Investigating Inception

I watched Inception for the second time a few days ago (the first was in the theater), and I’ve been mulling it over ever since. I love a story with some depth, a story that you can go back to over and over and always come away with something new. I feel as if this is one of those stories. And since I’m a giant geek, I like to spend time on the data. I like to let it marinate. Like Cobb, I like to see how deep I can go. I’m not saying I’ve got everything figured out—far from it. And I’m sure there are areas where I’ve missed something or misinterpreted a bit of datum. So join me as I offer my impressions and insight, and let’s see where it leads, shall we?

But before we do, I’d be remiss if I didn’t say “SPOILER ALERT!” I’m about to spoil the shit out of the entire movie, so if you haven’t seen it please do yourself the courtesy of not reading on. Watch the movie first. To do otherwise would be a mistake.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s start by taking the movie at face value. On the surface, the movie is actually pretty simple. Cobb (played by Leonardo DiCaprio) has learned to manipulate dreams—to become an Architect—and he’s fallen in love, with both the god-like wonder of creating a world and Mal (played by the entrancing Marion Cotillard), the woman with whom he plays God. It’s revealed over the course of the film that Cobb and Mal essentially experimented on themselves. They trudged deep into their own minds, into Limbo, and created their own personal world.

The problem, of course, is that they got lost in it. They became unable to discern fantasy from reality, and spent a lifetime in Limbo growing old together. Hardly the worst fate one can imagine—oh bummer, you spent a lifetime with someone you love—but Cobb somehow became aware of the unreality of their situation and tried to convince Mal of it. When she resisted the truth, Cobb planted an idea—that their shared world wasn’t real—in her mind. Inception. The idea took root, and she was finally prepared to take the leap of faith with him. They killed themselves (Rather gruesomely I might add. Death by train? Yuck.), awakening in the real world.

Unfortunately for both of them, they didn’t live happily ever after. The idea that Cobb planted in Mal’s mind bled into reality. It had become so deeply rooted in her mind that she couldn’t shake it. Reality became unreality. She was convinced that they were still asleep, that their real lives—their real children—were waiting for them above, in the real world. Cobb did his best to convince her otherwise, but he had done his job too well. She knew she was asleep.

And so, one fateful night, she forced his hand. She wanted him to take the same leap of faith that he had once asked of her. She was so sure of herself that she had written a letter to the authorities claiming that Cobb was unstable, and that if she died it was at his hands. She wanted to be sure that he’d join her, but, try as she might, she was unable to convince him that she was right. And try as he might, Cobb was unable to convince her that she was wrong.

And so she leapt to her death, turning Cobb into a man on the run, estranged from the family he loved.

Plotlines aside, think about the psychological ramifications of that for a moment. Imagine being trapped in Limbo. Imagine becoming aware of it, and having to resort to subterfuge to convince the one you love that the world around you is an illusion. Imagine winning free of that illusion, only to watch your wife go mad because of what you’ve done. That, my friends, is the very definition of a Pyrrhic victory.

And now the love of your life is gone, and it eats at you. You know she was wrong. You know that you’re in the real world—that death in this world is truly Death—but it doesn’t matter. She was so sure. She asked you to take the very same leap of faith that you once asked of her, and you failed to believe in her the way that she once believed in you. Even though you know she was wrong, you can’t help but feel that you’ve failed her on a number of levels.

And now her steadfast belief sits in a corner of your mind, rotting. Just how sure are you, anyway? What if she was right? Is she waiting for you a level above? She and the children you miss so dearly? You miss them all with every fiber of your being, and even though you know you’re right—even though you know this is the real world—the delusion of your dead wife haunts you. Every day the pain of loss and guilt grows, and every day the delusion becomes more attractive. It pulls at you. One simple action—the pull of a trigger or a leap from a ledge—and you could regain the woman you love. You could regain your family.

This is the burden that Cobb deals with. This, more than anything, is his reality. This is why Mal keeps showing up while Cobb and his cohorts are on the job. His subconscious has spun this aching need into a self-destructive Projection with an angelic face. The greater Cobb’s pain grows, the stronger “Mal” becomes, until she begins to endanger not just Cobb, but the jobs that he and Arthur (played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) are doing. He tries to sate her by spending time in dreams—in memories—with her, but this only makes matters worse. She wants him dead.

Or rather, he wants to die.

But enough of his sanity remains. He wants to go home. He wants to be a father to his motherless children. And so he takes the job offered by Saito (played by Ken Watanabe). He will lead a raid into the mind of Saito’s business rival, Robert Fischer (played by Cillian Murphy), with the purpose of planting the idea of breaking up his father’s business empire. In return, Saito will make Cobb’s legal problems disappear, allowing Cobb to reunite with his children and ensure that they have at least one parent to raise them.

