Veteran's Day 2013

Not every moment of L'esprit de l'escalier in this blog will come from me, it turns out - sometimes, you see what someone should have done, but didn't. Sometimes, that person is you. This particular time, it's Jimmy Kimmel.

I said "Kimmel," not "Killem." Nyuck, nyuck.

 

As this link explains, Kimmel hosted a "kid's U.N. panel" or some such misguided attempt to elicit silly solutions from children that turn out to have hauntingly and laugh-inducing overtones... which backfired miserably when one of the children proposed a "solution" to our 1.15 Trillion dollar debt to China by "killing all the people in China." Kimmel was flummoxed, clearly, choosing to try to play off the discomfort by chucklingly addressing it as an "interesting idea." Here's the clip:

Of course, it's not interesting. Not even clever. This kid looked like he was maybe eight or nine years old, though, and Kimmel is five times that; he has the right to show a modicum of parenting skills.

Clearly, here's the response that L'esprit de l'escalier would have gone with: "Oh... oh, no [shakes head in paternal disapproval]; we don't make jokes like that - China isn't *really* a threat, we just make fun sometimes because we owe them a lot of money. But when you think about it, we should really thank them because they invested over a Trillion dollars into our economy! I'm sorry for the  miscommunication about that; you want to try again?" Retake, the kid nails it (we hope), and *that's* what you air. Not the end of the world.

Instead, we now have people calling for at least Kimmel's job, and at most his head on a pike, and they have a petition online where you can add your name to the former of those calls-for-action.

But this is why I'm not signing it: even though it was an unconscionable oversight and a joke that nobody should make, getting rid of Kimmel is just going to sidestep two things: the main issue at hand (which is that we find China a threat because we owe them money), and an opportunity for a very valuable reconciliation - Kimmel's public apology along with that of the child who said it.

American Flag Juice: Providing 200% of the RDA for patriotic overreaction.

See, we're sort of treating this kid like a catalyst who is consumed in the reaction that his statement started, and that's not fair to the child - we need to give him a chance to tell the public that he made a mistake while trying to be funny - heck, how many stand-up comedians in recent months have wished for that opportunity and didn't get it? A lot, probably, and yet here we are, willing to just throw a young boy under the bus for probably just misunderstanding that line of where "The Rule of Funny" ends. And I can't even begin to guesstimate how many times I've misread that line, and a few of them are probably even documented in this blog. Sorry about that.

And that 20/20-hindsight speech I put in Kimmel's mouth, even if it might be too sugar-coated to have aired in my imaginary recast, is still true and good advice: China did invest that money in us, and we should thank them and show the proper respect one does to a benefactor by not joking (in public, on television, on a major network broadcast to millions of people) about "killing them all" - it's not just gauche, it's genocide.

But that doesn't make Jimmy Kimmel Hitler - and it doesn't make that nine-year-old boy Hitler, either. It makes us *all* Hitler - but only if we don't recognize it as wrong, which I really think we all do. And that's what needs to be said.

And if everyone is Hitler, then this baby is, too - and that's just too terrifying to allow to become reality.

Because somewhere, there's also a young kid in China who thinks that people really *do* want to kill him and his family and all the people in his country because they're jealous of how well they're financially doing (not that that hypothetical kid is necessarily well-off; China isn't known for distributing their wealth much more efficiently than America is, which is sort of ironic considering their Communist pretensions... and I don't think that's an unfair criticism of either country). Someone needs to let that kid know that it's okay, and that we're not going to go to war with them. And, optimally, that there is no "us" and "them," but rather a global community of people who have the common goal of the greatest good, when push really comes to shove.

There. A baby flashing a peace-sign - that ought to erase the prior image from your brain. Okay, enough with the cute-baby crap - I'm starting to feel like Anne Geddes here...

Because it's Veteran's Day, 2013. It's time to honor it by admitting that the wars our soldiers so bravely fought in, while they obviously had to happen (because, to apply the Anthropic principle to geopolitical history, they *did* happen, and there's nothing we can do about it now but try to find meaning in it), that doesn't mean that they have to keep happening, and that the future is ours to choose - and the vast, overwhelming majority of people will choose peace over war any day of the week. Even Monday.

