A Canadian and The American

I went to see a movie the other night, which in and of itself is not really a staggering, essay-worthy event. What is significant, essay-worthy and rant-worthy was the response to this movie that grew around me in the theatre as the climax subsided and the credits rolled; it was a growl of disapproval for a cinematic meal that I found quite satisfying, but for others didn’t seem to provide what it promised on the menu.

The movie was called The American, and I really enjoyed it. It is a thoroughly well-acted, beautifully filmed, and tautly suspenseful character sketch, just as promised. This fact depends largely on whom the viewer sought to do the promising, who wrote the menu, or if the viewer sought any information of the fare at all, outside of crappy commercials, before they sat down at the table . The people around me in the theatre listened to the salesmen and judged the book by its cover, a film who’s only crime was allowing its handlers to preview it as something it wasn’t. The film succeeded for me because the preview failed.

I am before you today to offer less a critical review of the film as I am to comment on the current movie preview trend: To adver-tain every drop possible out of an opening weekend at all costs, none the least of which is often the cinematic expression itself.

I have a great deal of respect for advertisers, and admen and madmen of most every ilk. Their medium is equal parts creativity and communication, an economical narrative painted on a billboard canvas or in thirty seconds worth of persuasion with the utmost innovation. Occasionally and unfortunately, this masterful sense of pop culture karate is used for the forces of evil. Misdirection and the sleight of the editor’s hand can lead potential viewers to gather under a familiar flag, which is often a costume thrown over the real movie designed to be attractive to an intended demographic, rather than a sampling of their noble intentions. Our movie heroes ready to take the stage deserve a hero’s welcome and not a deceptive introduction.

The best persuaders are often the best liars. Every great persuasion has some measure of deception. In pursuit of the pitch, and of the sale, the trends, demographics, targets, market share, the true identity of the product often gets lost in the message. Sometimes in fact the truth finds itself in a distant second to the carefully sculptured message. Marketing persuasion has been known to massage, mask and mould the identities of all manner of politicians and their politics, medicine, pop idols, automobiles, and in my opinion most heinously and unforgivably, movies.

Every commercial, billboard and Twitter tweet is moment to provide the service of informing a potential audience member them that your movie is offering exactly what they seek. The disservice of this marketing deception is not just to the consumer but often to the art itself, which inescapably returns its damage to the artist for what really only amounts to short term financial gains, proportionately speaking.

This disservice was clear as the credits rolled when I went to see The American, a few nights ago. I didn’t know at first what to think when the pleasing taste in my mouth was clearly the minority. I was in a room with a sense that I was nearly alone with my opinion. Not an entirely new sensation in and of itself for me, but normally that sense of isolation is not found in a theatre seat, in the glow of the almighty movie screen.

I’m convinced that the disparity existing between my opinion those grumbling around me was not the fault of the viewers, the wrong ones (them) and the right ones (me, and a quiet couple behind me that I am counting as right), and not the fault even the movie itself. The fault in this case fell to the preview, the advertisement that brought most of the viewers around me in the first place was most directly responsible for the consumers around me not getting what they thought they paid to see.

In the case of The American, both advertisements that I saw, a trailer in theatre and one online, summarized all of the action sequences, added a glimpse or two of George Clooney with his shirt off, and threw in a brooding glance and a clichéd line of the regretful aging lone gunman. The movie is portrayed as Clooney’s Bourne movie, and why wouldn’t it? That is a very promotable formula.

Wouldn’t you like to see that? I would.

There’s only one problem: That is not the movie that you will be seeing. The American is a different film.

In place of the action thriller with some drama in the trailer, The American on the screen is a dramatic thriller with some action, which is certainly nothing to apologize for, but is apparently a less favourable sell. Given the chance to sample the film for what it is: a suspenseful thriller about an aging assassin weary under the weight of his vocation after he tragically allowed it to get personal, the powers that are chose the ultimate sin and dangled a carrot dipped in candy that would appear more appetizing.