Glossing over large chunks of the movie (not to mention the scene-stealing acting of Tom Hardy, who played Eames), Cobb and Co. succeed in their attempts at inception, and Cobb is finally reunited with his family. The last thing we see is the top spinning, about to fall over, thus proving that he is, in fact, in the real world.

Or is he? Maybe that top wasn’t about to fall over. Maybe it would have just kept on going, proving that Mal was right all along. And so begins the fun of not taking the movie at face value. There’s certainly evidence to lend credence to Mal’s idea that they were not, after all, in the real world.

Why is Cobb being chased across the globe by mysterious men? Doesn’t that seem eerily similar to the way a Dreamer’s Projections end up chasing intruding minds? Is the name of Cobb’s newfound Architect, Ariadne (played by Ellen Page), irrelevant, or a bit of symbolism on the part of writer/director Christopher Nolan? Why does Cobb have Mal’s totem? Where is his own? So many questions, so little brainpower with which to answer them.

But I’ll take a stab at it.

I think Cobb was right. I think Mal killed herself, albeit unintentionally. Why is Cobb being chased? Because of a job gone wrong, that’s why. To believe otherwise—that these “men” chasing him are, in fact, Projections—is to believe that he is not only asleep, but in someone else’s mind. After all, projections don’t attack the Dreamer, only those who don’t belong. Presumably the “someone else” is Mal. But that doesn’t seem right, because Mal killed herself. If the world Cobb now inhabits isn’t the real world, if it’s been created by Mal, then why is it still there after she’s gone? Does the movie ever address what happens to the others—the invaders—if the Dreamer wakes up first? Not that I recall. My assumption would be that everyone else would wake as well, that the effect would be similar to a mental version of having the rug pulled out from under you. You end up on your ass, back in the real world.

But then again, maybe the result is madness. Maybe you get trapped down there. Who’s to say?

Regardless, I’m inclined to believe that his world is the real world, because the alternative hurts my brain. And I think that Page’s character’s name, Ariadne, is a hint. Ariadne is a character from Greek mythology, the daughter of King Minos. King Minos occasionally sacrificed young men and women to the Minotaur lurking in the labyrinth of Crete. One day, Theseus was to be the sacrifice. Ariadne, however, fell in love with Theseus, and provided him with a ball of thread, allowing him to lay the thread down as he walked the labyrinth, and giving him a clear way out.

In other words, Ariadne provided Theseus’s path out of the labyrinth and back to the larger world. And I believe that she provided the same function for Cobb. Ariadne followed Cobb into Limbo in search of Saito and Fischer. (Note that his name is “Robert Fischer,” so they were “searching for Bobby Fischer.” And Ariadne’s totem is a chess piece. Not sure if that’s just a joke or has some deeper meaning.) Ariadne found her way out, and so did everyone else down there at the time. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the fact that Mal’s very name is derived from the Latin for “bad” seems to lend credence to the idea that, at this stage in the game, Ariadne is the reality, and Mal is the fantasy.

But even if this is incorrect, would staying in the “un-real world” really be so bad? Let’s assume that they’d been trapped in the fist level down. According to the movie, 5 minutes in the real world is an hour in the dream world. Assuming my math is correct (if you know me then you know that this isn’t exactly a safe assumption), that means one could live out 60 years on Level 1 in just a month’s time in the real world (and the further you go down, the less real world time it would take). Sounds like a pretty good deal to me. Sure, your kids would miss you for a while, but you’d be back soon enough. It’s surely not something to kill yourself over, because the alternative—that you’re wrong and dying really would mean Dying—is rather permanent. As such, the entire movie could be seen as suggesting that, real world or dream, we should make the most of what we’ve got. “Real” is irrelevant. “Real” is what we perceive.

And then there’s the confusing business of the totems. Cobb uses a spinning top as a totem, and at one point mentions that it used to be Mal’s. But he also notes that a totem is personal to you and that you should allow no one else to touch it, lest you be fooled into believing that the dream is reality. The totem is supposed to be your sure-fire way of telling dream from reality. So why did this suddenly fail Mal? Shouldn’t she have been able to spin the top, watch it fall, and be reassured that she was in the real world? Was the idea planted in her mind so powerful that it was able to overcome this simple and elegant solution to recognizing reality?

And one must assume that both Cobb and Mal both had their own totems while they were together, so what happened to his totem? Why is he using Mal’s? Is using someone else’s totem just as foolproof, so long as you don’t let anyone touch it once you’ve started using it? Is Cobb’s use of the top merely his way of honoring Mal, of being close to her, or is it some form of self-deception? This line of thinking seems to be the clearest path to believing that Mal was right all along. But most of the evidence seems to indicate that she was in error.