I don't think this is optimism, either - that would imply that there's another jaded reality in the face of which this sentiment is flying. However, when you look at it, it's just realism - people choose peace over war every day. Sure, their reasons may be that they think they'll lose if they start one, or they just don't think that kind of expenditure of time and energy is worth it, but they still choose it. I chose it the other day when I tried to change lanes and somebody almost rear-ended me, forcing me back over to watch them speed by, their fist literally waving at me out the window, cursing my deficit of driving (in point of fact, I should have checked my blind spot more carefully, I suppose, but I'm convinced they must have been speeding something awful to be able to appear so suddenly like that. Fine, it was my fault...), and I just apologetically gestured with an open palm and mouthed "I'm sorry." That was choosing peace. When you're in the supermarket, and someone has like a million items in the "Express Lane" that is clearly marked '15 Items or Less', but you ignore it and just wait patiently? That is choosing peace.

Choosing peace is always right. Not avoiding conflict, mind you - those will arise naturally, and can be remedied through debate and conversation - but choosing peace by not waging war. We do that all the time, and China is no different. We are more alike than we are unalike, my friends, if Maya Angelou will allow me to co-opt her without permission.

See? Even if I were a monster, she'd still hug me - that's how awesome Maya Angelou is. I be she even forgives me for when I accidentally called her a "woman of suffrage" in my 10th-grade Biographical essay, too. Nope. No hero-worship here; move along...

And I think I'm okay with doing that - because I'm pretty sure Maya Angelou, like most people, will choose peace every time.

So if you want to commemorate Veteran's Day, try giving some peace: donate to the victims of Hurricane Haiyan (it means "sea bird" in Mandarin, after all, and sea-birds are pretty peaceful... to watch, at least - noise-wise, they're squawky little bastards).

 

And remember - not every veteran was in a uniform, and not every soldier has fought in a war.

 

Dedicated to the Republican Primary

May-Day! The terror has only just begun...

MAY DAY

Scene i: May 1, 2011

FADE IN:

EXT. ABBOTABAD COMPOUND – DUSK - ESTABLISHING

Seal Team Six storms the Abbotabad compound of Osama Bin Laden. Two Blackhawk helicopters hover in the background as the 25-person team advances, weapons in hand.

CLOSE UP: CAPTAIN FRANK MALREAR

MALREAR

C’mon, people, move! This sonofabitch has been allowed to live too long, and we’re the ones who are finally gonna end this nightmare! Go! Go! Go!

INT. COMPOUND

The team advances into the compound by breaking through the front door, instantly greeted by machine-gun fire from cloaked, shadowed men. Fire is returned, and the figures crumple slowly to the ground, clearing a path to the stairwell. The team climbs to the third floor.

INT. COMPOUND – THIRD FLOOR

OSAMA BIN-LADEN stands against the center of the back wall of a room that opens from a narrow stairwell. An AK-47 lies on a table across the room. Beat.

CLOSE UP: MALREAR

CLOSE UP: OSAMA

CLOSE UP: AK-47

CLOSE UP: MALREAR

CLOSE UP: OSAMA

INT. ROOM

OSAMA starts for the gun, and MALREAR trains his weapon with expert precision, firing once.

CLOSE-UP – SLO-MO

The bullet hits OSAMA in his right eye as he lunges for the weapon, taking out a section of his forehead, and he falls silently to the ground, his right hand extended and twitching.

CLOSE-UP: TWITCHING HAND

INT. ROOM

Seal Team Six whoops and hollers after they recognize the termination of the target, and they flood the room, standing around their fallen enemy.

MALREAR

An eye for an eye, Bin-Laden. And some of your forehead, too. Mission accomplished, people. Let’s head out.

FADE-OUT

Scene ii: May 2, 2011

EXT. USS LIBERTY – ESTABLISHING

A small ceremony is being held upon the upper-deck of the USS Liberty, far out in an unknown ocean. The sun is setting behind the carrier as a group of soldiers hoist a shrouded OSAMA overboard, his body falling limply into the ocean.

FADE-OUT

Scene iii: May 3, 2011

EXT. UNDERWATER – UNKNOWN OCEAN BOTTOM

A school of mackerel are swimming, when from behind them a shadow slowly emerges. The figure gains definition, and the school begins to flee, when all of a sudden a hand grabs the last straggler, ripping it from the school and pulling it to his mouth. It is the undead OSAMA BIN-LADEN.

CLOSE-UP: ZOMBIE OSAMA

OSAMA bites into the head of the mackerel, suckling at the brains and releasing the writhing corpse into the sea, never stopping his stride as he marches toward his destination. He walks into the screen as the blood trails behind him, fish all around fleeing the newfound threat.