I couldn’t help but feel sympathetic for my fellow theatre goers. I could hear a few muted crass remarks about its slow pacing, mingled with a few that weren’t so quiet. An older man, seemingly perfect for the film’s proper demographic stood up and sarcastically stated: “We should have gone to see Vampires Suck.” I could understand their protests and guffaws were at a different carrot, a different hook, a different movie than the one I had just enjoyed.

What if The American was advertised and sampled for prospective audiences as an appetizer more representative of 70s European espionage genre roots? What if it depicted more of the gorgeous pastoral Italian images or the themes of Clooney’s character Jack’s crippled spirit and unrelenting paranoia? Certainly any movie poster with George Clooney written across the top is going to attract an admirable box office tally. Why the need for the deception?



I can just see the studio executives around their conference table during their ill-fated promotional meeting for The American. I can see them presented with two potential campaigns; one displaying the genuine article, a thoughtful and suspenseful character piece, and the candied truffle, by the numbers spy-thriller schematic and accompanying flow chart splattered with dollar signs. I can also see them, after a short debate, ultimately making their choice. I get why the choice is made, time after time.
I get the choice, but I can’t understand the choice.

I understand the nature of all the good and bad reasons: to serve their bottom line, to please their investors, to pay their mortgages. But that doesn’t answer it for me. The owners the film, the licensers, distributing rights holders, investors, devils and angels; they have this piece of art to display to the world in a splendour that only cinema is capable, and still they make the wrong choice.

In 2006, a charming and intelligent comedic drama called Stranger than Fiction, with a stellar ensemble lead by Will Ferrell, wowed an overwhelmingly small audience. An unfortunately large percentage of the opening weekend viewership left their respective theatres with a common complaint: “That was not the funny Will Ferrell I was expecting.” It stands out for me, because of how similar the experience was in my reaction to the movie vs. those around me, as what I saw last week.

More appropriately: “All of the funny moments were in the commercial.” The critique had a valid point. I can remember the commercials, a pastiche of random Will Ferrell goofiness, out of context screams and stumbles, and almost completely destroying the actual tone of the film in favour of Ferrell’s trademark slapstick. It is really a great surrealist story about creativity and fatalism, perhaps a tough carrot to candy.

Ferrell’s character Harold Crick: “This might sound like gibberish to you, but I think I’m in a tragedy.” It’s a touching moment that was probably played in the commercial for laughs. I hope I’m not in a tragedy.

The consequences: 1. Millions… well, thousands of pissed off moviegoers. 2. Will Ferrell has elected not to make a similarly smart movie since. I believe he has one coming out in a few months. Here’s hoping the commercials aren’t funny.

I have heard numerous reviews, in the time since that film has retired to the back wall of the video store, from viewers and reviewers who have found it when they weren’t looking for it, that it was a thoughtful and thoroughly enjoyable film. These of course, are movie fans not tainted by the shadow of its promotional campaign.

Here’s a prediction: Everyone who sees The American without having had that trailer in front of it, who enters with an objective outlook, unencumbered by these false expectations will have the chance to enjoy this film. This prognostication is not limited to the two films above, but all of the above and many below.

So, how do we overcome? Is the answer to eliminate orchestrated advance viewing of movies in the few minutes before other movies? And let that time belong solely to the annoying commercials we never agreed to watch?

The best defence is a little education. Don’t let your movie viewing experience be informed by the same jokers selling you their snake oil and political bumper stickers. Avoiding these kinds of surprises, with the movies complicated enough to lie about, involves a fairly simple antidote. Find a critic online or in your local bundle of newsprint with whose opinion you seem to consistently agree and spend a short article’s worth of time researching the fare you plan to dine upon.

Fortunately for we the film addicts, not all movies are complex enough to lie about and fall prey to this minor epic epidemic. Frankly, we often know what we’re getting from the movie poster and the name that appears above the title.

As a somewhat happy ending, I should mention that The American finished the Labour Day Weekend in the No. 1 spot in the box office and positive news is circulating about Will Ferrell’s upcoming dramatic comedy Everything Must Go, about a recovering alcoholic.

