Welcome Koji

Somebody just had a baby. Well, a lot of people did, but these are special friends of mine, so I noticed. And a thing occurs to me; right around now we’re being joined by the first cohort of humans with a pretty good chance of living into the 22nd century. Unlike us, they will grow up with no particular expectation of flying belts, which were always a terrible idea because just imagine being hoisted up into the sky by your belt. I have no idea what they will grow up expecting. I have no idea what people hope for anymore.

The long arc

I know a guy who knows a guy who walks out of every movie before the end; he says last acts are always a letdown. That's a pretty good point. The part where they're introducing characters and complications can be engaging and novel, while tying up loose ends is more pedestrian. Or maybe writers are just usually people of an age where they have some experience with beginnings, but for endings they fall back on formula. They should hire extremely old people to finish their stories. Of course, then most movies would end, “Where am I? Where's my lunch?”

Vast. Cool. Unsympathetic.

Even using hypothetical VASIMR rocket technology, which has the distinct disadvantage of not existing, they figure it would take about 150 days to get to Mars. It would be like riding in a Dodge van from Christmas till Memorial Day with nothing to eat but cold Hot Pockets and Tang. I mention this because I was recently on an airplane for several hours and did not like it much. I watched part of a movie about people driving cars, and was surprised to learn that famous actors like Vin Diesel and Dwayne Johnson are so underpaid they cannot afford sleeves.

One man's trash

Years ago I paid a visit to the Roy Rogers Museum, out on the edge of nothing much else near Victorville, California. Out front there was a gigantic fiberglass model of Trigger (the Smartest Horse in the Movies). Somewhere inside, Trigger was actually stuffed and mounted, while in the lobby were glass cases containing, among other stuff, every wristwatch Roy had ever owned. Here at home I'm surrounded by an exhibit of books I've already read, music I'm done with, cellphones I used to yak into. And seriously, I can't imagine anybody ever wanting to curate a Dave Maleckar Museum.

Phoenix Iron Works

In some ways, things are looking brighter for America than they have in years. There haven't been any new Styx albums for a decade, and we seem to have gotten that scarf thing out of our systems. But we're sad and twitchy because we work wimp jobs for wimp companies with Dr. Seuss names like Twitter and Google. That's why we compensate with such brutal movies and sports. Me, I'd rather see a Norma Shearer picture over the weekend, then go back Monday to bust my hump for an outfit called something like Mount Savage Locomotive Works or Consolidated Vultee.

Hollywood, you know where to find me.

The people in movies spend a disproportionately large amount of time driving and punching and nowhere near enough eating and pooping. Also, when they talk, they don't spend as much of their time as actual humans do telling each other about sports on television or the plots of movies they've seen. That would make a good movie, I think. Some people are at a table eating food, and they start talking about movies, and explaining them to each other, because they haven't all seen the same ones. Then somebody says, “Excuse me. I have to go to the toilet.”

Not smart, just clever.

A lot of times when I try to say something funny, what I get is blank stares. Then a lot of other times I'll say in all seriousness something that is, apparently, just an absolute hoot. That's what I've been told, anyway. Absolute hoot. Upon what do I not have my finger? The pulse, that's what. Fortunately, somebody always shows up to tell me about kombucha or Kneebody or Jeff Lint. Somebody whose weltanschauung is more aligned with the zeitgeist. Otherwise I could not participate in any reasonably contemporary colloquy; as it is, I still often just nod and bluff.