TIME-LAPSE – TRANSITION

The date appears as a stamp in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. ZOMBIE OSAMA keeps walking, steadfast and loping, across the bottom of the ocean. His body decays with time, skin flaking off to expose sinews and muscle beneath, and in a few areas, bone.  The date rolls forward, his progression toward horror almost complete, until it reaches…

Scene iv: May 1, 2012 (May Day)

EXT. NEW YORK HARBOR – EARLY MORNING – ESTABLISHING

The sun is rising from the horizon as ZOMBIE OSAMA emerges, the Statue of Liberty standing in the background. His gait quickens slightly as he continues walking, the sunlight glinting off of his slimy, desiccated form.

EXT. GROUND ZERO – 9:30 A.M.

Tourists stand around the shrine that remains from the 10^th anniversary of 9/11. Contemplative poses are struck by the small crowd, all of whom face the empty void of the Twin Towers.

CLOSE-UP – MAN

A man is taking a picture of the site. Behind him, we see the top of a figure slowly approach. Silently, ZOMBIE OSAMA encroaches, his shadow falling on the man in just enough time for him to spin around and come face-to-melted-face with the vision of terror. He drops his camera and screams as ZOMBIE OSAMA grabs his shoulders with both hands and lunges at his head with an open, glistening maw. His head cracks open like an egg, and is devoured by the creature, as the other tourists run in horror. Brainless and limp, the man drops to the floor.

PAN OUT – EXT. GROUND ZERO

The man lays at the feet of ZOMBIE OSAMA, who stands, renewed and emboldened. The New York skyline is in the background, and we can barely make out a faint smile play across what is left of ZOMBIE OSAMA’s mouth.

CLOSE-UP – ZOMBIE OSAMA

The smile widens, and his eyes stare unblinkingly into the camera.

FADE-OUT

Deleted Scene: “Sucker Punch”

Don't get me wrong: I liked "Sucker Punch." A lot, actually. I get the whole "playing with representations of femininity and exploitation" thing, and don't even mind the fact that an ersatz-David Carradine (played by Scott Glenn, who I've literally never heard of) was still the phallologocentric mastermind behind her whole escape. It's high time someone gives credit to captive strippers for being able to imagine the badass video-game scenarios that serve as obvious metaphors for their lack of IRL empowerment. It beats the hell out of "The Never-ending Story," boobs-wise, at least. Of course, the crotch-shot and up-skirt content slightly weakened the whole third-wave feminist angle, considering that it rivals the amounts you might see in an Urabon (which, if you can't figure out from context, I wouldn't recommend Googling without a serious look-around). All things considered, the biggest problem I had with it was the conceit they forced upon the viewer where we're not allowed to see the actual content of the main character's secret, dirty dancing (though it can't have been as good as Jennifer Grey (who, I just realized, was also named "Baby," and/or Patrick Swayze). Thus, I've decided to construct a deleted scene which I vainly hope to see on the DVD/BluRay release:

DELETED SCENE

[BABY is on stage, all eyes intent upon her, preparing for the mind-bending eroticism that they had been promised by the Russian lady from “Bullwinkle.”]

NATASHA: Leestahn too zee myuuzeek, and find your fleeeduhm.

BABY: … [She begins swaying, left to right, wielding her camel-toe like a wizard’s cloak in a daring proclamation of post-feminist power-reclamation].

NATASHA: Beeehold… ze dahnce!

[BABY grabs an invisible katana, which she begins swinging like an MLB player who has mistaken his steroid injection and  accidentally slammed straight PCP into his ass. She twirls in precarious circles, making a loud buzzing sound while extending her arms to imitate airplane wings]

BABY: Pee-ooo-pee-ooo! B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-kaboom! Blam-blam!

CREEPY, FAT UGLY MAN #312: What… what the hell is she doing?

CREEPY, LESS FAT BUT MORE UGLY MAN #214: That so just killed my boner… where did my boner go?

[BABY transitions into a leaping frenzy of amateurish round-kicks, punching wildly at the air like a dizzy toddler who has just discovered why you don’t put your head in a plastic bag.]

BABY: Hiiiiya! Kee-yee! Whhaaaaaa-taaa!

CREEPY, FAT UGLY MAN #312: Err… what are we supposed to do here? Do I throw money to make her stop?

CREEPY, LESS FAT BUT MORE UGLY MAN #214: Just wait it out, bro. I don’t feel so good about this. I’m a little scared, actually.

[As if coming out of a trance, BABY ceases her motion, her tired limbs dangling weakly. She looks around the room in silence, a little ashamed, but with the inner-strength of a half-naked ninja.]

CREEPY, LESS FAT BUT MORE UGLY MAN #214: [whispering] Oh, thank god. C’mon – let’s clap. Clap or else she’ll do it again, dammit – I don’t think I could take that. [Slowly starts clapping]

[The clapping is matched by the other, bewildered men in the room].

