Time machines are cool, right? Who wouldn't want a flux capacitor and a giant clock attached to a chair and an electrical orb that encircles your body taking you back and forth through time and space like your own personal time chauffeur?
Me. I wouldn't. How come? Because time machines, no matter how cool they seem, don't make sense.
In 1895, Jules Verne completely screwed over all of fiction by inventing the concept of the "time machine," forever destroying common sense.
Right now, you might be asking yourself, "But Phil, Back to the Future was so awesome!" I know, I know. It was awesome, but let's think about it for a second.
The premise of the film is thus: Marty McFly, procurer of orange vests, accidentally travels back in time, where he is stuck without help from his mentor, Doc Brown.
So far, so good.
However, at the end of the film, Marty decides to plan his arrival back to the future at exactly five minutes before the death of Doc Brown, so that Marty may prevent said death.
Again, so far, so good, right?
No! Marty has a freakin' time machine! He can place himself anywhere within time, and he chooses to do it only a mere five minutes before the death of this friend and mentor? Why only five minutes?
See where I'm going with this?
Just in case you don't, let me give you another example.
Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is not only a story of magic, but also time travel. Hermione Granger, forever straight-A student, borrows a time machine simply for the use of taking several classes at the same time.
Putting aside the fact that this must be the most insipid use of a time machine to date, Hermione, Harry, and the entire wizarding community completely miss the fact that this time machine could be used for the most banal mission ever: to kill Voldemort as a child and completely skip the torturous series of events that puts this entire story into motion.
Simply, why don't we see Harry jump into the past, find baby Tom Riddle (a.k.a. Lord Voldemort) in his basinet, fast asleep, and melt his face off with his wand?
Or, why doesn't Harry go back in time, find said baby, and deliver him to a set of adoptive parents who treat little Tom Riddle like the bestest child in the whole world, perhaps leading Tom Riddle to become the next Dumbledore instead of the Merlin equivalent of Hitler?
As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, time machines are fully capable of solving their own problems. Perhaps Terminator is the only film to ever get it right, by using a time machine to prevent something from happening, rather than something happening because of a time machine.
However, Terminator presents a-whole-nother problem with time machines - how can something happen because someone went back into the past and told you it happened? Example - John Connor is born because his father traveled back in time to impregnate his mother, yet the father only went back in time because John Connor told him to.
Huh?
Exactly. Time machines suck.
7.28.2009
7.21.2009
Writing Exercise: Road Trip
Two characters are in a car together, making a road trip from one side of the country to the other. One character knows a secret about the car that the other does not. Write a scene between these two characters in the car.
INT. CAR - DAY
NOAH enters the car, having just filled the car's gas tank. He looks haggard, tired, defeated by...something.
In the passenger seat is KATIE, asleep and with her forehead against the window.
Noah starts the car and begins driving on a highway in the desert.
NOAH
Hey, Katie, you awake? Katie?
No response.
NOAH
Look, I know you're not sleeping. You can't sleep in cars. Even with some Dramamine, you suck at it. So don't try to fool me, right? Katie?
No response.
NOAH
Honey, I know these moves haven't been easy, but this will be the last one, I promise. You hear me? Last. One. I promise.
On the road, a car cuts in from of Noah and starts honking incessantly. Noah slams his fist against the steering wheel in anger.
NOAH
I'm going the speed limit, asshole! God dammit!
Katie still doesn't stir.
NOAH
Kate, what the hell was I supposed to do, huh? I'm not my father. I can't just run out and be the hero. That's not who I am.
Noah tries to collect himself. He runs a hand through his hair, jostled by his angry outburst.
NOAH
This guy - I just don't...I mean, I aced high school. College was a breeze. I even got you, eventually. But this guy - he's a problem I don't know how to solve. My dad always told me, if you study them long enough, you'll always see where they falter. Normally, Dad just picked up one of the thugs and got them to talk. 'Thugs are just bread crumbs to the witch,' he always said. But this guy, there's no bread crumbs. I can't find him when I try, and then he pops out of the blue and, well, you know. And it's not like we can go to the cops.
Noah looks over at Katie, longingly, tears almost in his eyes.
