Mars: Happy News…Sad News

Lockheed Martin just signed on to the Mars One mission.

Mars One has pushed the landing date to 2025, two years later than the original 2023.

The mission got legitimized and stigmatized in the same breath.  That’s life.

Still no news on who was chosen for round two.  They’re supposed to let people know yes or no by the end of the year.  What do you think?  I really wanted this group to have their stuff together, but that seems like it was asking a bit much at the moment.  Oh well.  That they have Lockheed Martin really does break the fall from the date sliding.

Cross your fingers for me being selected for round two.  Can you even imagine?

Review of Killing Season starring Bobby D. and Johnny T.

The previews looked like someone had re-tooled Hopkins and Baldwin’s 1997 thiller The Edge.  Two elderly-ish men trying to survive, and possibly kill each other in the woods.  But what we have here is something new.  It is at once a simple action flick–kinda B-movie action at that–and a portrayal of one of the most challenging commandments Jesus of Nazareth issued.

The film begins with scenes of the not-so-familiar Bosnian war.  We are shown images of genocide which would be striking if they weren’t nauseatingly familiar.  Like Shutter Island before it, we are then shown that even the good guys sometimes commit atrocities.  While in Bosnia we think we see Travolta killed.  Moments later we are introduced to DeNiro’s character and discover he has taken to hunting in the woods…with a camera instead of a gun.  Nothing surprising here.

The fact is nothing too surprising happens for the next hour or so of the film.  There is a game of cat and mouse that seems to drag on and on with no point.  But then something magical happens–the point appears.

Movies which improve with their run-time are few and far between.  I grew up on the idea that most movies can be recognized for what they are in the first minute.  This one is a rare exception to that rule.

Now Ma–before you think that you’re ready for this film, allow me to offer a word of caution.  There are two surprisingly gruesome scenes that even caught me off-guard.  So, just ask me about the movie next time you call and I’ll tell you what is so neat about it.

The rest of you, proceed at your own risk.  It’s no Saw, but it still isn’t for the faint of heart.  Too bad really, because it’s message is so full of heart.

I Love You

From Warrior:  “I’m sorry Tommy!  I’m sorry… Tap out Tom!  It’s OK! It’s OK!  I Love You!  I Love You Tommy!”

From Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves:  “I have a brother?  I have a brother!”

From Tommy Boy:  “Brothers don’t shake hands.  Brothers hug!”

From Lion King:  “Scar!  Brother!”

From Brother Bear:  Hell–the whole thing.

From Dances with Wolves:  “Do you see that I am your friend?  Can you see that you will always be my friend?”

From Rocky 5:  “Home team.”

Seems like there’s been more trying than doing between us.  I wish this wasn’t the case.  I guess that’s what we get for being so similar.

I’ll tell you what I know.  The summer before I left was probably the best summer.  You forsook your friends for me.  I’ll never forget it.  24oz Code Red’s.  Either Hot’n’Ready or Pizza Maker pizzas.  And enormous bowls of ice cream.  Every night.

There’s something in me (I think most people call it “asshole”) that wants to forever be your guide through this world.  I do apologize for that.  When I think how old you are now, I am kinda stunned.  The good news is the old people I like have shown me there is plenty of time.  Maybe we’ll get to our Tombstone yet.  (“Virgil!  Morgan!”)

I’m really at a loss here.

You’ve always meant the world to me.  Watching you “come into your own” these last couple years has been nice.

Happy Birthday.

Christmas Cookies

Then in the morning, the two of them began their weekend day as usual.

She pleaded “Daaaddy” while prone and unmoving.  He went to collect her.  As it was the weekend, he convinced her it was to be a lazy day, so more sleep was necessary and allowable.  Now in his bed, she seemed to try to sleep.  That lasted all of three minutes.  After thirty minutes of unsuccessful attempts to quell her, he finally agreed to wake up.

“You forgot my chair,” she reminded him, standing and pointing to the table and chairs.

“That’s right I did,” he groggily responded.  “How can you help me make chocolate chip pancakes if you don’t have your chair?”

“I want cocoa puffs,” she confessed.

“Really?  That’s too bad.  I want chocolate chip pancakes, so that’s what we’re having.  It’s going to be a rough life kiddo.”

****

“What kind of cookies are we making?” she wanted to know.