Speed 2: Electric Boogaloo

The following is a scene from “Speed 2,” which is almost unarguably one of the greatest cinematic triumphs to ever take the form of “large, multi-passenger vehicle charging out of control.” However, in the spirit of “esprit d’escalier,” the conversation finishes how it should have finished, instead of how it actually finishes. I have chosen this scene because it stands out in particular as a hallmark of the perceptive, organic dialogue that the series is best known for (outside of single-handedly reinventing the brilliant career of thespian-master Keanu Reeves).

The film opens with a clever and grittily realistic DMV driving test for Sandra Bullock’s character, Annie Brunette Lady, whose honest and moving struggles with having a vagina are interfering with her automotive performance, and who barely survives the ordeal, likely maiming a truck driver and several other innocent civilians in the process, all the while discussing her deeply personal relationship problems with her driving instructor – I think we’ve all been there.

Of course, life works in funny ways, and as a testament to those strange coincidences, her crashing into a parked cop car happens to land her face-to-face with said boyfriend, Alex Hasacock, who thus is forced to reveal that his true line of work is not the police work he claimed to enjoy on Venice Beach, but as a SWAT Policeman on Venice Beach. This kind of Shakespearean plot-turn can really only be appreciated through viewing, so I will not try to describe the poetry of cinemathique that is evinced through the masterful direction of the director.

This brings us to our scene, as shortly thereafter Alex whisks Annie away on a Caribbean cruise – both to apologize for his conniving duplicity, and because he was going to anyway. The subtleness of this character development, I must say, is to such a degree that it becomes almost completely and utterly imperceptible. They embark on their journey, and it is there that the film really “begins.”

Alex has just finished communicating with a deaf girl through ASL, which he learned because he “wanted to know another language,” and which is rendered totally unnecessary because they’re both mouthing the words anyway. The deaf girl’s uptight father is staring disapprovingly, not so much out of the creepiness of a 35-year old man striking up a conversation across the ledo deck with his 12-year old daughter, but because he recognizes what a shameless contrivance this will be when Alex has to communicate crucial, life-saving information without being heard.

I must reiterate: this dialogue is actually in the movie, word-for-word, and I only suggest the alternate ending because after this point, I don’t know what happened because I got up from my couch to take a dump.

Alex: She says you’re beautiful, and our kids will be beautiful.

Annie: I don’t know about kids.

Garish Midwesterner: So, what – kids aren’t on the menu?

Annie: Sure, they’re on the menu – it just depends on who’s ordering.

[Garish Midwesterner leaves the table because she reads the stage directions]

Alex: So, can I order a la carte?

Annie: Wait a minute; I’m not even sure you’re in my section.

Alex: I specifically requested this table.

Annie: Hmm, I don’t know – are you a good tipper?

Alex: It depends on the service.

Annie: Well, there’s always service with a smile for you.

Alex [Gently cupping her mandible]: That’s good, because I think I’m going to stay for a while.

Annie: Wait – are you serious right now?

____________________________________

[Esprit d’escalier enters here]

____________________________________

Alex: Serious about what? What the hell are we even talking about right now?

Annie: I’m really not too sure, to tell the truth. Okay – so we started off with kids, right?

Alex: Yes. Definitely. Kids. And then you compared them to…

Annie: - Food on a dinner menu.

Alex: Right – this is making sense now. Because that dye-jobbed yokel mentioned a cliché, and in lieu of actual wit, we decided to just start running with it, like we were…

Annie: Out of control?

Alex: U-huh. So then I called you the waitress, because that’s really the only thing you could be if the food was our children…

Annie: Hold up – take it back a sec’; why is our children food again?

Alex: No, I’m going to lose it if I stop. You’re the waitress, the food’s our unborn baby – or babies, I’m not ruling anything out here – and then I wanted to order…. what was it… a la carte?

Annie: Yeah… like, what does that even mean?

Alex: I’m not sure, it really just sounded like something to say right then – isn’t that, ummm, when you only order one thing at a time?

Annie: Like when you order a Jumbo Jack – just the burger?

Alex: Exactly. And they’re always like “no combo?” And you’re like “No… just the burger” as if you had to justify not wanting those soggy fries and a watered-down Dr. Pepper for three dollars…

Annie: Right? Wait – but how does that apply to children? Does that mean you don’t want twins?

Alex: Um… I guess – wait…

Annie: Oh my god, Alex – are you going to kill one of our unborn twins? Is that what you’re trying to say? What kind of monster –

Alex: No- no, god no, that couldn’t be it. What, actually, was I saying? Great Master of Puppets – what the hell could I have been trying to say?