And so, in the end, I’m left in a position eerily similar to Cobb’s: being nearly certain that he’s in the real world, but with nagging doubts that maybe—just maybe—his “crazy” wife wasn’t so crazy. What fun!

And now I must know! What do you think? What did I leave out? What did I get wrong? I’d love nothing more than to hear your take on things.


--Gryffindork

The Genius of David Foster Wallace

I am not an envious person. When I come across someone doing something extraordinary--a football player throwing a perfectly-placed spiral 50 yards downfield, a comic book artist whose artwork moves something deep and reptilian within me--I may think to myself, "It would be cool to be able to do that." But I almost never feel this thought in the tiny little hematocyte-spewing depths of my bones; sure, it would be cool to be able to do those things, but it's not a powerful desire.
This is not the case with the work of David Foster Wallace. I truly wish I could write like DFW. He was, quite simply, an unparalleled genius. We throw that word around these days, and it's pretty well devalued at this point, but I mean it in the literal sense. He was a man with a profound intellect, as well as an ultimately fatal sense of the human condition (borne, if you ask me, out of the curse/gift that is depression). He made a habit of explaining the ebb and flow of life in an extraordinary way, in a way that seemed both profoundly revelatory and, once you'd read his take on it, exceedingly obvious. He was a master wordsmith.
I'm finishing up his book, A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, which is a collection of essays and arguments. I'm currently reading the titular essay, about a 7-day cruise he took at the behest of the magazine Harper's (this is a perfect example of what I meant in the last paragraph about being a genius; he got paid to go on a luxury cruise because just his take on the entire affair would be fascinating enough to justify the expense--he was that good). 
About 35 pages into the essay, I ran across a section that--to my mind--is one of the greatest things ever written. It's not flashy. It's not pretentious. It's not even particularly deep, in the "what does it all mean" sense. It's simply quintessential DFW; effortlessly witty, penetrating, and, somehow, gloriously innocent. I've copied it below so that you may experience DFW in all his glory.
I hope you enjoy it.

"Celebrity's fiendish brochure does not lie or exaggerate, however, in the luxury department. I now confront the journalistic problem of not being sure how many examples I need to list in order to communicate the atmosphere of sybaritic and nearly insanity-producing pampering on board the m.v. Nadir.

How about for just one example Saturday 11 March, right after sailing but before the North Sea weather hits, when I want to go out to Deck 10's port rail for some introductory vista-gazing and thus decide I need some zinc oxide for my peel-prone nose. My zinc oxide's still in my big duffel bag, which at that point is piled with all of Deck 10's other luggage in the little area between the 10-Fore elevator and the 10-Fore staircase while little men in cadet-blue Celebrity jumpsuits, porters—-entirely Lebanese, this squad seems to be—-are cross-checking the luggage tags with the Nadir's passenger list Lot #s and organizing the luggage and taking it all up the Port and Starboard halls to people's cabins.

And but so I come out and spot my duffel among the luggage, and I start to grab and haul it out of the towering pile of leather and nylon, with the idea that I can just whisk the bag back to Cabin 1009 myself and root through it and find my good old ZnO; and one of the porters sees me starting to grab the bag, and he dumps all four of the massive pieces of luggage he's staggering with and leaps to intercept me. At first I'm afraid he thinks I'm some kind of baggage thief and wants to see my claim check or something. But it turns out that what he wants is my duffel: he wants to carry it to 1009 for me. And I, who am about half again this poor little herniated guy's size (as is the duffel bag itself), protest politely, trying to be considerate, saying Don't Fret, Not a Big Deal, Just Need My Good Old ZnO. I indicate to the porter that I can see they have some sort of incredibly organized ordinal luggage-dispersal system under way here and that I don’t mean to disrupt it or make him carry a Lot #7 bag before a Lot #2 bag or anything, and no I’ll just get the big old heavy weatherstained sucker out of here myself and give the little guy that much less work to do.

And then now a very strange argument indeed ensues, me v. the Lebanese porter, because it turns out I am putting this guy, who barely speaks English, in a terrible kind of sedulous-service double-bind, a paradox of pampering: viz. the The-Passenger's-Always-Right-versus-Never-Let-A-Passenger-Carry-His-Own-Bag paradox. Clueless at the time about what this poor little Lebanese man is going through, I wave off both his high-pitched protests and his agonized expression as mere servile courtesy, and I extract the duffel and lug it up the hall to 1009 and slather the old beak with ZnO and go outside to watch Florida recede cinematically a la F. Conroy.

