Season One is done. There will be a brief hiatus before Season Two begins.
I am still unemployed. I feel that I am about to cross that bridge into not-funny-anymore territory very soon. Don't misunderstand. I am working a lot. I have several projects in the works, all of which are exciting and new and almost cripplingly ambitious. Also, one of my scripts made it into the second round of consideration for the Sundance Screenwriters' Lab. The deadline to send in my final draft is very soon so I've been working diligently on my rewrite. (Now I get to say that I have the near-approval of Sundance. Or, more succintly, "SUNDANCE, MOTHERFUCKER.")
To top it all off, I'm moving to a new apartment at the end of the month.
The Captive Man has been good for me. It keeps me busy, for one thing, but it also allows me to practice and grow. Here are a couple of things I've learned:
1. The best method for applying peanut butter to your dog's balls is to use the back side of the spoon - the convex side. This allows for a smooth peanut-butter-to-scrotum transfer.
2. I love writing. Truthfully, I've always known this about myself but I suppose now I've learned to extract joy from it. To paraphrase Bradley Whitford, in my everyday life I feel like I'm swimming against the current, when I'm writing I feel like I'm surfing.
We'll be back soon!
Home of the Victory Shower
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Master Race
The Captive Man - Episode 13: Master Race from Christopher Kim on Vimeo.
Dog breeders baffle me. Their customers baffle me. And any time people talk about purity when it comes to bloodlines, my face reflexively transforms into a disapproving glare.I adopted Keaton from the Austin Humane Society. I knew he was the one pretty much right away. When I stuck my hand in the slot at the bottom of the cage, he laid down and pressed his back into it so that I could more easily pet him.
I cannot imagine that a purebred dog could provide me with anymore warmth or love. I certainly would not pay thousands of dollars to a breeder to find out.
There are so many dogs out there worthy of our love. They are crowding our shelters. Don't be stupid. If you're looking for a pet, adopt from your local shelter.
Now then. Holocaust jokes for everyone!
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
For MacMillan's Consideration
This could've been an angry blog post, you know. Because wouldn't any self-respecting writer be horrified that such a thing as MacMillan Readers exist?
MacMillan Readers, in case you're unaware, are "retellings" of great works of literature. They use "simplified" language. (I'm sorry I'm using so many quotation marks. It's a defense mechanism.) As if a novel or a play were nothing but its plot. This is the equivalent of taking a sumptuous five-course meal, boiling down all its nutritional content into a pill, and expecting us not to care about the difference.
Language has a profound effect on the very way we think. You know where I learned that? A book called 1984 in which the evil powers-that-be rewrite all literature in a new language called "Newspeak," which strives to simplify the English language to the most basic phrases and words. Why? To limit the thoughts of its citizens so they can be more easily controlled. It should be noted that 1984 is conspicuously unavailable as a MacMillan Reader.
But I'm a realist. This is the way the world works. When we feel that we're struggling to meet a certain standard, we simply lower it. What I mean to say is: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Therefore, I am proposing that MacMillan no longer limit themselves to literature. I would like to be at the forefront of this expansion. Our students need us to lower standards in every subject. After all, how else will they learn?
For MacMillan's consideration:
MacMillan Readers, in case you're unaware, are "retellings" of great works of literature. They use "simplified" language. (I'm sorry I'm using so many quotation marks. It's a defense mechanism.) As if a novel or a play were nothing but its plot. This is the equivalent of taking a sumptuous five-course meal, boiling down all its nutritional content into a pill, and expecting us not to care about the difference.
Language has a profound effect on the very way we think. You know where I learned that? A book called 1984 in which the evil powers-that-be rewrite all literature in a new language called "Newspeak," which strives to simplify the English language to the most basic phrases and words. Why? To limit the thoughts of its citizens so they can be more easily controlled. It should be noted that 1984 is conspicuously unavailable as a MacMillan Reader.
But I'm a realist. This is the way the world works. When we feel that we're struggling to meet a certain standard, we simply lower it. What I mean to say is: If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.
Therefore, I am proposing that MacMillan no longer limit themselves to literature. I would like to be at the forefront of this expansion. Our students need us to lower standards in every subject. After all, how else will they learn?
For MacMillan's consideration:
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Dear J&J Towing
Author's Note: I posted an abridged version of this letter as a Yelp review for the company in question. See it here.
Dear J&J Towing,
On Saturday, April 16, 2011, you towed my Honda Fit out of the parking lot of an apartment complex on Riverside Drive. It had a very nice sweater in it. It wasn't cashmere but it was nice, and it accentuated my arms. You may think, "How could it possibly have accentuated your arms?" to which I can only reply, "By making them look sexier than they are." I had taken it off because I was going to a crawfish boil, and I didn't want to ruin it because it was a nice sweater and it accentuated my arms.
The crawfish boil itself was fairly fun, though you should know that I'm not usually a very social person. I had just had a Big Red, though, so I was caffeinated and caffeine has always lowered my inhibitions in a way that alcohol never really could. So I was more talkative than usual, which was probably nice for my friends.
I might add that this was my first social outing after having lost my job a few days prior.