The saddest thing of all, I really like movie trailers. They have become a story-telling art form in their own right over the past two decades.

See what I mean with the following exercise: Take a look through your DVD collection and grab one movie from each decade going back to the 60s. Any DVD worth the shiny plastic it’s printed on will have its movie’s original trailer. Start with your most recent pick and work back chronologically. By the early 80s you’ll notice a significant difference and by the time you get to Doctors Strangelove and No the medium itself will be unrecognizable.

We’ve (they’ve) come so far, with an evolved superhuman ability to convey and stir excitement with split seconds and mere glimpses. The next evolutionary step will hopefully be in the musculature around the sense of ethics that compels these editors and synopsizers to be faithful to the stories they’re depicting.
People lined up for these movies because of their false previews and for false profits, but other people will enjoy them one day in spite of them.

There’s a difference between creativity and creative ad campaigns, and not the least significant distinction is honesty. Honesty is where the creation of art and the selling of it will forever be divided.

I'm the Canadian in the title, by the way. Thanks for reading.

EH

Things Everyone Should Know II

As promised in my previous post of a similar name, and because shortcomings of this kind are depressingly abundant, here is Part Two of my list of things everyone should know.

If you are suffering, or more to the point causing suffering, from a lack of knowledge of one or more of the items listed below, please read through to the end. Instructions will follow.

Everyone should know:

How to use Four-Way Stops

When was the last time you approached a four-way intersection marked with four stop signs and confronted another driver, and all two or three or four of you knew who was next to proceed?

I'm not talking about a hand gesturing, hi-beam flashing Morse code communiqué that negotiated the next to go. I'm talking about the law; the test question that all of us took on the path to our driver's licenses. Who is the next through the four-way stop when there isn't a mechanized traffic light to guide the thoughtless automatons of automobile antipathy?

If you approach an intersection not governed by the all-knowing red, amber and green of destiny, and another driver opposes you, do you know who goes first?

If you answered yes, you are in the minority.

Almost worse in my opinion, than the lack of knowledge is the culture of the uninformed to offer the polite hand gesture, brake pumping, hi-beam flickering, offering you the gracious chance to proceed in favour of the knowledge of actual protocol. Should a polite hand gesture replace the rules of the road? What if you can’t recognize that I can’t see through the windshield’s glare? What if you prefer to skip the insipid nonsense and just adhere to the agreed upon system formed in law?

This would normally be the point that the reader racked with some measure of guilt, will defensively point a finger back at the screen and declare: "Oh yeah, wiseguy! What’s the right of way, you handsome devil?"

Wisdom: "At an intersection with stop signs at all corners, you must yield the right-of-way to the first vehicle to come to a complete stop. If two vehicles stop at the same time, the vehicle on the left must yield to the vehicle on the right." From the Ontario Government Website. The guy to your right goes first, not the recipient of the gracious hand wave. Simple.

Learn for yourself at: http://www.mto.gov.on.ca/english/dandv/driver/handbook/section2.4.3.shtml

Knowledge is power, and sadly a scarce resource. In our society a forty minute test at the age of sixteen grants a lifetime of driving access. I don’t think I qualify in the same way for anything I qualified for when I was sixteen. From what I've observed, perhaps the office of Driver's License Holder should not be a lifetime appointment.

What I’m talking about

In my day to day life I regularly encounter a common glare of confusion in response to something I'm discussing that is well within general common knowledge. Occasionally this expression is entirely fair. I seem to recall some fairly obtuse and needless information.

I am pretty gifted in the useless gift of Clavin-esque trivial knowledge. It will never make me rich, because I'm not willing to appear on a game show and thus betray my Clavinage, but does prove to be a helpful muscle in everyday conversation.

The problem I have is that when I present a point or make a reference that wasn’t mentioned the previous night on American Idol, the obligation is then on me to slow down and enlighten the withering bulb in front of me to the coded KGB message I’ve stated, like Madrid is the capital of Spain. Why is it that the burden is on me to come down to their knowledge level with something that is perfectly within their grasp? Why don't more people feel the burden to brighten their bulbs up a little?