     Only later did I understand what I'd done. Only later did I learn that that little Lebanese Deck 10 porter had his head just about chewed off by the (also Lebanese) Deck 10 Head Porter, who’d had his own head chewed off by the Austrian Chief Steward, who received confirmed reports that a Deck 10 passenger had been seen carrying his own bag up the Port hallway of Deck 10 and now demanded rolling Lebanese heads for this clear indication of porterly dereliction, and had reported (the Austrian Chief Steward did) the incident (as is apparently SOP) to an officer in the Guest Relations Dept., a Greek officer with Revo shades and a walkie-talkie and officerial epaulets so complex I never did figure out what his rank was; and this high-ranking Greek guy actually came around to 1009 after Saturday's supper to apologize on behalf of practically the entire Chandris shipping line and to assure me that ragged-necked Lebanese heads were even at that moment rolling down various corridors in piacular recompense for my having had to carry my own bag. And even though this Greek officer's English was in lots of ways better than mine, it took me no less than ten minutes to express my own horror and to claim responsibility and to detail the double bind I'd put the porter in—-brandishing at relevant moments the actual tube of ZnO that had caused the whole snafu—-ten or more minutes before I could get enough of a promise from the Greek officer that various chewed-off heads would be reattached and employee records unbesmirched to feel comfortable enough to allow the officer to leave; and the whole incident was incredibly frazzling and angst-fraught and filled almost a whole Mead notebook and is here recounted in only its barest psychoskeletal outline."




--Gryffindork (all rights belonging to Harper's, DFW's estate, whatevs)

Ode To Halle's Funbags

This is a poem inspired by a question in last night's Geeks Who Drink pub quiz about the movies Halle Berry has shown her ta-tas in. I wrote this for the accompanying blog.

Are you black or are you white?

Who gives a crap? Your breasts are tight.

Firm and supple, oh my Lord;

I think I might go overboard.

Wanking can be fun and all,

But not when it makes your wang all raw.

Thankfully the way to see

Your boobies, which have enchanted me

Is watching movies, bad trips like acid

That always make my knob grow flaccid.


--Gryffindork

Fictional Flotsam: The Walk*

* For those of you who can read and listen to music at the same time, I suggest using this link for added effect.

“That was a lovely walk we had this afternoon,” Mary Yangherkin said. She rested her open book on her lap and shifted position in the loveseat just enough to face her husband, Woody.

He blinked absently and turned toward her, pushing his glasses until they rested firmly on the bridge of his nose. He set his book down in a motion nearly identical to hers. The lamp on the end table beside the loveseat backlit her, bringing flyaway strands of her graying hair into stark and shadowy relief. Mary wore a faint half-smile, a faraway look in her unfocused eyes. She looked towards him but not at him, her head cocked slightly to the right. She saw through him—him and everything else.

Woody loved that look. It meant that she was casting her mind back, reliving their walk as fully as human memory allowed. He’d seen the look a thousand times—more—and knew that it meant that she was happy. She always said, “any moment lived in happiness is worth reliving.”

He called the look her McFly Look. The name didn’t really fit, she unfailingly protested, because Marty McFly had been trying to get Back to the Future and she was trying to revisit the past, but Woody always waved off the criticism. It didn’t matter which way you went; time travel was time travel, and that made it her McFly look.

“It was,” Woody said, smiling. He took Mary’s hand and squeezed it, then leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. Mary returned to the present and smiled. They picked their books up, settled themselves comfortably once again, and went back to reading.

They’d ventured out into the cold winter afternoon on a whim, heading into the woods behind their property. The forest was quiet, muffled by the previous night’s snow. That still, pristine world was theirs and theirs alone, an intimate secret just for them.

Woody loved venturing into unmarred snow; he sometimes felt that it erased all the footsteps that had come before his, allowing him the opportunity to be the First, allowing him to Discover that small section of the world. It was a behavior Woody had first displayed as a boy. He’d trek off into the snow on his own, discovering new lands, battling goblins and frost imps. It was as if the snow-white world before him was a blank canvas, his imagination the brush and paint. He’d continued this habit until he’d had kids of his own. Giving it up had been hard for Woody, but he felt it necessary; his kids had deserved their own blank canvas.

But the kids were gone now, busy with the Real World, and so this frozen world belonged to him. To him and his wife. His partner. His Mary.

Mary, for her part, marveled at this side of him and reveled in it. Woody was by no means a stoic man, but seeing this side of him made it child’s play to imagine what he had been like in the naïve days of his youth. This never failed to elicit a smile from her.

On this particular jaunt they’d walked for perhaps fifteen minutes when they’d happened across a buck. Busy rubbing it’s antlers on a tree, it had failed to hear them approach. It froze upon realizing its mistake, muscles tensed, sizing them up. It stared at them, and they at it, for what felt like an eternity, until, with a twitch of its ears and a cloud of breath, it bounded off, zig-zagging through the trees. They’d headed back to the house after that, giddy with their good luck, as snow began to fall again in earnest and the sky grew dark.