“You’re not going to know them by name, but they’re called peanut butter blossoms.  They’re special Christmas cookies.”

“Christmas cookies?”

“Yep.”

“Can I pour it?  Can I pour it?  Can I pour it?”

“Sure.  Be careful, it’s heavy.”

“What’s that daddy?”

“It’s peanut butter.”

“You’re putting peanut butter with the muh-muh-margarine?” she asked, inquisitively seeking proper pronunciation affirmation.

“Yep, that’s what the recipe says to do.”

“Can I stir?”

“Uh, your bowl just has flower.  But sure.  Go ahead.”

“Look daddy, I’m stirring.”

“Yep, you’re doing a great job.”

“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”

“Because-”

“Watch me stir fast!”

“Whoa, slow down.  Try to keep the ingredients inside the bowl.  You didn’t make the mess because you stirred fast, it’s that you didn’t watch what you were doing when you stirred fast.  When I stir fast, I’m always watching the bowl.  Understand?”

“Like this daddy?” she asked, beginning to speed up while looking him directly in the eye, again seeking approval.

“No silly, you’re still not looking at the bowl.”

“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”

Luckily, for him, the war had acted as a preparation of sorts for relentless interrogations such as these.

“Just keep stirring your bowl H-.”

A Letter to the Victims of the Aurora Theater Shooting

To the Victims of the Aurora Theater Shooting:

“If I had my way they’d take metal altogether out of this world. Every blade, every gun,” says Natalie Portman’s character in the classic film “Cold Mountain.”  Maybe I’m just a sucker for movies, but when I watch that one–and that scene in particular–an “Amen!” or “Preach it!” escapes my lips before I know it.  I can only imagine that you feel the same way.

I’m writing this letter to you today because I want you to know that I do not believe a letter like this is what is needed at the moment.  But, at the moment, I have to write a letter for a class and I wanted to write to you.  I’ve been taking undergraduate courses in writing recently, and a large part of writing is rhetoric.  Rhetoric is the term used to describe the tools writers use to affect their audience.  I’m told a writer uses rhetoric—these tools–to persuade people to agree with him.  Sometimes the use of rhetoric isn’t deliberate, sometimes it is very deliberate.  Like I said, though, I don’t believe words, especially not the words on this page, can help me persuade you to believe anything at the moment.  “So why the letter?” you may ask.

As you know, Colorado, in large part because of the tragic events of July 20, 2012, is currently in the spotlight of a larger movement across the nation.  I’m talking, of course, about the state legislature’s recent revisit to its gun policy.  There’s no denying that without guns July 20th—more importantly, your lives–would never have been tainted by this unbearable act.  Just the same, I can’t help but wonder if changes are being made too quickly.

Here’s what I’m proposing:  For the last year I’ve been hosting a dinner series of sorts at my home.  I’d like to invite you over to the one scheduled for July 20, 2014.  If you can believe it, July 20th is my birthday.  As July 20, 2012 approached I’d been excitedly anticipating the movie for a year, knowing it was coming out on my birthday.  My brother can confirm that I bawled on the phone that morning as I heard the news.  I had called him to discuss whether we should still see the movie that night.  He was on I-70, driving to Denver from Kansas City so we could see the movie together as a birthday present.  This July 20–July 20, 2014–I’m inviting you to a dinner at my home.  The dinner will be a place where we will share ourselves.  You don’t know me yet, but rest assured that disrespect has no place at my home.  I want to know what you think, and I would like to share some thoughts with you as well.

So, what do you say?  I have a little saying that I stole from the Oracle of another blockbuster trilogy: “The only way to get there is together.”  I believe my time in the Air Force allows me to own this phrase as it’s essentially the positive way of saying, “You don’t crash in compartments.”  I feel like you and I are separated by more than space, and I don’t think that’s necessary or valuable.  Please contact me if you agree and would like to join me for an event that your presence will enhance substantively.

Yours sincerely,

//signed//

Pete

Self-Reflective Letter for English 201 (Really, This Is College Today.)

Dear Professor E–:

I’ve been thinking about our relationship a lot lately.  Do you remember how we first met?  You, the professor–the gatekeeper; me, the seeker?  I remember it like it was yesterday.  You lectured me on the importance of listening.  Always the professional, you wouldn’t fudge my grade just because I made really good arguments why I didn’t turn in my work on time.  Didn’t you understand that I was just coming out of another relationship and didn’t have time for you yet?

