Random Erik

When you lose something, or something is destroyed, it helps to say “it’s just a thing.” It’s not like a loved one has died. And its true. But the other morning, I went to put on my VanArts hooded sweatshirt and found odd greasy marks all the way down the front, as if something had dripped on it. A mess. I washed it and it came out with the spots still firmly in place.

“It’s just a thing,” I said, but I was very depressed about it. I bought it when I studied animation in Vancouver… I hadn’t expected to be cold in July and needed another warm piece of clothing. It holds really good memories or working hard on something I love in a room full of interesting people. Every time I touch it, I think about going back to further my animation education and enjoy that beautiful city.

Then I ran across a bottle of Goo Gone, which I bought to remove the sticky stuff left by, well, stickers. And it mentioned clothes and working on oil stains. The stains on my hooded sweatshirt looked like grease or oil. So, worth a try. And it worked, so I’m a happy boy indeed, and have contacted VanArts (The Vancouver Institute of Media Arts, in long form) about getting another sweatshirt as a future backup.

***************We’re off to England on Monday. I love England, I loved living there, and had I not met Maggie and married her, I might still be there. She wanted to live in the States for at least a while, and at the time, I was happy to leave London. I don’t have many regrets about that, and it’s fun to go back.But I hate intercontinental flights. I’m not talking about fear of flying, though I don’t particularly relax during take-off and landing. I’m talking about being cooped up in a small space for 10 hours. I’m talking about having to stand in long lines for the bathroom, and only doing that after maneuvering down a narrow aisle filled with drinks trolleys and people’s feet and other people going to and from my destination. I’m talking about getting your own seat-back movie screen and finding that your choices are the films you didn’t see in the theater but wouldn’t even want to watch if someone handed you the DVD. Then there’s the not being able to get a good night’s sleep thing, and the stale air thing and the ever-present chance of being near screaming children or loud-talking people who actually have nothing to say.

But we’re off to England. Once we get through customs and get to our hotel, I’ll settle back into London and have a good time. We’re also celebrating my mother-in-law’s birthday, a milestone, in her quaint little village (by quaint, read “a pub, post office, a bank without an ATM and an old stone church, plus calling it quaint irritates Maggie”). Then we’ll fly to the Channel Islands for a few days and return home.

Don’t get me started on the return intercontinental flight.

***************We have a beautiful dog. What, exactly, makes a dog beautiful? I don’t really know, but she has long eyelashes and a well formed face and big bright eyes. Living downtown means that she gets to see a lot of people, and she gets told she’s beautiful by a stranger at least once a day. Three times today on her morning walk alone.What do you say when someone tells you your dog is beautiful? “Thank you” is weird, since you don’t have much to do with it (beyond basic grooming). I’ve settled for either “And she knows it” or an ironic “She here’s that every once in a while”. I do take a weird pride in having a dog this beautiful. After all, if someone actually pulls their car over to see her, she must have something special. Maybe I’m just hoping a bit will rub off on me.

***************Just finished two weeks of teaching. I love teaching animation. But I’m exhausted. My younger class was incredibly hyperactive. I’ve taught enough of these classes to know that these kids were way beyond the normal energy levels. And things just got worse every day. For the first time, I found myself as the disciplinarian, ordering kids to their seats, threatening to call parents and forcing them to look me in the eye and listen to me explain why I had a problem with their behavior.Lesson learned. The proverbial hammer has to come out sooner if I sense this kind of dynamic again. I like being Erik, the friendly teacher who wants you to have fun. I want to be that guy. But I have to lock that particular Erik in a closet if necessary.

Thankfully, I had an assistant who’s worked with even younger kids who proved invaluable. But on the last day, there was a hitting incident which fortunately didn’t end in tears or broken bones. I almost wish it had happened before the last day… I could have spoken to the parents and perhaps had the culprit removed from the class. I don’t envy full-time teachers: it’s interesting to see how one or two instigators can bring a full class into pandemonium.

A note to parents: Those shoes with the skate wheels in the heel? Keep them out of the classroom please. I’m just sayin’.

***************Finally, the afternoon class were 12-14 year olds. A completely different world from the 9-11 year olds. Quiet and shy, though most came out of their shells. One funny, clever and talented girl never quite came around with me, and I regret that. It made me remember that age, when I was painfully shy (as opposed to the more achy shy that I am now). To her: Your film made me laugh really hard, and I wish I’d been able to do that sort of work when I was your age.

I’m not sure many people would disagree with me when I say “it’s been a bad year for movies.” Because it’s been a bad year for movies. We’ve been hit with schlocky pointless remakes such as The Shaggy Dog and Poseidon and lackluster sequels such as Ice Age 2 and X-3. And the reviews for the anticipated Pirates sequel have been dispiriting, with even the best saying that it’s not as good as the original. Yeah, I’m sure there have been some good ones in there, but they’ve been the small, limited release films. I can only imagine next year’s Oscars, as the crowd sits around thinking about how little they enjoyed visiting the cinema this year.