Now they sat together in front of the fireplace, reading, a light blanket thrown over their laps. They sat together but apart, seated next to each other while simultaneously in their own private worlds. Their time together was demarcated only by the tick of the clock on the mantle and the crackling of the fire, their time apart by the events in the stories that had enveloped them.

Duke Ellington’s “Prelude To a Kiss” broke suddenly into the silence. Woody found his bookmark and inserted it into his book. He set it on the end table, and picked up his phone, turning off the customized alarm. He stretched enthusiastically, removed his side of the blanket from the top of his lap and stood up. He stretched again for good measure.
"8 o'clock already?" asked Mary.
"Mm-hmmm," replied Woody.

“I love you,” Mary said. She looked up at him with a smile, her book momentarily opened upon her lap once more.

“And I love you,” Woody replied. He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “Now I’m off for a wank.”

Mary leaned into the kiss. “Have fun,” she said, and playfully swatted his backside as he walked away.

The End

--Gryffindork

A Month of Hot Air: The Life & Times of Gryffindork

This is an excerpt from a little project I'm working on (tentatively titled "A Year of Hot Air: The Life & Times of Gryffindork). It's either a fascinating look at one man and his view of the world around him (as described through Facebook status updates), or a bit of mindless self-indulgence. You make the call.

June 3^rd, 2010

—Listening to Barry White; I'm getting the inexplicable urge to take off my underwear and throw it onto a stage. Weird.

June 4^th, 2010

—Rush has already been married 3 times?! <sarcasm>I'm so shocked that no one's been able to stick with him!</sarcasm>

In other news, the world's most patient and forgiving woman has been discovered; she is both blind and deaf.

June 6^th, 2010

—I’ve got a new nickname for my girlfriend: Sonic the Bedhog.

—BREAKING NEWS: A new oil spill has occurred off of the East Coast. Sources say that the cast of Jersey Shore actually entered the water, decimating populations of local flora and fauna with a deadly runoff of hair and skin products. When reached for comment, the cast replied "Blah blah douchey mcdoucherton. Why in the world are we relevant?"*

*Quote is inexact due to the rare dialect of douchebag that they speak.

June 11^th, 2010

—Vampires with pointy laterals make me want to punch someone in the face. Canines! Canines are the pointy teeth!!! >:(

—If I ever get so old or jaded that the soundtrack to Willy Wonka DOESN'T make the kid in me retarded with joy, please shoot me squarely between the eyes.

June 12^th, 2010

—I’m setting booty traps.

June 14^th, 2010

—I’m considering two drastically different jobs: carpentry and teaching. I just asked myself, "What would Jesus do?" Of course, I need to get my ass in gear if I'm going to start a new religion by 34...

—Writing in all caps while online is the equivalent of walking around with a helmet on in real life.

June 18^th, 2010

—So I'm looking through the TV listings and get excited to watch a show I've never heard of. Unfortunately, Wife Swap is TOTALLY different than I was expecting it to be...

June 19^th, 2010

—I’m going to name my first born Vuvuzela.

June 20^th, 2010

—Spent all day (and I mean ALL day) at the Renaissance Festival with my buddies. It was my first Ren Fest, and I must say that it was fun. Nothing like mixing drinking with throwing sharp objects (hatchets, throwing stars and knives, oh my!), meat on sticks, and tons of cleavage everywhere (I'm assuming it's ok to look at it, since it's so prominently displayed).

June 22^nd, 2010

—Dirty joke time:  What's the difference between peanut butter and jam?

You can't peanut butter your dick up someone's ass.

June 30^th, 2010

—‎"I've, like, been totally misrepresented," says Kesha. "I mean, just because I act like a drunken whore, sing songs that make me sound like an alcoholic wench, and dress like a schizophrenic bag lady, it doesn't mean that I really AM those things. I just can't understand why people don't see through all the information I've given them and see the REAL me." Kesha paused to vomit into a potted plant, asked her waiter for another Jack and Coke, and smacked his ass as he walked away. "I just don't understand the public's perception of me," she sniffed.

Fictional Flotsam: The Nightjar*

This is an excerpt of something I've got brewing in me noggin'. Who knows if it'll ever be finished, but hey, at least I'm happy with this much of it. I'm going to try to write some more today. We'll see how it goes...
As always, I'm happy to hear some constructive criticism.

The Nightjar floated steadily through the mountain valley, its deck awash in moonlight. The ship’s white, domed sail caught the light, giving it the appearance of a miniature half moon hovering just above the airship. The deck, quiet and nearly empty this early in the morning, was shared only by Otoro on the foredeck and another aeromancer in the pilot seat, which was backlit by the soft light emanating through the windows of the Captain’s cabin.

