You are looking at posts that were written in the month of November in the year 2007.
As easy as demonstrated by the security guard at the gate this morning. I pulled up to show him my badge and he said,
“Alright, you da man. Handle ya bizness now, George.”
“Thanks man,” was all I could managed as I chuckled.
“Alright now, baby.”
Best Thursday I’ve had in weeks.
It’s only appropeaux that the marriage of the largest and smallest would yield such promising fruit, the seeds of which, when scattered far and wide, have the potential to grow into a foundation-shaking shift in the way we interact with the planet. What am I talking about?
Nanosolar. Say it out loud. Let it roll off your tongue. Be among the first, for soon it will be on every tongue.
Leave it to a company in Silicon Valley to free solar energy from the expense and complexity of silicon. I’ve been preaching the gospel of the Sun for years, patiently awaiting the day that technology caught up with the economy. That day is here, my friends, at one third the price of coal. If we no longer have to fight over cheap, clean, abundant energy, imagine the real possibility for peace among humans.
This is cause for celebration.
I see a lot of movies. No, seriously. A lot. I’d estimate it at about 90% of major releases. One in ten I will refuse to see on principle, but even then, I see a lot of stinkers. And lately, I’m becoming more and more disturbed by violence in movies. Not that they’re getting more violent, which is arguable, but perhaps that I’m becoming more sensitive to portrayals of violence. Every day it becomes harder for me to see the artistic merit in or believe any justification for abusing the suspension of disbelief and inserting powerfully negative images of human depravity directly into the minds of millions of viewers.
Regardless of whether it’s something they “want to see,” or it’s “a reflection of the way things really are,” or “it sells popcorn.” But I digress.
I don’t get to see art films anymore. I saw as many as I could while at school in Knoxville, but now that I live on Merritt Island, the closest arthouse theater is nearly an hour away. I guess east Tennessee isn’t so backward after all, huh? I used to be 15 minutes from a theater that had ten art and independent films going at any one time. Take that, Orlando. But I’m digressing. Again.
All of this is to say: I love film. Really, really love it. I am passionate about it. I sometimes avoid previews so as to experience a movie fresh, with no hype or preconceptions. I use movies as motivation to get in a six-mile bike ride. I put up with a lot of dross just to make sure I don’t miss the gems. I would write reviews if someone paid me to do it. I’m giving you all this lead-in to prepare you for what I’m about to say.
If you haven’t seen Steve Carell and Juliette Binoche in the new film “Dan in Real Life,” go see it. NOW.
I could wax poetic about the soundtrack (Sondre Lerche!), the setting and cinematography, the script, the acting, everything. But I don’t want to spoil it for you. Trust me when I say this: this is the best romantic comedy of the past five years. But even to pigeonhole it into that category is a disservice. It’s also a family movie…but no. It’s more than that. This is one of those movies that defies genre. This is film at its best: a reflection of life. What it is, and how we want it to be. Projected. Right there on the screen.
This movie is real. It makes me want to have family gatherings like that. It reminds me of the good times I’ve had with my family. I couldn’t stop laughing at the sometimes delightfully subtle humor throughout the film. I nearly cried three times. But most of all, and I’m being completely genuine here: this movie gave me hope.
I don’t own many DVDs. I don’t watch many movies more than once. Maybe 1 or 2%. This is a film that I will add to my small library. This is a film I would want my children to see.
Go see it.
So I’m minding my own business at the urinal, lost in thought as I hearken to nature’s urgent call. Per man rule #26, I ignore the sudden appearance in my peripheral vision of a figure at the stall to my right. Without warning he breaches the unspoken code of silence in the porcelain palace. In an instant I recognize the voice as my coworker Pete, but maintain my posture and refuse to look up.
“It’s attached to you, you’ve seen it a million times, and you have a huge target. There’s no need to stand their gazing admiringly at yourself.”
It took a full five seconds for his words to register. Before I could even begin to laugh, he continued.
“I mean, I know it’s magnificent. I’m sure women tremble at the sight. But you should just look at the wall like the rest of us and get the job done.”
It’s quite an experience to chortle, somewhat uncomfortably, half-wondering whether to laugh or to be embarrassed, all while holding your member in your hand.
“This is by far the best toilet room conversation I have ever had,” I managed to muster.
Later, as I chuckled to myself while I washed my hands, the metajoke dawned on me.
His name is Peter Johnson.