Without you, I would’ve never experienced growth.  Of course, I’m referring to how you led me from veritable darkness to light in the areas of critical reading, argument analysis, and revision.

Like a dream, you asked me to explore anything I wanted.  You challenged me to research a body of work in a way I never before had.  You even allowed me to use webpages.  More than that, you loosed the first-person-perspective that I had bottled up inside for all these years.  Specifically, I told you I wanted to go to Mars.  Like a good friend, you encouraged this dream, while subtly encouraging me to do a little research before packing.  Now, neither of us were greenhorns when we met, but it is because of your relentless attention that I discovered how to improve my ability to read for understanding and then communicate my findings via the written word.  The only pity is that, according to my research, there is a great chance that after I’m selected to move to Mars, our relationship will be forced to end.  I hope you’ll write.

Next, I wanted to thank you for the invaluable lessons in argument analysis.  Before we met, I always thought I won my arguments using “the right way.”  Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to learn that I could be right using several different methods of argumentation.  Formal logic is difficult to defeat, but with your help I learned that it isn’t the only kind.  You taught me The Toulmin Model, which comes in most handy when reading an argument that is so shameful that the writer hides what they really have to say.  Just the same, I want to be good at everything, so learning how to be forgiving during a debate proved invaluable.  And then, do you remember how you kept me up late reading about Rogerian analysis?  You know, when you apply the time-tested art of flattery to win over dissenters?  The whole, “Let me outline your argument for you, praise it, but then subtly recommend that my way is still better.”  It’s really touching how it works.  If you ever get sick of me, I just may use it to win you back—watch out!

Finally, and really through everything—thick and thin—you taught me how to keep an every-watchful eye on my own writing.  Revise, revise, revise.  Over the last several months, you asked me to do a lot of things.  Sometimes I was uncomfortable, yet you always required that I take it a step at a time.  It was here where I learned that the process is as important as the product.

So here we sit—you and me—in this crazy, crazy world.  Who can know what the future holds?  All I can hope is that you’ll stay in mine.  It’s been wonderful thus far Professor E–.  You’re the best.

Yours sincerely,

//signed//

Pete, Favorite Student

Review of Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World, by Haruki Murakami

Murakami’s Hard-Boiled Wonderland and the End of the World continues the post-modernistic tradition that aware readers have come to love.  Upon completing the second chapter, it is clear that something different, something unfamiliar is occurring.  The story is rife with metaphors and characters that work enough to keep us engaged, but it is really the storytelling’s style itself that causes our fingers to seek an instantaneous transition from one page to the next.

The story’s feint is that it’s about a detective.  Of course, no tale worth its salt is ever about what it portends.  Some authors make their points directly.  For Murakami, who convincingly communicates that he is well-read, however, it is simply no longer interesting to tell the reader what to think.

As with other post-modern and fabulistic works, this book is a reaction.  It is a plea to cause readers to never forget that no one should be taken for granted.  In using these artistic movements, Murakami firmly plants his feet and announces to the world that he is not to be trifled with.

In the end, there is certainly nothing new under the sun.  Yet Murakami has found a way to take his readers on a journey that is fun, difficult to predict, challenging and finally, rewarding.  If you’ve been in a reading rut and need a book to shake things up, you’ll be pleasantly surprised to discover that you can’t put this one down.

****

Murakami, Haruki. Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World: A Novel. New York: Vintage, 1991. Print.

Review of The Canterbury Tales, by Geoffrey Chaucer

Like the British accent today, Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales charms at first, but in the end sounds ridiculous.  Buh-dumh-ching!  Really, though, the book is just too old.  Reading it under the tutelage of a doctoral professor of Middle Earth (or is it middle-English?) is the only way to do it, and even then it is slow going at best.

After finding out that the rape that appalled you was supposed to be funny, you’ll find yourself being chided for laughing at the next rape–because that one was not funny.  The entire collection is a roller-coaster of meanings and double meanings, which all need to be explained step by step.  They need to be explained not because they were written in another language, no, middle-English is actually the first version of English we are told; the reason they need to be explained is because life was so very different back in the 14th century.  Well, no, that’s not right either.  Or is it?  Wait, what’s going on?