            Otoro stood at the bow for a moment, hands gripping the rail and eyes closed, and allowed the brisk mountain air to flow over his wiry frame. It ruffled his brown beard and clothing. Many would have found the cold uncomfortable, but he enjoyed the feeling; it reminded him that he was alive. He inhaled deeply and could distinguish, very faintly, the smell of the Forest that lay ahead. He smiled. He lived for these moments, standing alone in the moonlight, the only sound that of the wind blowing by his ears, punctuated by an occasional flap of the sail.

            Otoro opened his eyes, lifted his looking glass and scanned the far end of the valley. He’d made the voyage so many times that he knew precisely where they were and how long it would be until they reached their destination. He could be asleep in his modest cabin, enjoying the deep sleep of one whose world consists of little more than a reflexive routine, but this was how things were done. Being First Mate did not allow him the luxury of ignoring the rules. If anything, it meant that he must follow them to the letter. He believed in leading by example, for how could he expect the crew to act properly if he didn’t do so himself?

He finally spotted what he knew was already there. Just at the edge of sight, at the back of the valley, was a large, dark mass floating in the sky, its crown dappled with faint, flickering lights. Otoro gave a pleased grunt, collapsed the looking glass and strode aft.

            “Continue on this heading,” he told the pilot, Ganda, as he approached the pilot’s seat situated under the sails. “We’ll arrive in two hours, with the dawn. Then you can take some rest.”

            “Aye, sir. Though I’m more interested in grub than sleep. Piloting awakens a fierce hunger inside me,” replied Ganda in a deep, weather-beaten baritone. “Besides, I sleep better on a full belly.”

            “Then it’s clear that you sleep well most nights,” Otoro said with a chuckle as he passed Ganda and slapped the pilot on his broad back.

Ganda uttered a sharp bark of laughter in response. “That I do,” he said as he patted his large belly. He adjusted himself in the chair, attempting to find a more comfortable position for the last leg of the journey, chuckling softly to himself.

            Otoro stopped at the door to the Captain’s cabin and knocked, three quick taps.

            “Enter!”

            Otoro opened the door and stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and strode toward the pool of light in the far right corner, which contained Captain Rouen at his desk.

            “Another two hours then, Otoro?” asked the Captain.

            “Yes, sir. I can just see the lights of the Inn from here,” said Otoro.

            “Excellent.” Rouen laced his fingers together and stretched his muscular arms, cracking his knuckles loudly. “Make sure to give Ganda a few extra rands when you pay him. He did well to get us through the passes unscathed. It’s always dangerous up here at this time of year, but I can’t recall the last time I experienced winds like last night’s.”

            “Nor I,” said Otoro.

            “If Driftwood wasn’t so damn lucrative I’d say ‘Damn it all’ and avoid the Ring Range altogether,” said Rouen. “Mountain flying is risky business.”

            “You’ll pardon me if I don’t buy that, sir,” said Otoro with a wry smile. “You say that every time we’re up here, but I think you enjoy the risk.”

            Captain Rouen grinned roguishly. “Aye, maybe I do at that. Certainly keeps you on your toes, eh?”

            “Without a doubt,” said Otoro. He hesitated, his smile fading. “Sir, about Hana…”

            Rouen sighed. “What’s he done now?” he asked.

            “It’s not what he’s done, so much as what he hasn’t done,” replied Otoro. “I ordered him to clear the debris from that rockslide off of the aft deck, but he refused. He insists that such menial tasks are beneath a warrior such as himself. I ordered him to his bunk, and he obeyed, but grudgingly. He’s getting out of control.”

             “I hadn’t realized that accosting the old and defenseless made one a warrior. How times change.” Captain Rouen shook his head. “I’d have never let him set foot on the Nightjar if Sendra hadn’t taken ill. Next time I’ll take the proper time to find a replacement, and to hell with being late.” He scratched at his black beard in annoyance. “I’ll talk to him. He’ll do as he’s told if he wants to leave these mountains with the rest of us. Of course, if he doesn’t tread lightly around Filth he may end up getting punted off the Forest.”

            “Ah, don’t tempt me with such wonderful visions,” said Otoro, his smile returning. “I think I’d give my last rand to see that.” His brown eyes crinkled in delight.

            “You may get to see it for free. You know Filth; he doesn’t suffer fools for long,” said the Captain with a laugh. “In fact, why not start a pool? Five rands says Filth has him begging for mercy within five hours.”

            Otoro laughed heartily, his body shaking with mirth. “It’s a bet. I reckon it’ll be no more than two.” And, still chuckling, he turned for the door.

            “One last thing,” Captain Rouen called after him. “Tell Ganda that I’ll dock the ship. I could use the fresh air, and a little aeromancy before breakfast never hurts.”