Celebrities are not Role Models

Actors are role models for actors, not scientists and astronauts. Pro athletes should be role models for young athletes, and only in the manner for which they’ve achieved. Holding famous people accountable for actions that have little or nothing to do with their chosen vocation does not reduce their value but our own. It’s like judging a knife for how well it writes.

This might seem about as obvious as “Don’t use a brick as a flotation device,” but still we not only follow but criticize, analyze, and evaluate public people on their personal and/or private lives. The people, or parents, criticizing the role models that were never intended to be so, should probably turn away from the TV and look in a mirror.

Tiger Woods’ golf is our business, nothing else in his life is.

The Internet has too many voices, but not enough brains

Online opinions are not news.

Every person who reads this blog, or more accurately both people who read this blog, have the power to publish their thoughts and make them available to every person on Planet Internet. Having a voice carries an inherent responsibility. That responsibility falls equally in this era to both the publisher and the reader.

The next evolutionary step we have to make in The Information Age must involve the ability to discern information and opinion, and understand that subscription is a form of contribution. This medium's message is interconnectivity. Know how the information you are reading is collected or ingested, and even if it deserves to be called information. You are responsible for what you read, because even a digital footprint can be measured as support.

That being said, please keep reading.

Social Networking is not a Game, it's a Tool

Like any tool, when used improperly, outside of its purpose or without skilful caution, that tool will injure.

Super Mario Bros, Play-Doh, Lego, and a 1000 piece puzzle can be great pastimes, but they don't actually accomplish anything productive. They are essentially the same at the start as they are at the end, as are their users. They are games.

A chainsaw is very little if not productive, but it is a roaring motor with a chain of sharpened teeth protruding from the side of it. For the people who aren't properly trained, don't take them seriously or aren't paying attention, chainsaws probably do more harm than good. More harm that is, to the lower halves of their legs or to their buddy's fingers.

Understand that the tool you are using connects you and your ‘friends’, and potentially exposes you and them to the entire digital world. I always feel bad for the people I see posting personal thoughts and emotions they are sure to regret, information about their families when they haven’t set their privacy options, or tagged pictures of their friends that look great the morning after a party, but not excellent when a prospective boss does a Google search on them.

I feel an equivalent stream of pathos for the guy with the air-powered nailgun nail sticking out of his forehead. On top on being itchy and an annoying hat deterrent, it is a failure demonstrated to the world.

I’m not trying to suck all the fun out the ubiquitous white and blue fantasy land. Like a guy doing an ice sculpture (with a chainsaw), it can be awesome, when it’s done right.

First Aid

In around six hours of class time you could learn how to save a life. Does this really require any persuasion?

What it's like to be Stoned

The Drug Prohibition Debate or The War on Drugs Debate, depending on to whom you speak or desire to influence, is so bizarre when you think of it. On both sides you have a small number of people deciding what is best for a far larger number. This really at the center of any political debate to be sure, but they are talking about something that only does direct harm to the user, but they are usually fixated on an entirely different form of harm.

Further from that, and far less actionable, but in another way far more insane, is the amount of drugs that are already legal, killing us in far greater numbers and distantly more addictive, namely booze, bad food and nicotine, and are often fundamental staples of our culture.

One person’s medicine is another person’s coffin nail. That’s probably the way it will always be. On the other side, I can’t help but think, and I’m not alone here, that if the staunch anti-drug crusaders put down the wine during their campaign toasts and tried a little ‘puff, puff, pass”, a great deal of the demon would cease to be so scary.

Personally I wouldn't care if all drugs were legal tomorrow and then punishable by stoning (funny?) the next day. Drugs of all kinds are really not a part of my life privately or socially, it's not something I could even give two political rat droppings about. It's the argument that bothers me.

I don't like the fact that it's clear we'll not agree on this any time soon, in fact the forty years of tip toes to the left and back to the right have served only to let illegal traffickers capitalize on misguided crusaders.