NOAH
I'm tired of moving. I am. I want that house we always imagined. White picket fences are cliche, but, dammit, let's be cliche. I can't even get that collie I always wanted, cause I'm afraid this guy will snap its neck.
Noah reaches a hand over to Katie. She startles, but doesn't look at him.
NOAH
Katie, I can't do this without you. If I lost you, or if I've already lost you, I won't keep running. I'll just give up. I love you, Katie.
Finally, Katie turns to look at him. She moves her lips to talk, but only muffled sounds come out. From between her lips, Noah can see a gag in her mouth. Katie emits a muffled scream.
A black gloved hand reaches up from the back seat and grabs Katie by the neck. In the rearview mirror, Noah can see the gnarled, old face of THE PHANTOM.
THE PHANTOM
Just keep driving, little Skipper. We're almost there.
The car drives deeper into the desert, where there are no other cars around.
7.15.2009
I'm in Love with Plastic
When I was a wee boy, I collected action figures. Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers, Batman, Superman, Star Wars. I had them all. Not to mention their vehicles - Turtle Van, Batmobile, Landspeeder - and accessories - Batcave, Megazord, Hoth Rebel Base.
Every time I got a new toy, unless it was Christmas, my birthday, or some other holiday involving the giving of gifts, I went through the same routine of acquiring them. The routine always began with me scurrying through the aisles of whatever store we were in - if memory serves correct, it was often the now-gone-and-dearly-missed Hills department store. I knew immediately where the toy aisle was, as I had visited it a hundred times before. I always passed the WWF action figures, and I faintly remember wondering whoever bought the Star Trek: The Next Generation action figures. I would head straight for the "superhero-type" figures, though this sometimes included Luke Skywalker or Han Solo, and I would find that one figure that my collection would be incomplete without.
Step Two of the routine would be opening the velcro flap of my junior wallet and counting the crinkled ones I had placed inside. Every dollar bill meant one completed week of chores, and as the dollars increased in my wallet week after week, it meant opportunity. Opportunity for something exciting.
After seven weeks, I was normally able to afford the basic action figure - solid plastic body, movable arms and legs, and usually an accessory of some kind, be it ray gun or missile launcher. After nine or ten weeks, I could afford a deluxe model action figure, which might include a more detailed body design, removable helmet or chest plate, and several accessories or weapons. Batmen came with removable cloth capes. Jedi knights came with blasters and lightsabers. The key was remembering which accessory went with which figure, though they all ended up sharing anyway.
The thing about my scrimping and saving was, I wasn't very good at it. I would save for maybe three or four weeks before the twitching in my leg kicked in. I would feel restless, and no amount of running and jumping outside would satisfy me. After another week, the dreams would start. I would see Hasbro commercials in my sleep. I could see myself playing with these new toys in some wonderland of soft carpet and multiple ledges, giving Arctic Chill Batman an advantageous jump on the Penguin.
If I was into this phase by the time I reached the department store, I knew I wouldn't be able to walk away from these wonderful toys that stared out at me from their cells of thin plastic and cardboard. I would have to rescue one of them, two if I could, and give them the freedom that only my toy box could provide.
Really, when I was looking at the toys on the shelf, and then counting my money, I was figuring out how much my mother would have to pay. I was figuring out the difference in my head, and hoping the remainder would not be too much. After ten minutes or so of staring at these toys, my mother would find me. As I think back on it, I'm pretty sure she knew the routine as well as I did, but never let on. She'd always ask the simple question, What do you have there? I'd look up at her, with the best puppy dog eyes I could muster, and reply, Nothing. I'd put the toy down and just stare at it for a moment.
Ten minutes later, I'd be walking out of that store with the toy already freed from its package and in my hands. Depending on how expensive the figure was, as well as how long it had been since I last got a toy using the same tactic, I might or might not owe my mother some of my future allowance money. But I didn't care, because I had acquired it. I had acquired the plastic.
I don't have these toys anymore. I wish I had kept one or two, just as reminders. I know I had about fifteen or so different versions of Batman, including one that changed color in water, and one that had a thick vinyl cape and a medieval mask, and one that shot a grappling hook from its back. I had a Robin with a karate chop, and a Superman with a magnet inside that repelled another magnet, hidden in a kryptonite ring. I know I had Tupperware bins filled with others, but I can't remember who they were or what vehicle they could fit into.