            “Aye, sir. I’m sure Ganda would agree with that.” Otoro left the cabin, closing the door soundlessly and headed back to the pilot’s chair to relay the message.


--Gryffindork


*Copyright Gryffindork; I'll fucking destroy you if you ever steal any of my shit.

It Burns (Tik Tok Parody)

I've posted this elsewhere, but not all of you have seen it, so I figured I'd post it here for your viewing pleasure. 


I admit, I was late on the whole Kesha thing, as I ignored her for as long as possible. But then I finally watched her video for "Tik Tok," and I gotta tell ya, I was appalled because 1). She's disgusting. b). Little girls are walking around singing this crap and *shudder* looking up to her. 4). It's the worst kind of crappy pop. I am not a lyricist, a poet, or even remotely musically inclined (although I love music), but her video was so abhorent to me that I had to form some sort of response. This video is it.


Keep in mind that this took me about 2-3 hours from the time I started writing to the time I finished recording this, so if you're hoping for perfection you'll be sorely disappointed. I posted the lyrics below the video so that you could read along and actually understand the couple of parts that I flubbed the delivery on.


Maybe someday I'll do a more polished version...



Lyrics:
Wake up in the mornin' and I turn on the tube
Then I turn to MTV to try and get in the groove
I see this skanky chick crawlin' up out the bath
I can't believe my eyes, just shake my head and laugh


I'm talking this girl's a train wreck (wreck)
Got hickeys on her neck (neck)
Has lost all self-respect (ect)


I tell ya I start to avert my eyes (eyes)
But what I don't realize (ize)
My bathroom holds a surpriiiiiise


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


Had not a care in the world till I saw this chick
Now I got some milky discharge comin' out my dick
What do you have to do to earn that kind of funk?
Bet her coochie smells like old meat that's been left in the trunk


Im talking serious E. coli (I)
Feel sorry for the guy (guy)
Who next unzips her fly (fly)


I bet it knocks him on his ass (ass)
Like skanky sarin gas (gas)
Be better if he passed (passed)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


(Girl) you gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance


We've never met
Yet here I sit
Hoping I
Don't have herpes


(Girl) You gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance


We've never met
You piece of shit
You piece of shit


Now I can't ethically get my freak on


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)


It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)

A Straight Guy Weighs In On Glee

           Glee has become quite a phenomenon, entirely without my help. Despite hearing rave reviews from my (mostly female) friends and family, I completely ignored the first season, as well as the beginning of the second. This changed, however, when I heard Glee was doing a Rocky Horror episode. While it would be an overstatement to say that I’m a huge fan of Rocky Horror, one could say that I appreciate (most of) its eccentric charm.

            My change of heart regarding Glee was heartily encouraged by my girlfriend, who had watched and enjoyed the first season. What the hell, right? She made an effort to watch last year’s hockey playoffs and ended up really enjoying herself, so I figured this episode would give me the best chance to partake of something that she enjoyed with minimal psychological harm. Thus, much to Kristina’s delight, I parked my ass on the couch on the Tuesday before Halloween to check the episode out.

Full disclosure before I tell you what I thought: I’m a fairly progressive guy, so I’ve got no problem with homosexuality, and believe that the majority of gender stereotypes are a load of tripe. I’m also a depressive, so you could say that I’m in touch with my feelings; I may not enjoy crying, but I’m not going to feel ashamed for doing it, and I get teary-eyed on a fairly regular basis when something heart-wrenching happens in a film or TV show. But I don’t sob. Sobbing is for pussies.

I feel that we as a nation, as well as humanity in general, have become increasingly cynical and jaded, and, unfortunately, our entertainment reflects that. It’s gotten to the point where displays of “feminine” emotions (love, heartache, etc.) are immediately dismissed by most people as saccharine schmaltz. Personally, I feel our world would be a better place if people stopped regarding sentimentality as an entertainment evil. It has its place. Like in Remember the Titans. If you can watch that without getting misty-eyed, then you, you poor son of a bitch, have no soul.

That said, I’m not a big fan of musicals. Never seen The Sound of Music. Never seen Mary Poppins. Even Tim Burton and Johnny Depp couldn’t stop Sweeney Todd from making me wish I was in one of those pies, rather than alive and well and bored off my ass. There are exceptions, of course. As I stated before, I enjoy The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and I absolutely love Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory (except for “Cheer Up Charlie.” *snoooooore*). But, in general, it just feels weird to have people spontaneously breaking into song at random moments. Almost as weird as an entire crowd of people doing so, knowing all the words to the song and steps to the accompanying dance number, then immediately stopping and pretending that nothing odd had just happened. It’s unnatural, and it annoys me. But hey, I’m open-minded, so I’ll give pretty much anything an honest chance to entertain me. And that was exactly my attitude on that Tuesday night.