Why am I sounding so sour? Because I just saw Cars. Yes, Cars, from the spectacular Pixar and directed by the legendary John Lasseter. I never miss a Pixar release because of all the joy these films have brought me. And Cars? It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t much fun.

I’ve never succumbed to the charms of Owen Wilson, so listening to him as a the smug and self-satisfied main character didn’t help the film. I’m not a fan of car racing, but I wasn’t a big fan of fish or bugs, so that shouldn’t matter when Pixar releases a film. I can’t stand the redneck clowning of Larry the Cable Guy, so giving him a major speaking role was close to nails on a chalkboard. But the big problem was that the film never connected emotionally. Sure, the hero learns an important lesson, but you never see him learn an important lesson. The film just decides that he’s learned an important lesson and shifts his personality to suit that. The stakes never seem very high, either for the quirky little town or for the big race. And the big final race isn’t the big, exciting set-piece it could have been.

I came home feeling dejected. After Pixar’s previous The Incredibles, I came out of the cinema wanting to walk right back in. After Cars, I came out hoping that their next film will be more enjoyable. I certainly found the preview for that film, Ratatouille, funnier and more charming than the main feature.

So I found myself worrying that my pleasure receptors were burned out. Maybe it was me, not the movies, that had become dull and listless. So I stopped to think about the entertainment I have enjoyed recently. Not just movies, either. Here’s a little list of the things that have brought me pleasure in a dreary year.

Doctor Who: Maggie and I have really been enjoying the first season of the BBC’s latest Dr. Who series. The show’s been going on and off since the early 60s, and this series has brought long-lost fun to the franchise. Christopher Eccleston is a delight, one minute maniacally crazed, the next thoughtful, the next charming and the next deeply sad due to some (as yet to us) unknown events. Billie Piper, who was a sub-Britney pop singer in England, is equally charming and a real match for our hero. The special effects often fail to impress, but Dr. Who has always made a virtue of these. Who cares that things aren’t exactly state-of-the-art when you’re having such a blast.

Full Metal Alchemist: Having concluded that Cowboy Bebop was the height of episodic Anime, this one took me by surprise. Funny, scary, touching, strange and never heading exactly where you thought it was. I come away from each episode a bit stunned. Anime-haters need to give this one a look.

Bruce Springsteen’s Seeger Sessions: My parents often played Pete Seeger records when I was a kid, and I’ve always liked him. But I always found something a bit too mannered in his performances. Seeger is a folklorist more than he is a musician and singer. Springsteen and a great band bring a level of energy and fun to this traditional folk material. It’s rough, it’s raw, and Springsteen can achieve that old-time “field holler” that Seeger never quite could. At times, it reminds me of The Pogues in it’s “don’t be so serious” punk-ethic approach.

Harold Lloyd: He made his great films in the 1920s. Still, Girl Shy is the best film I’ve seen this year. We saw it at the amazing Alamo Drafthouse with live accompaniment by a gypsy jazz combo, and Maggie and I laughed our butts off. Not because of some weird nostalgia. Because it was funny. Because the characters seemed real. Because we cared about what was going to happen. And because Harold Lloyd performed his own stunts, without a net. Another theater in town is showing some of his films next week, and I plan to be there.

Finally, Superman Returns: I haven’t seen it yet. Part of me fears going to see it. I’m pinning my hopes on it being big fun, on it filling me with wonder, on it not leaving me feeling empty when I hit the parking lot afterwards. Maggie’s just announced that she’s going to do some comedy tonight… maybe I’ll hit the Alamo Drafthouse again. At least I can drink some wine while watching.

Sorry about the early negativity, everybody. I hope I made up for it in the second half. Maybe you can join me in boycotting Hollywood until they shape up a bit. We deserve better, and we won’t get it until they realize we actually want better. And while you’re at it, check out some of the things on my list. And I’m open to suggestions, as well. After all, it’s been a dreary year and obviously I need a bit of cheering up.

It’s no secret that I’ve had some dark periods in my life. No, don’t worry, things are pretty good right now, and unless Tom Cruise marches the Scientoligists into power, modern pharmaceuticals have the promise of keeping things that way. I’m healthier and happier at 40 than I remember being at any time before. Sure, there are lots of things to work on, but at least I can now clearly see what those things are.

Four years ago, I did hit an all-time low. I felt angry and depressed and hopeless and isolated, and I’d stopped taking pleasure in my usual hobbies and interests. Then Maggie bought me a gift, though I don’t remember if it was just for fun or if it was for a birthday or some such. A CD entitled Heroes and Villains. And with that gift, Maggie became an honorary Powerpuff Girl.