All I really remember is the plastic. The feel of a fresh figure's plastic body was a drug to me. It was smooth, clean of blemish, and bright. The deluxe figures always had the most detail inlaid in the plastic, like an insignia or control panel, and I felt like I was touching the work of a master craftsman. Even at that age, I knew these figures were made in factories, poured hot into molds and assembled with joints, but they still felt special.
Nowadays, I still have my love affair with plastic. When I purchased a Nintendo Wii several years ago, I held the remote in my hands and marveled at the pure white of it. I did the same with my iMac two years later. There's just something about plastic, how solid the color looks. It's not like wood that changes shades within the same piece. Plastic is pure. It's whole.
Maybe this is just a symptom of my generation. Maybe this is just a sign that I am defined by my stuff. Or maybe I still seek out those plastic treasures because they remind me of the one thing I held so dear as a wee boy, the one thing I sought out in those cloth capes and plastic missile launchers with missile-launching, spring-loaded action. Maybe it's all about adventure.
Every time I got a new toy, unless it was Christmas, my birthday, or some other holiday involving the giving of gifts, I went through the same routine of acquiring them. The routine always began with me scurrying through the aisles of whatever store we were in - if memory serves correct, it was often the now-gone-and-dearly-missed Hills department store. I knew immediately where the toy aisle was, as I had visited it a hundred times before. I always passed the WWF action figures, and I faintly remember wondering whoever bought the Star Trek: The Next Generation action figures. I would head straight for the "superhero-type" figures, though this sometimes included Luke Skywalker or Han Solo, and I would find that one figure that my collection would be incomplete without.
Step Two of the routine would be opening the velcro flap of my junior wallet and counting the crinkled ones I had placed inside. Every dollar bill meant one completed week of chores, and as the dollars increased in my wallet week after week, it meant opportunity. Opportunity for something exciting.
After seven weeks, I was normally able to afford the basic action figure - solid plastic body, movable arms and legs, and usually an accessory of some kind, be it ray gun or missile launcher. After nine or ten weeks, I could afford a deluxe model action figure, which might include a more detailed body design, removable helmet or chest plate, and several accessories or weapons. Batmen came with removable cloth capes. Jedi knights came with blasters and lightsabers. The key was remembering which accessory went with which figure, though they all ended up sharing anyway.
The thing about my scrimping and saving was, I wasn't very good at it. I would save for maybe three or four weeks before the twitching in my leg kicked in. I would feel restless, and no amount of running and jumping outside would satisfy me. After another week, the dreams would start. I would see Hasbro commercials in my sleep. I could see myself playing with these new toys in some wonderland of soft carpet and multiple ledges, giving Arctic Chill Batman an advantageous jump on the Penguin.
If I was into this phase by the time I reached the department store, I knew I wouldn't be able to walk away from these wonderful toys that stared out at me from their cells of thin plastic and cardboard. I would have to rescue one of them, two if I could, and give them the freedom that only my toy box could provide.
Really, when I was looking at the toys on the shelf, and then counting my money, I was figuring out how much my mother would have to pay. I was figuring out the difference in my head, and hoping the remainder would not be too much. After ten minutes or so of staring at these toys, my mother would find me. As I think back on it, I'm pretty sure she knew the routine as well as I did, but never let on. She'd always ask the simple question, What do you have there? I'd look up at her, with the best puppy dog eyes I could muster, and reply, Nothing. I'd put the toy down and just stare at it for a moment.
Ten minutes later, I'd be walking out of that store with the toy already freed from its package and in my hands. Depending on how expensive the figure was, as well as how long it had been since I last got a toy using the same tactic, I might or might not owe my mother some of my future allowance money. But I didn't care, because I had acquired it. I had acquired the plastic.
I don't have these toys anymore. I wish I had kept one or two, just as reminders. I know I had about fifteen or so different versions of Batman, including one that changed color in water, and one that had a thick vinyl cape and a medieval mask, and one that shot a grappling hook from its back. I had a Robin with a karate chop, and a Superman with a magnet inside that repelled another magnet, hidden in a kryptonite ring. I know I had Tupperware bins filled with others, but I can't remember who they were or what vehicle they could fit into.
