, retire the reindeer, and place Santa in a private jet that flies to different resorts. That suits the privileged version of Christmas better, anyway, and results in more profits for the beginning of the fiscal year…just starts things off right, right? More sunlight, more money, more distraction from the holiday’s true meaning of Life, love, forgiveness, and family…this plan should go over big.

A perfectly good alternative to having to deal with the difficulties some of us face during winter? That’s for the reader to decide.

So, permit me to wish you Feliz Navidad. Especially so if we could all just be warm and dry.

Swashbuckling Dreams

The music is still playing in my head.

Its the normal mark of an auditory learner, I think, to have permanently lodged in our short-term memory the most recent song that was playing before we parked the car, or got off the bus. You know what I mean…you’ll be humming it to yourself all day until you’re finally leaving the office, or until you have the chance to listen to something else while you plow through your paperwork. There’s nothing to be ashamed of in that…it just means that music’s staying power and beauty isn’t lost on you.

The music in question has been playing in my head since last night. Its not the last thing I listened to on the flight home from the family’s Thanksgiving celebration, its not the jazz I played while reading last night. It the theme song to the DVD I finished watching last night in order to return it to Netflix this morning, and it was (cough)…it was an (looking down, shuffling feet)…it was sort of an…a 1980’s superhero cartoon theme song.

Okay, I said it. I’m out of the closet now. Last night’s bedtime entertainment for me was a DVD of the top five episodes of the first season of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe. I remarked to Karen that something about the sounds of the opening credits and theme song/voiceover took me back to my elementary school days, back to a simpler and innocent time. Maybe I was just justifying it to myself…maybe. More likely, I was justifying my viewing choice to her…but that’s okay, she loves me and accepts me. What was profoundly of interest to me last night, though, was watching an animated fantasy series from my elementary school years through the lens of education and sensibilities that come with me in life currently…sort of a metaphysical inspection, if you will. All good science fiction (and all good stories of any genre) have a meta-message of some variety, and animated series are no different. I’m not aware of scholarly discussion about He-Man, although that’s not to say that it isn’t out there, but I remember the series being of intense interest to me in my young impressionable years. I remember talking on the playground to another guy one morning, the morning of the day that He-Man’s premiere was due to air. He asked me if I was going to watch it. I responded with an enthusiastic “yes!” A girl was there. She shook her head and turned to friends to discuss how incredibly immature this was.

He-Man was controversial in the animation world because of its previously un-matched violence in American animation. I can see overtly masculine images and appeal in the show now…it was, and is, all about connecting to a young male audience. He-Man was, simply, the hero we all hoped to be, the other identity that I knew lay somewhere underneath my nerd’s exterior, that would surface and run to the rescue should the need ever arise in one of my peers…preferably an attractive one of the opposite gender.

I remember having a dream about a beautiful girl that needed help. I ran to her aid, leading the others in my elementary school class behind me. I was the heroic leader, charging forward to save her honor. Very He-Man-like. I always liked that dream.

You see, every boy…every man…everyone…dreams of being a hero in some regard. We long to leave a legacy, to depart this realm with the knowledge that we’ve accomplished something, that our lives stood for something and will leave something positive in their wake. Deep down, I always wanted to save the damsel in distress. I always wanted to be a hero to those in crisis. I always wanted to save the day.

Not long after I was out of college, I was driving somewhere after work one afternoon. I remember that my mother was in the car with me. I was  navigating out of a parking lot, when an elderly woman mis-judged a turn and hopped a concrete barrier that stood in the way of a large, ravine-style ditch. Her car slammed down on the concrete barrier rather violently as her tire slipped off the edge. Liquid immediately began flowing from underneath. I got out of our vehicle to smell that it was fuel. She had ruptured her fuel tank, and was attempting to rock the car back over the barrier, creating  the risk of potentially making a spark. While someone else called the police, I convinced the woman to place her vehicle in park, and assisted her away from the car until emergency crews arrived. I felt like a superhero. I felt like I had saved the day.

Maybe I’m making too much of a relatively minor incident, but I like to recall that moment sometimes in the belief that I helped someone. Perhaps I entered the field I’m in with a sort of superhero complex, wanting to save the world, one client at a time. Perhaps that is the alter-ego of the writer…perhaps I write as Clark Kent, while convincing myself that I can leap tall buildings in a single bound as I go to work each morning.

Perhaps that’s pretty sad, but I take comfort in the fact that I can at least know that I’m trying to make a difference to others, even if I don’t succeed. And I’m not alone, because, if I were, fantasies like the world of He-Man and countless other superhero adventures wouldn’t resonate with humanity like they do, existing cross-culturally in genres of literature around the world.

If the only person I’ve ever helped was the elderly woman that day, then I feel like I counted for something. Even if there was no theme music playing or light flashing of magical swordplay.
That, I think, is why He-Man takes me back to a time of innocence, when I dreamed of what I wanted to accomplish, of the difference I wanted to make. And, that is likely why these stories appeal so heavily to me today, because I hope that I’m not through making a difference quite yet.

That’s what I’m thinking, anyway. I may even have more to say later this week, because Inhumanoids is next in the cue.

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The Pressure is in the Process

Continuing the train of thought from last week’s post, I was having a conversation with a friend this week about language and its reduction to a utilitarian value…that Western culture, specifically in the U.S., views language only as a means to an end, valuing succinct bullet points and brevity as supreme qualities because of the manner in which they enhance production value. The conversation led us to a similar conclusion about our culture’s view of humanity, and perhaps the conclusion that the degradation of the English language is due (at least in part) to the humiliation and de-humanized perception of men and women as lacking inherent self-worth.