If you don’t know the Powerpuff Girls, you’ve missed one of the great pleasures of our current cartoon golden age. Blossom, commander and leader. Bubbles, the joy and the laughter. Buttercup, the strongest fighter. Powerpuffs save the day. Three bubble-headed, large-eyed kindergarteners with no digits and cute little Mary Janes on their feet. Without them, Townsville would have long ago succumbed to the evil machinations of super-intelligent monkey Mojo Jojo. In every episode, once again the day was saved by… the Powerpuff Girls!

Heroes and Villains featured songs inspired by these wonderful little girls. And the songs proved to be every bit as joyous and exuberant as the show. Better yet, the album had Indie cred with songs by Shonen Knife, Apples in Stereo and Pixies front-man Frank Black. Great pop music, all of it, and you can hear the bands having fun in the recordings. It’s pretty hard to find a current pop song that hasn’t had all of the spontaneity and fun produced out of it. So this album was the real deal.

The CD ended up in my VW’s CD player, and stayed there for a very long time. This was before we moved downtown, and I was driving a lot more than I currently do. I’d get in the car feeling miserable, but when the album started to play, part of that misery lifted. I’d crank the speakers as far as they would go when the fuzz guitar of Shonen Knife’s Buttercup (I’m a Super Girl) started. The lyrics are the stuff of great pop music: sincere, frivolous, and filled with enthusiasm.

You know I’m a super girl
Yes I’m a punky girl
I never say die
Because I like to fight!

Yep, I’m a reasonably adult guy, but I sang along as loud as I could. The gender was wrong, but the attitude was just what I needed. Sure, I felt terrible and wasn’t sure what to do. But if a little girl in a green dress wouldn’t say die when faced with overwhelming odds then I could take the same stand. I could fight, and I did.

The album contains no music that will survive the centuries and be lauded for its genius. But it’s fun and fierce and it pulled me out of a very bad place.

So once again, the day was saved. Thanks to the Powerpuff Girls. And thanks to Maggie, my own little cartoon super-hero.

First, hooray for Maggie. She made it through in her round of the Funniest Person in Austin Contest. From the very start, Maggie has been a strong stand-up comic, and has made it past the preliminary rounds. She goes on auditions and gets the parts on a consistent basis. Her first one-woman show made a Best of the Week at Austin’s FronteraFest. In other words, she’s proven herself again and again. I couldn’t be more proud.

On the other hand, being married to a stand-up comic means you get to see quite a bit of stand-up comedy. I don’t go all the time, I’d be out several nights a week and by now I can do karaoke versions of some people’s sets. Some of the regulars are great, and a few of them might really make it big. Others are mildly amusing though sometimes hack and trite. There are some whose jokes you already know, if you’ve seen the comics they steal their stuff from.

Some are reprehensible. And people are laughing at them. What is wrong with you people? What’s so funny?

Here’s the story: the guy’s on stage talking about how the police should be doing important stuff instead of keeping his inebriated, slack-brained ass off the road. Nope, he sees no problem getting in a car when he’s had a few and speeding down the highway. After all, he can barely stand up, so you can’t expect him to walk. People are laughing at this guy. And I feel sick to my stomach.

Probably, most are unaware that this guy isn’t so much telling jokes as he is relating his regular evening excursions. Possibly, some also don’t like limiting their alcohol intake when they’re driving, and enjoy hearing someone say “what’s the big deal?”. Who knows. But we’re dealing with the equivalent of Karen Carpenter getting up and telling jokes about the harmless fun of anorexia (oh wait, didn’t that kill her?). Self-destructive behavior is sad. Self-destructive behavior with a side of “there’s a good chance I’ll take some others down with me” is criminal. And, apparently, freakin’ hilarious comedy gold.

This isn’t a sermon on temperance. I enjoy drinking. In the past, I’ve stumbled home from the pub and woken up the next morning in my clothes. Not often, but it has happened. I’ve called Maggie and told her I “looooooovvvve” her on a Friday night after seeing friends. What I haven’t done on any of these occasions is reach into my pocket for my keys and drive home. In London, I didn’t have a car, and I had the freedom to drink. When I have to drive, I limit myself, and stop well before having to get in the car. It’s pretty simple.

Many of you have stories about the damage done when people drink and drive. At my high school, some of the jocks and cheerleaders went out at lunch, drank too much, and decided to race the back streets of Laurel. Four dead, including a small child. None of the dead were jocks or cheerleaders. Our school was in lockdown, the open lunch policy gone. Thank goodness they were popular kids, or else they might have faced ostracism by their peers and made to feel bad about their actions. I hope that every single day they wake up remembering how they ended four lives and thinking about the grief and despair they caused for the friends and family.