All I really remember is the plastic. The feel of a fresh figure's plastic body was a drug to me. It was smooth, clean of blemish, and bright. The deluxe figures always had the most detail inlaid in the plastic, like an insignia or control panel, and I felt like I was touching the work of a master craftsman. Even at that age, I knew these figures were made in factories, poured hot into molds and assembled with joints, but they still felt special.
Nowadays, I still have my love affair with plastic. When I purchased a Nintendo Wii several years ago, I held the remote in my hands and marveled at the pure white of it. I did the same with my iMac two years later. There's just something about plastic, how solid the color looks. It's not like wood that changes shades within the same piece. Plastic is pure. It's whole.
Maybe this is just a symptom of my generation. Maybe this is just a sign that I am defined by my stuff. Or maybe I still seek out those plastic treasures because they remind me of the one thing I held so dear as a wee boy, the one thing I sought out in those cloth capes and plastic missile launchers with missile-launching, spring-loaded action. Maybe it's all about adventure.
7.13.2009
Writing Exercise: Odaiba Park Gundam
As a creative writer myself, I have come to learn, love, and understand the fun and importance of writing exercises. They're like games for your pencil...or word processor. I hope to make it a routine of mine to post either exercises I have come up with myself or ones I have found useful, as well as post my own writing that resulted from the prompt.
So, without further ado, here is one of my own:
Writing Exercise: A character arrives in Odaiba Park in Tokyo and sees, for the first time ever, the 60-foot tall Gundam statue. Write for 10 minutes a stream-of-consciousness piece about what your character experiences, from a first-person point of view.
My Result:
I knew I was to come to Tokyo. I could feel it in the wind that fateful day three weeks ago. I woke up, and suddenly the world was different. It was more than simply the darkness that appeared in everyone's eyes. It was more than the dark shadows that clung about the everyday people like capes. It was in the wind, calling to me. Telling me to start my journey. To head west, to where I would find my destiny.
The boat rides were long. I watched women and children nearly starve, because they did not prepare like I had. My prepared daily rations of Mountain Dew and beef jerky lasted me nearly to the end of my trip, but in the last week I discovered the success of victory. I caught my first ship rat; it was fat and pampered by the ship's cook. His large body was easy to see hiding in the corners of my cabin that night, and he surprisingly tasted good. Perhaps the salt sea air had seasoned him. Perhaps I will find more in my journey home.
But I must not think of the journey home. I must think of this gargantuan standing before me. I have arrived late, and so I am nearly alone with the behemoth. I had dreams, day after day, of what might await me in Tokyo. One morning I awoke with the word "Odaiba" on my lips, and from then I was infatuated with what I would face there.
I thought perhaps a sea creature, born of volcanoes and the deep-sea abyss. I thought perhaps a shadow demon, like the one I expunged from the homeless man I battled weeks ago. I have come to learn the nature of the shadow demons - how they connect themselves to man, leeching off of his body; how they turn a man's compass away from his true north, perverting his duty from the light to the darkness. I have witnessed the fall of great men, because they unwittingly fell prey to the shadow demons. And, even though they can't thank me from their shallow graves, I know they are grateful the demon was removed, much like their heads.
But, in all of my pondering, I was wrong. I never thought a giant. I never thought a machine. I never thought my adversary would look so bright. He manipulates. He lies.
He wears white, like the most proud and ancient and wise of samurai, but he has no honor. Not like I! I shall use my great sword, the Whispering Thunder, to strike this steel giant down. I shall cut him into pieces, and then the townspeople will come to me and buy the pieces and hang them over their doorways to ward off the shadow demons. To warn them that a warrior still strides upon the mountains and the clouds of this earth. The shadow demons will be wary of these homes, for they shall call upon my protection. They shall call upon the great giant and demon slayer, Timothy-san!
So, without further ado, here is one of my own:
Writing Exercise: A character arrives in Odaiba Park in Tokyo and sees, for the first time ever, the 60-foot tall Gundam statue. Write for 10 minutes a stream-of-consciousness piece about what your character experiences, from a first-person point of view.