Annie: I – I don’t know, Alex. You’re starting to scare me… why are we saying any of this?

Alex: Wait – what about what you said? I’m not in your section? So, you’re a waitress who carries fetuses on a platter for human consumption, but you won’t serve me because of where the goddam hostess told me to sit? What is wrong with you?

Annie: Oh, sweet anal-fissure of Saturn, I think you’re right. And then – what did I say – I asked you if you were a good tipper… why? I’m serving you things that came from my uterus; what would you be tipping me for?

Alex: Oh no. Oh, dear Spider-Man-the-Musical, no. I think… Annie, honey, I think you’re – a…

Annie:  - Don’t say it -

Ales:  - A –

Annie: - Please, don’t say it –

Alex: - A terrible actress. I’m sorry, but that’s the only thing any of this could possibly mean.

Annie: …Oh. Well, yeah. No, totally; I get that. You’re a complete train-wreck yourself, after all.

Alex: You think? Like, no der. Pffft.

Annie: Sha!

Alex: Kkkkkhh.

Annie: [Makes fart noise with her hand and mouth]

Alex: [Makes fart noise with his anal cavity]

[Both start laughing. The camera pans to the deaf girl, who stares directly into the lens and signs “who farted?” before holding her nose. The ship blows up].

-Fin-

The Old Spaghetti Incident

My time at The Old Spaghetti Factory was short. Having recently come back from a year-long bender that was my first year of college in San Francisco, I mistakenly thought that the lateral-at-best move from "general employee" at a local pizza joint to busboy at OSF was somehow a vertical one. Mainly, it was my friend Jonathan who hornswaggled me into it, with the promise of a generous (five dollars an hour plus tips) wage, and a thrilling shift-meal of Mizithra cheese (a toothsome treat, to be sure). To his credit, the salary was technically more than I was then making, and the servers did tip us out (based on a complex calculus of variables including how much they got, how efficient you were, and how much social damage you could do to them if they stiffed you - the derivative of which, when applied to myself, yielded very little). In short, the only real earnings I saw from my service there was the gained appreciation of what an utterly thankless and miserable job a busboy has. Of course, shuffling from station to station with a decanter of ice water while dodging looks from the patrons who'd caught a whiff of my perpetual whiskey-sweats simply could not be endured for long, and I decided one day that I just had to go. The problem was that on that day, I wasn't there yet. Therein lies the regret.

I was somewhere in Fullerton, with the same friend who had gotten me the job in the first place, when I realized that I was due at work in less than an hour and I was definitely not going to make it to Duarte on time. To clarify the sheer history involved in this moment, I will mention that I had to use a pay-phone to call work (they're those weird boxes with buttons and a slot that have large, unused books hanging from them). My actual conversation went something like "Hello? Yeah, it's Tom. I'm not coming in today. Or ever. Again. I'm quitting. Sorry." The manager replied that he hoped this would someday bite me in the ass (apparently aware that the threat of "you'll never work in this town again" was severely lessened by both the fact that he could only have levied the austere offices of the Old Spaghetti Factory against me and the fact that town in question was Duarte). They mailed me my check, and I never saw any of them again. Altogether unsatisfying, yes?

The "staircase wit" came over a decade later, when I was dining at one of their fine establishments (which are much better places at which to eat than to be employed), and my partner ordered the "Meat-Lover's Platter," which included their eponymous "old spaghetti" adorned with two large meatballs and a curved Italian sausage. I think you can see where this is going. What *should* have happened was the following:

I arrive at work over an hour late, walking past the scowling glare of my manager to take my place at the bussing station. After the heat dies down, I continue doing the ridiculously mediocre job I had become renowned for barely doing, and lie in wait for someone to order the aforementioned platter, whereupon I offer to assist the server in unloading the tray of food. In the one moment of dexterity I would have displayed in my entire tenure at the restaurant (and arguably much longer before and after which point), I rotate the sausage ninety degrees, gingerly (and lovingly) orienting it so it protrudes from the meatballs (which, if I've failed to mention it, are resting in an appetizing pool of red sauce), thus seamlessly rendering the appearance of a large specimen of bleeding genitals. "Bon Appetit!" I exclaim, licking the sauce from my fingers with the selfsame gesture of a proud chef granting his blessing upon the diner before I drop my apron to the ground and walk out the front door, the confused whimpering of the young girl in front of whom I placed the dish fading away in the crisp air outside.

So, Darren, or whatever your name was who I let down so sorely, I hope this makes up for my quitting so unceremoniously. It so clearly could have been worse, though.