After three months of reading and studying, I am still not convinced why I should value so highly a work that requires so much explanation.  Does the Mona Lisa require explanation?  The pyramids of Giza?  Plus, the apparent result of fully investing oneself in Chaucer’s genius leads only to wanting to sleep with the man.  While intriguing to some, I can’t get there from here.

This review might have become more a review of the course or the way the Tales were presented than the Tales themselves.  Oh well.  While there were enjoyable moments, for any reader that hasn’t skipped reading books written in the last 700 years since the Tales, there was nothing new.

In the end, The Canterbury Tales may have been new in their day, but the serious reader need not feel guilty for skipping this seminal work.

How To Get A Raise

(If you’re short on time, skip to the bottom for numbered instructions).

In the classic western Tombstone the new actress in town is awestruck by who-she-doesn’t-yet-know-is Wyatt Earp.  The actress’s friend says to her, “My dear, you’ve set your gaze upon the quintessential frontier type.  Note the lean silhouette…eyes closed by the sun, though sharp as a hawk.”

For some reason that quote sprung to his mind when he thought of describing his new boss.  Standing a lean 6 feet, the man’s movements signaled to all–customers and staff–that he was in charge.  But that’s not the extraordinary thing.  What’s extraordinary is his oneness with the job.

It’s retail.  Business can be slow or fast.  Apart from the length of the line, anyone wanting to know how busy it is need simply look at the man.  When business is slow, he focuses on the numbers and keeps everyone ready for it to pick up.  When business is fast, his smile beams an uncommon love of the job.  The line of customers can be out the door, and he just smiles and smiles.  Where some would be stressed, he handles the situation with exceptional grace.  This grace stems from a certain pride in knowing that he is doing his job well.  In response to “man, you should see your face.  How are you so happy?”, he clarifies “It’s not that we’re busy, it’s that we’re so busy and things are running so smoothly.”  His smile betrays his joy.  It is a joy founded on purity.  And that is why he is the boss.

Instructions for How To Get A Raise

Step 1 — FLATTER your boss endlessly.

Step 2 — REPEAT Step 1.

Lights Out

Here’s the preamble: I once read a story about a Coast Guard rescue swimmer who was being lowered onto a ship to rescue the crew.  The rescue swimmer was being lowered from a helicopter and the sea was angry.  Next thing the guy knows, it is pitch black and very hot.  He recalls that he thought maybe he had died and gone to hell.  He was joking of course.  Turns out they lowered him directly into a smokestack on accident.  Very funny.  Now that you know this story is forever in my head, we can continue.

So there I was–pulling cars out of the wash tunnel and driving them into the dry/vac stations as if I was Jeff Gordon pulling into the pits.  It shouldn’t surprise anyone to learn that I drive with precision.  Back wheel at the vacuum every time.

Then I run back to the tunnel, not quite a full sprint–though faster than I ever thought I’d have to move on the clock–and wait for the next car to make it past the blowers so I can climb in.  Over and over again.  Then it happened.  (Oh, here you should know that I get my kicks out of trying to time pulling open the driver’s door precisely with the door clearing the last blower).  I think the particular vehicle in this case was a Land Rover.  I pull the handle and jump in.  Darkness.  Lights out.  I can still hear, but I can’t see shit.  What the hell?

Of course, my first thought is a reassuring one.  I immediately think of the rescue swimmer being lowered into the hot darkness.  That calms me as, like it turned out for him, I seriously doubt that the lack of light means I died.  Near simultaneous to realizing what happened, a second–more pressing–thought develops: “Is anybody watching me?”

You see, I wear a stocking cap.  (First, its winter.  Second, I lost my hair in the war and don’t want skin cancer).  It isn’t the beanie kind that when pulled on requires no fold, but the kind that when pulled all the way on almost covers your whole face.  To remedy this problem, you fold a couple inches of it up.  As it turns out, there is no longer any doubt that the blower is strong enough to blow the folded part of a stocking cap down.  Please, really, just picture the scene.  Don’t stop with picturing a grown-ass man sitting in the driver’s seat of a vehicle with a stocking cap covering his entire face.  Actually attempt to see through the fabric and picture my face.  The confused look.  Then, pure unadulterated joy.  I’m still grinning ear-to-ear now.  I can’t even remember anything else that happened after that.