My Result:
I knew I was to come to Tokyo. I could feel it in the wind that fateful day three weeks ago. I woke up, and suddenly the world was different. It was more than simply the darkness that appeared in everyone's eyes. It was more than the dark shadows that clung about the everyday people like capes. It was in the wind, calling to me. Telling me to start my journey. To head west, to where I would find my destiny.
The boat rides were long. I watched women and children nearly starve, because they did not prepare like I had. My prepared daily rations of Mountain Dew and beef jerky lasted me nearly to the end of my trip, but in the last week I discovered the success of victory. I caught my first ship rat; it was fat and pampered by the ship's cook. His large body was easy to see hiding in the corners of my cabin that night, and he surprisingly tasted good. Perhaps the salt sea air had seasoned him. Perhaps I will find more in my journey home.
But I must not think of the journey home. I must think of this gargantuan standing before me. I have arrived late, and so I am nearly alone with the behemoth. I had dreams, day after day, of what might await me in Tokyo. One morning I awoke with the word "Odaiba" on my lips, and from then I was infatuated with what I would face there.
I thought perhaps a sea creature, born of volcanoes and the deep-sea abyss. I thought perhaps a shadow demon, like the one I expunged from the homeless man I battled weeks ago. I have come to learn the nature of the shadow demons - how they connect themselves to man, leeching off of his body; how they turn a man's compass away from his true north, perverting his duty from the light to the darkness. I have witnessed the fall of great men, because they unwittingly fell prey to the shadow demons. And, even though they can't thank me from their shallow graves, I know they are grateful the demon was removed, much like their heads.
But, in all of my pondering, I was wrong. I never thought a giant. I never thought a machine. I never thought my adversary would look so bright. He manipulates. He lies.
He wears white, like the most proud and ancient and wise of samurai, but he has no honor. Not like I! I shall use my great sword, the Whispering Thunder, to strike this steel giant down. I shall cut him into pieces, and then the townspeople will come to me and buy the pieces and hang them over their doorways to ward off the shadow demons. To warn them that a warrior still strides upon the mountains and the clouds of this earth. The shadow demons will be wary of these homes, for they shall call upon my protection. They shall call upon the great giant and demon slayer, Timothy-san!
7.11.2009
First Posts Are for Suckers
Welcome to The Minimalist's Journal. I could use this first post to tell you all about myself. In fact, I could probably spend days upon days telling you about my adventures to Europe after graduating from high school, whereupon I ran into Ferdinand, a university student form Spain, whom I spent three months with journeying across the great continent to my east, until I discovered he was really a Mexican hitman and was using my American good looks to avoid suspicion from Interpol agents.
I mean, I could tell you all about that, but I doubt you really want to hear it, so instead I'm going to jump right in and discuss some wild and crazy stuff I've been seeing around the news as of late.
First of all, Microsoft's Project Natal. I'll begin by asking, Why does Microsoft feel they can change the pronunciation of a word? If I were to write down the letters N-A-T-A-L and show it to any female, they'd ask me why I'm interested in child birth. But, Microsoft uses this word for a crazy, Wii-inspired, hands-free video game device, and suddenly it's "Nah-tall."
Anyway, I understand the appeal of this device. It looks neat. You can play games that require you to stand up, run around, swing your arms - all things you really want to do at midnight with your bros after eating three large cheese pizzas from Little Caesars.
Clearly, Microsoft is trying to siphon off some of the "casual gamer market" from Nintendo, but even the 9-year-olds learned that you can play Wii Sports while sitting down.
Now, I've watched several of the videos Microsoft has put out showing the power of Project Natal, and I can't help but think I'm being duped. I really think Microsoft is trying to pull a fast one here. There's no showing of any kind of interface. How does Natal know that I'm moving and not the person sitting behind me? How many games will this actually play? Are they on a disc or downloadable? How much will this cost? Microsoft hasn't released any answers, and I can't help but think they are hoping the Hype Monster will help sell their product.
Second, I'm a bit of a podcast nut. In the past year, I've put about a gagillion miles (I counted) on my car, The Tumbler, and I realized after the first several hundred or so that listening to radio can get boring. So, I got myself an iPod Touch and loaded it up with a smattering of different types of podcasts. In the last year, I've come to learn which podcasts consistantly deliver the awesome, while others are on iTunes only because the creators' mothers listen to them every week.