I don't like the argument because, from the political podiums of this culture, it isn't being made by people who feel impassioned to make a change for the improvement of a group affected either negatively or positively by drugs, they are using the argument and the ire of their audience to hold up their podiums and sell some campaign buttons. An argument for arguments sake is something I've only done when I was stoned, and it never produced anything fruitful, or nearly as funny as it seemed at the time.

Hey, don't those politicians smell funny, and that one sure is sniffing a lot...

Your Turn to Talk

When was the last time you had someone appear to think it was helpful to endeavour to finish every sentence in a conversation for you? When did become a form of courtesy to pull someone forward through to the end of their statement?

It seems that this instinct, in its most benevolent shade, is intending to demonstrate that you are sharing some sort of wavelength. The person you are trying to communicate with is trying to show how much they ‘get you’ by finishing your thought, like in some giggly romantic comedy.

This is actually dropping an anvil right on the neck of communication, and I’m not just saying because I happen to be consistently dropping nuggets of brilliance that taste better as a complete meal. It is really in the evil black heart of egotism that we find the bravado to assume that our point is more important than that of our…

Opponent?

I was going to say counterpoint.

When to Blame the Tools

There are times when it was the chainsaw’s fault, or your cell phone’s fault or your email’s fault, for maiming or sex texting accidentally, or a ‘reply to all’ when only one was intended. These occurrences do exist. Humans are imperfect and thus we do build imperfect machines to do our cutting, and cutting and pasting.

There are other times, and these tend to be the majority winners, when we should have measured twice, not been attempting the witty text retort while driving, or kept our thoughts on the boss’ company-wide email memo to ourselves, but sadly we ‘human it up’ instead.

There are still other times when we had no business using that particular tool. We didn’t get the training, we skipped the instruction manual, and we nodded blankly as the salesperson offered the warning we should have heeded.

If you are blaming the tool and it is clearly the fault of the inept skill you demonstrate, that the tool is pointing back with the same accusation, or you are that guy with the nail sticking out of your forehead, most often in my experience, the tool is right.

Believe me, it sucks when the tool is right. If you don't know it, learn it.

In conclusion, if you are subject to any of the above failings, please seek help, the proper instruction manual, a little patience, a big joint, or a well designed helmet. There are people out there who do know these things, and they frankly are better humans.

Man, this nail is itchy.

P

Stupid Tax

Every now and then I have a shot of brilliance. Of all the sparks in my head that dance from synapse to lobe, among the commands for food, drink, more drink, and stimulus of a more primal nature, every now and then something ignites a eureka and electrocutes my attention. It’s too bad that a spark doesn't shine for too long.

How often do you witness witlessness and needless stupidity in your daily life? Not even stupidity really, which genetically isn’t always the fault of the owner of dull gray matter, but ignorance.

Ignorance is in fact the scourge I have in my crosshairs at this moment. The guy on my wanted poster is not the subject of hereditary misfortune, but a behaviour that each of us has chosen in our weaker moments. Some would argue that the word implies a lack of exposure to certain knowledge and thus a 'get out of jail' freebie, but I see the word as a lack of the interest to self-inform. That's bad. Make no mistake, every ignorance that we commit or are forced to endure is the result of a choice. I say we penalize that choice.

I think there should be a tax, an admission charge to the outside world if you get into your stupid shoes and your dopey hat, and decide to wear them in public.

I believe we can negatively enforce people into smartening up.

Not every ignorance can be opposed. Some are a lifetime encumbrance and have ascended past choice into habit. These habits are spots on a leopard’s back that cannot be changed. Others should be changed, can be changed, and will be changed… with the proper incentives.

What gets through to people faster and better than anything? What cuts to the core, to the root of the matter faster than sensory deprivation, stern correspondence, and corporal punishment? Wallet punishment. Give those succumbing to their ignorance a ticket for being ignorant and fairly soon you’ll have people who finally think more than once about the foot going forward that's left to follow the left.