At the end of the day, social improvement and reformation accounted for, any industrialized culture will always fight a losing battle to maintain the view that a human being is inherently valuable. The reason is because progress and production are supreme, and thus the things that an individual can make and build take priority over that person’s well-being…are seen as being more important to the whole than the person is himself. Individuality is one of the first casualties of this war, and self-esteem quickly follows, because that is simply a luxury one cannot afford when one is trying to make a living.

Certainly, history shows us that we’ve made progress since the industrial revolution. However, materialism and morality remain mutually exclusive, and thus progress will always be the enemy of personhood, at least at some level.

Lewis spoke of the danger that accompanies the power of art. We are created as creators, and thus are engaging in our supreme life-giving capacity when we engage in creativity. There is danger in idolizing and worshipping what we’ve created, however, in permitting it to become something that its not. When our creation…be it a painting, a novel, a city, a new computer, whatever…assumes a perceived supremacy over the life of the person who is creating it (or facilitating its creation) then we’ve degraded that person. Creating is life-giving, unless we, in doing so, take life. I fear that’s what may have occurred as we’ve began to value the product over those involved in the process.

Perhaps to regain a recognition that each person we pass on the street and pay for our lunch and drive past in traffic is, in fact, a person and possessor of hopes and dreams and creativity just like our own, is to regain a passion and a love for our language. Sadly, as long as we continue to treat each other barbarously, then we will treat our words barbarously, as well.

A Language of a Love Unrequited

As you already know if you’ve read this blog for very long, I’m hopelessly in love with science fiction. More of an insatiable, passionate lust, really. Nothing makes my night after a long day of doing whatever like sitting down and streaming a well-written, imaginative science fiction adventure that takes me out of my daily grind, causes me to ponder life and spirituality, to question, to ask “what if?”

Now, there’s a lot of bad sci-fi out there, and a lot of good sci-fi, and sometimes you think you’re in for the latter only to painfully discover that its the former you’re viewing or reading, and that’s always a bummer. Whatever quality it is, though, really isn’t the question I want to ponder in this post, because its still sci-fi.

As opposed to “SyFy.”

For all of you English teachers, writers, and those basically literate who are reading this and just cringed, I’m afraid its true. This isn’t news, exactly, as the change occurred this summer for the Sci-Fi Channel’s…umm, I mean, SyFy’s, logo, but after being forced to stare at the offending thing in the lower right corner of the computer screen for the past 4 months as I enjoy the network’s offerings on Hulu, I’ve finally snapped and am unable to keep my mouth shut about it any longer. Apparently, creating artistically excellent, visually stunning, compelling, and well-written programming wasn’t enough to satisfy the network as they examined their marketing strategy. They felt that they had to make their logo illiterate in order to appeal to mass audiences more. After all, networks rely on viewers, and if the viewers are unable to spell and clueless about intelligent use of the English language, then said network must cater to cultural ineptness so that said viewers will continue to view. Long live the business model.

This leaves me so exasperated I don’t even know where to begin.

The crux of that with which I take issue is stupidity, I think. Not the stupidity of all viewers (see the above link’s reference to pissed off nerds), but the stupidity of our culture in general, and the furtherance of this stupidity by the attitude that it is easier (not to mention more financially lucrative) to cater to this stupidity than to do something about it. Why spend all that time and energy actually teaching people to read and write in correct English, after all, when we can spend that time marketing our products to the third grade spelling in which their minds already think so that we can make more money? I mean, money is more important, right?

I imagine that if our text-messaging, 160-character, SMS programmed generation of college (no, I didn’t say high school, I said college) students were able to see a problem here they’d say something to the effect of, “wtf??”

Then again, that’s part of the problem. We’ve become so used to shortening our language in the interest of expedient communication that abbreviations which were created so as to be able to tap out thoughts more quickly on a cell phone keypad have now become the grammatical status quo in emails, tweets, blog posts, and even (I imagine my professor friends would concur) research papers.

“Seriously?”, you ask. “UG2BK!!!”

Alas, no, my friends, this is the result of teaching our language as only a technical means of communication and of understanding “more important” concepts (advanced Calculus, for example), of reducing our language to nothing more than a means to an end, without loving the beauty of it, not to mention the beauty of any other language. Appreciation for poetry? No time for that…there’s industrialization to occur and money to be made! Enjoying a beautiful prose description of a sunset over a beach through the eyes of a compelling fictional character that could lead us to ponder something deep within our own psyches? Again, sorry, but there’s no time…we have to make sure our students achieve satisfactory scores on standardized tests so that we can regain our image in the eyes of the world, and produce more goods. To make more money. You know…the important things.

Except that, in doing so, we’ve reduced our educational system to even more of a laughing stock for the rest of the world, as we continue to destroy a language that has treated us well and furthered the development of our culture for centuries.

My prediction? We are 20 years away from the death of the English language. Gone. Relegated to memory of yesteryear. Or, perhaps more likely, altered and morphed into some sort of unrecognizable computer-speak with all of the succinctness and brevity of mass production, and barely a memory of a poetic and delicate language that once existed, erased as completely as Rome erased the histories of the nations it conquered. And when those speakers of the future who spend too much time working instead of thinking take a moment to wonder what it would be like if our language were to communicate something other than digitized facts, or to be crafted with a care and love for the language itself, everyone would chuckle.

“Wouldn’t that be funny?” they would ask.

“lol!”

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