So, my current list of podcast subscriptions is as such:
1. Creative Screenwriting Magazine. I'm a film nerd and screenwriter, so listening to this is always a treat. Of course, since the host, Jeff Goldsmith, gets just about anybody and everybody for his screenings, you run the gammit of screenwriters, from Peter Morgan of Frost/Nixon to Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci of Transformers and Star Trek fame.
2. iFanboy. Josh, Ron, and Connor are like my ears' best friends. They're great guys who really know their stuff. They talk comics twice every week - once in an audio "Pick of the Week" podcast, and again in a video podcast where they discuss specific topics, titles, and creators in comics.
3. Maniacal Rage. Originally "The Garrett Murray Podcast," then renamed at the behest of co-host Shawn Morrison, these two guys talk about everything and anything. It's basically just listening to two guys with the occassional sketch here and there, but it's always hilarious. I came upon this podcast more recently than the other two, but I have already listened to all of the episodes at least twice, and it already has a special playlist on the iPod. Also, check out MRTV for their video podcast.
Third, Reese's Pieces are awesome. Seriously. I have had a bowl of these bite-size pieces of peanut-buttery heaven on my desk for the past week, and it's been the best week of my life. No wonder E.T. didn't want to leave Earth.
I mean, I could tell you all about that, but I doubt you really want to hear it, so instead I'm going to jump right in and discuss some wild and crazy stuff I've been seeing around the news as of late.
First of all, Microsoft's Project Natal. I'll begin by asking, Why does Microsoft feel they can change the pronunciation of a word? If I were to write down the letters N-A-T-A-L and show it to any female, they'd ask me why I'm interested in child birth. But, Microsoft uses this word for a crazy, Wii-inspired, hands-free video game device, and suddenly it's "Nah-tall."
Anyway, I understand the appeal of this device. It looks neat. You can play games that require you to stand up, run around, swing your arms - all things you really want to do at midnight with your bros after eating three large cheese pizzas from Little Caesars.
Clearly, Microsoft is trying to siphon off some of the "casual gamer market" from Nintendo, but even the 9-year-olds learned that you can play Wii Sports while sitting down.
Now, I've watched several of the videos Microsoft has put out showing the power of Project Natal, and I can't help but think I'm being duped. I really think Microsoft is trying to pull a fast one here. There's no showing of any kind of interface. How does Natal know that I'm moving and not the person sitting behind me? How many games will this actually play? Are they on a disc or downloadable? How much will this cost? Microsoft hasn't released any answers, and I can't help but think they are hoping the Hype Monster will help sell their product.
Second, I'm a bit of a podcast nut. In the past year, I've put about a gagillion miles (I counted) on my car, The Tumbler, and I realized after the first several hundred or so that listening to radio can get boring. So, I got myself an iPod Touch and loaded it up with a smattering of different types of podcasts. In the last year, I've come to learn which podcasts consistantly deliver the awesome, while others are on iTunes only because the creators' mothers listen to them every week.
So, my current list of podcast subscriptions is as such:
1. Creative Screenwriting Magazine. I'm a film nerd and screenwriter, so listening to this is always a treat. Of course, since the host, Jeff Goldsmith, gets just about anybody and everybody for his screenings, you run the gammit of screenwriters, from Peter Morgan of Frost/Nixon to Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci of Transformers and Star Trek fame.
2. iFanboy. Josh, Ron, and Connor are like my ears' best friends. They're great guys who really know their stuff. They talk comics twice every week - once in an audio "Pick of the Week" podcast, and again in a video podcast where they discuss specific topics, titles, and creators in comics.
3. Maniacal Rage. Originally "The Garrett Murray Podcast," then renamed at the behest of co-host Shawn Morrison, these two guys talk about everything and anything. It's basically just listening to two guys with the occassional sketch here and there, but it's always hilarious. I came upon this podcast more recently than the other two, but I have already listened to all of the episodes at least twice, and it already has a special playlist on the iPod. Also, check out MRTV for their video podcast.
Third, Reese's Pieces are awesome. Seriously. I have had a bowl of these bite-size pieces of peanut-buttery heaven on my desk for the past week, and it's been the best week of my life. No wonder E.T. didn't want to leave Earth.
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