When I was at McGraw-Hill, several instructors went out for some beers with a chaser of plowing into another car head on at high speed. One of them, though not the creep behind the wheel, died. He’d recently started dating a co-worker, and her grief was deep: until his phone was cut off, she would call just to hear the voice on his answering machine.

There are others, you don’t need to hear them.

How “man, I was so wasted and was driving and a cop with nothing better to do harassed me” became a comedy goldmine is beyond me (after all, there’s still so much fresh comedy in farts, masturbation and pot). A few different comics did bits about drunk driving, and it was the centerpiece for someone I’ll call Mr. Reprehensible. As people laughed, I got angrier and more nauseated. For Maggie’s sake, I didn’t stand up and call this guy out on it. Maybe I’ll have to stay away, because I’m not sure how far my self-control can stretch. If I snap, I’ll be saving my nastiest venom for those who are splitting their sides at his stories of swerving down I-35 at high speed. But it’s not all bad: the poor alcoholic bastard really needs the validation you’re giving him.

Sorry for the downer. I really am thrilled for Maggie. She’s fantastic, and she’s bound for more glory and more exposure. One of my fondest wishes is for Mr. Reprehensible and all the little reprehensiblettes to see Maggie on national TV. And I hope they’re able to get a good seat in the prison TV room when she’s on.

Who do I sue?

My personality has never been described as happy-go-lucky. I’ve never been a little ray of sunshine. Since I was a kid, I’ve dealt with dark moods and anxieties. They go way back. But they didn’t really come into full bloom until I entered junior high school (it’s called middle school now, for you kiddies). Martin Luther King Jr. Junior High School. That extra “junior” always makes me think of Robin Williams’ joke about Sammy Davis Jr. having a son called Sammy David Jr. Jr., but I digress.

The school was the type of building that the Soviets blighted their cities with: a blocky utilitarian construction made of light brown brick. And it was windowless. Windowless! Who do I sue?

What were they thinking? They were thinking “windows can be looked out of, and that is distracting, so we will raise a nation of Einsteins by teaching them in windowless warehouses.” They were asking “did Einstein go to a school without windows? Can someone look that up?”. And they were thinking “we can save a boatload on glass.”

Or, more likely, they weren’t thinking at all.

My elementary school was an ugly, squat building, but the classrooms had windows. Windows that could be opened. My high school was ugly and had the privilege of being run-down, but it too had windows of the opening variety. The junior high school had some very small, thin windows around the lobby doors. And, in one of the stairwells, it had a window covering made of opaque yellow plexiglass. In the winter, it was possible to leave for school before it was truly light and head home as twilight came on. And without any time during the day to get outside. No recess. Physical Education held in the gym. No daylight time. And, need I add, that sickly yellowish flourescent lighting in every classroom and hallway.

So you probably won’t be surprised to hear that my dislike of school grew to a loathing of school. Before, I’d just been a bit bored. Now, my mood plummeted like one of those raggedy medicine balls we were pummeled with in gym class. My attention in class was often very low, my clock-watching became chronic, and I think it was only low academic standards that kept my grades in the good category. I would fidget my way through most classes, sit with absolute incomprehension in geometry class, and wish with all of my heart that some classrooms would simply vanish from the face of the planet (a big shout-out to the foreign language labs and a bigger shout out to my stunningly dull French teacher).

When I look back at my years in school, I mostly remember not particularly enjoying it. But when I think back to the three years in that windowless monstrosity, I have a much more visceral reaction. My stomach cramps, my head starts to ache and a feeling of more-than-vague unease overtakes me. Even the good parts are overshadowed with memories of the nicotine-yellow lighting that never quite shoved the darkness away.

Here I am more than a quarter of a century later: a successful guy with a beautiful wife and a wonderful dog; a guy who gets to draw and create stuff that he enjoys; and a guy whose loft has an incredible view of the incomparable Austin, Texas. And the shadow of that windowless building still hangs over all that. Even I think that sounds a bit silly when I say it, but then I get that feeling that accompanies the memories and it doesn’t feel silly at all.

No one put the name Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) to depression caused by lack of natural light until 1984. But the correlation between poor lighting conditions and emotional problems has been around for a while: the 6th century scholar Jordanes described how the Scandinavians were a pretty morose bunch from living so far above the equator. I suppose the P.G. County school board was simply too stupid and budget-driven to pay attention. Thanks, guys.

So why am I writing this? I’m wondering if anyone else went through similar educational (or even work) experiences and has noticed similar things. I’m hoping that talking about it will aid, however slightly, the abolition of these schools (seriously, I hope they bulldoze all these buildings and salt the earth around them, especially considering that hideous Junior High of mine continues its infernal operations).

And I’m an American. I’m hoping someone will tell me who I can sue.