And you know what? I liked it. Not all of it, but most of it. I’ve watched every episode since, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself. It came as no surprise to me that I don’t like every musical number. Some are simply songs that I don’t like (generally the stuff that Rachel sings); others aren’t as good as the originals; others feel too much like those unnatural moments from musicals. But I enjoy music in general, and I’m not averse to excellent harmonization. In fact, as someone who loves doo-wop, I feel that harmonization is, largely, a lost art (or a marginalized art, anyway). So I’m cool with that aspect of the show.

But I have to be honest; I think the strength of the show lies not in its music, but in the characters. You could argue that the show is basically a cliché (misfits struggle to come to terms with their outcast status by finding joy in blah blah blah), and I wouldn’t disagree, but after millennia of myths, legends, and literature, almost every story is a cliché, ultimately. It’s how you treat the cliché that sets you apart (or doesn’t).

From what I’ve seen, each character is treated as a person, rather than a caricature. Yes, the hilariously named Coach Beiste is a manly woman, and they use that to comedic advantage, but they also show the underside of the issue when she finds out some of the students are using mental images of her in lingerie to “cool off” during make out sessions in order to escape the dreaded blue balls. The knowledge wounds her deeply, and this thread of the story acknowledges that, yes, there may be comedy to be mined from this character, but also reminds us that underneath that manly façade is a woman not unlike any other.

By the same token, Kurt is far from your stereotypical gay character. Yes, he often conforms to many of the stereotypes that often come to mind (his fashion sense, his effeminate voice and mannerisms), but the show delves deeper than that. It goes out of its way to suggest that yes, being gay is perfectly ok, but that doesn’t mean everyone is going to accept you. His ongoing problems with resident Neanderthal and in-denial-homosexual Karofsky is a disturbing view into the kind of harassment an “out” teenager is likely to experience. Nevertheless, Kurt is likely a welcome and potentially life-changing role model for young gays everywhere who are struggling with their situation. For that reason alone, this show gets serious respect from me.

In the end, I’ve come to enjoy the show for one reason: it’s funny. Sue’s manipulative attempts to screw with the heads of everyone within a thousand-meter radius, Brittany’s child-like naïveté, Puckerman’s delinquent tendencies…they all come together for at least one hearty belly-laugh per episode. One of my personal favorites: Brittany agreeing that she committed adultery because she thought that “adultery” meant being a dolt (a-dolt-ery—get it?). It still makes me giggle every time I think about it.

Yeah, I’m not always a fan of the drama (I think they’re working on achieving a love hexagon, which makes me sad—what a bunch of whores these kids are!), and yeah, some of the musical numbers turn me off, but the rest of the show is good enough to make me forgive it its faults. And while the show can be sentimental at times, it comes attached to a sincerity that I find refreshing. I’ve only seen five episodes (I don’t even know all the character’s names yet), but I’m liking what I’m seeing, and hope that, as long as it operates on the level that I’ve witnessed thus far, it has a long and prosperous run.

And now, a few lists, because people dig lists (at least, I do).

Favorite Characters

1. Sue Sylvester: I’ve loved Jane Lynch since I first saw Best In Show, and her portrayal of Sue is highly amusing. And while she may seem like evil incarnate at first glance, she always seems to do the right thing in the end. Ok, most of the time.

2. Brittany: What is there to say? She’s freakin’ adorable. She’s the Idiot With a Heart of Gold. Can’t get enough of her.

3. Coach Beiste: Maybe it’s because she was a focus of one of the first episodes I saw, but I really enjoy her. She’s masculinity and femininity rolled up into one package, and they do this fact justice without being trite.

4. Artie: I don’t know why. Just like the guy. Speaking as an overprotective brother-type, he seems like the kind of guy you wouldn’t mind dating your sister or daughter. And not just because his naughty bits might not work so well.

5. Puckerman: He hasn’t been featured much in the episodes I’ve seen, but I’ve seen enough to be intrigued.

Hottest Characters

1. Santana: Oh my stars and garters, I think I grow slightly retarded every time I see her. If I were a girl and she were a guy, I’d giggle and play with my hair every time she walked in the room. She’d be perfect if she gained about 10 or 20 pounds. P.S. This has nothing to do with how much I love my girlfriend. Which is a lot. Seriously.

2. Santana: See #1.

3. Santana: See #2.

4. Santana: See #3.

5. Quinn: You thought I was gonna say Santana, didn’t you? I’m not blind; Quinn’s delicious, too.

Characters I’d Most Like To See Get Kicked In the Neck

1-5. Rachel: Great googly moogly, she’s obnoxious! I’m assuming she has some redeeming qualities, but I have yet to witness them.


--Gryffindork