Dear J&J Towing,
On Saturday, April 16, 2011, you towed my Honda Fit out of the parking lot of an apartment complex on Riverside Drive. It had a very nice sweater in it. It wasn't cashmere but it was nice, and it accentuated my arms. You may think, "How could it possibly have accentuated your arms?" to which I can only reply, "By making them look sexier than they are." I had taken it off because I was going to a crawfish boil, and I didn't want to ruin it because it was a nice sweater and it accentuated my arms.
The crawfish boil itself was fairly fun, though you should know that I'm not usually a very social person. I had just had a Big Red, though, so I was caffeinated and caffeine has always lowered my inhibitions in a way that alcohol never really could. So I was more talkative than usual, which was probably nice for my friends.
I might add that this was my first social outing after having lost my job a few days prior.
Monday, July 4, 2011
For a Friend
Author's Note: This essay was written shortly after my car went missing on April 16, 2011. A follow-up essay will be published later this week.
You have never let me down. This is one of those facts that escape one's notice until it is too late.
Remember when I worked at FedEx? Working in 120 degree trailers, making walls of boxes. I'd come out every day, my clothes soaked completely through with sweat. I sat in your seat, laid my head back and let the air conditioner do its work. I sweated into your seats.
This continued when I moved to Texas with its sweltering summers. I fit all of my meager belongings into you - a feat that I bragged about any time someone asked about you. I didn't need an SUV or a moving truck. I had you and my mad Tetris skills.
Remember when I got Keaton? How, on that drive home from the shelter, he kept stepping on me to look out the driver's side window? Keaton will miss you, too, I think. As much as I sweated into your seats, his fur has married itself to your upholstery. It is a part of you that no vacuum can remove.
This past Saturday, on my last day of work my mom witnessed me crying for the first time in many years. But who was it that let me hide in its shell and let me shed a few tears in private first? I blared "All My Friends," didn't I? As loud as I could. It's a great song, and it always sounded especially great when it came from your speakers - that repeating piano, that repeating bass, James Murphy's insistent voice - as it all bounced around in your small interior. I could feel the music in my chest. Even now, listening to the same song on my fancy surround sound system at home, it isn't the same. It's the difference between hearing your friend play a song next to you, and hearing that same song in an empty arena. The urgency evaporates. You don't feel the body heat rising.
I know you're just a car. I know this sounds like a goddamn Honda ad. I know that I'll probably never see you again, or if I do you will be unrecognizably traumatized. I have learned that there is not enough good in the world. I have learned it suddenly and completely.
But at least I can say that - for a few years, anyway - I had a good car.
You have never let me down. This is one of those facts that escape one's notice until it is too late.
Remember when I worked at FedEx? Working in 120 degree trailers, making walls of boxes. I'd come out every day, my clothes soaked completely through with sweat. I sat in your seat, laid my head back and let the air conditioner do its work. I sweated into your seats.
This continued when I moved to Texas with its sweltering summers. I fit all of my meager belongings into you - a feat that I bragged about any time someone asked about you. I didn't need an SUV or a moving truck. I had you and my mad Tetris skills.
Remember when I got Keaton? How, on that drive home from the shelter, he kept stepping on me to look out the driver's side window? Keaton will miss you, too, I think. As much as I sweated into your seats, his fur has married itself to your upholstery. It is a part of you that no vacuum can remove.
This past Saturday, on my last day of work my mom witnessed me crying for the first time in many years. But who was it that let me hide in its shell and let me shed a few tears in private first? I blared "All My Friends," didn't I? As loud as I could. It's a great song, and it always sounded especially great when it came from your speakers - that repeating piano, that repeating bass, James Murphy's insistent voice - as it all bounced around in your small interior. I could feel the music in my chest. Even now, listening to the same song on my fancy surround sound system at home, it isn't the same. It's the difference between hearing your friend play a song next to you, and hearing that same song in an empty arena. The urgency evaporates. You don't feel the body heat rising.
I know you're just a car. I know this sounds like a goddamn Honda ad. I know that I'll probably never see you again, or if I do you will be unrecognizably traumatized. I have learned that there is not enough good in the world. I have learned it suddenly and completely.
But at least I can say that - for a few years, anyway - I had a good car.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Point/Counterpoint
The Captive Man: Episode 11 - Point/Counterpoint from Christopher Kim on Vimeo.
People don't know how to argue anymore. The word "argue" even has a negative connotation. You're picturing people getting red in the face, suppressing their rage with all their might.
The art of arguing is dead, and it is no Lazarus. One wonders how any government functions at all when you consider basic human psychology. Did you know that when your beliefs are challenged with cold, hard facts, your factually incorrect beliefs actually get stronger?
It's no surprise then that some of the most powerful people in the world still think that a basic scientific principle like evolution is debatable, and that complete mumbo jumbo like Intelligent Design should be taught in school. (After Intro to Astrology but before Secrets of The Secret, I would assume.)
And, just so you know, I have a lot of practical experience. I live in Austin. I've spent countless hours trying to convince conspiracy theorists that that contrail in the sky is actually from a normal jet, not some mysterious rocket sent to doom us all. It's exhausting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)