So what do we ticket? We all have our opinions about the behaviour we see in others that they should have to pay to exhibit. Stupid Tax is a given for many driving quirks we all witness that aren’t quite criminal but certainly aren’t thoughtful: For following too close, gratuitous horn use, leaving that space on either end of your vehicle that’s too small for another in a treasured free parallel parking zone. Though it’s behind the wheel that we mere mortals seem to most commonly take leave of our senses, it certainly doesn’t hold the exclusive rights on ignorami.

I would personally campaign for the addition of certain cosmetic bells and whistles that people add to their cars in the interest of an adopted racecar identity. If you put a trumpet on the end of your vehicle’s exhaust pipe to make it sound stronger, you my friend deserve a ticket, and if you have decal on your window of a cartoon character urinating on another cartoon character, you deserve to pay. Distinctiveness should not make my eyes sore.

For that matter, superfluous and pointless accents of many, almost any discipline tend to be deserving of this dubious distinction. Bells and whistles, when not found officiating hockey games or jingling on the side of a one-horse sleigh, are playing a cosmetic role that the owner can likely do without, and do far better without in the surrounding opinion. If you wear colour contacts, inject and augment certain features of your body, wear an ornament that hurts your body, call attention to yourself through some meaningless symbol, or make an incessant noise for the benefit of no one, than you should be paying the tax.

That bell and the accompanying whistle can indeed also be found on your cell phone. In our digital age these devices of mass irritation must be messaged. Certain cell phone infractions fall under this shadow, hiding from the thought and brightness of public decency. People who use the two-way radio option on their phone to hold a conversation that the entire room is forced to audience, take it outside, get in your car, or pay a fine. If your phone, or your app, or your text message is more important than general courtesy to those around you... in traffic, in the supermarket, or heaven forbid, in the movie theatre, then you are supporting the tax.

If you deliberately use bad grammar, replace ‘s’ in your correspondence needlessly with ‘z’, can’t think of a better title for your movie sequel than the original followed with a ‘2’, make generalist statements about people you don’t know, force others to be sensitive to your politics, talk on your cell phone when your attentiveness and silence is required, abuse your neighborhood garbage removal, treasure your toys more than your home, and discuss your personal politics with strangers, gratuitously play the race card, gratuitously use gratuitous… gratuitously doing anything, disrespect your parents, leave a toilet paper roll empty or the toilet seat up, you deserve to pay.

The next natural question is: who awards these medals of moronic distinction. As much as I would like to be a one-man force for thoughtfulness, I can’t do it all myself. Should the criminal justice system bear this burden? Do they then have to carry another ticket book? Will they want to issue me one of these tickets for issuing them more work? Where do you show up to dispute the charge, and should doing so merit another bigger ticket? Is it stupid to assume we could spare a cop or two?

We need to take ignorance out the hands of the people that abuse the right to be voluntarily stupid. In doing so, I’m not suggesting any Orwellian removal of basic freedoms. Lets face it, every once and while we relish being dumb, and rightfully so. We all deserve the right to let loose, be fallible and learn from our mistakes. Therefore along with my proposed Stupid Tax I suggest The Stupid Mulligan. In the spirit of immaculate imperfection, we all deserve a break.

Be a fool once shame on you, be a dumbass twice… pay up.

Stupid Tax is a principle that goes hand in hand with all of the other ways we penalize each other for our moments of vacancy. The crime is that we have let these less tangible acts go on this long. Though we should be allowed to be fallible, there is no reason to feign ignorance of ignorance. Keep the things you do unto others that no other deserves in privacy of your own cave and feel free to have your thoughtlessness echo through the ages, where no one else can hear.

Thoughtfully Yours,

Patrick

The Un-Dictionary

A language is like a person.

It is born with the combined traits of its heritage. It has an infancy, it grows into adolescence and maturity, and many eventually grow elderly and pass on.

A language has quirks and imperfections, traits of its personality that take some getting used to, that require a certain affinity, and that conjure for some an understanding relationship that is downright elusive.

A language evolves with its environment, adopting traits to help it survive.

A language needs caretakers to see it grow and shepherds to guide and guard its numbers.

A language can go bad if not properly tended to.

In 2009, the English Language officially invited its one millionth word into the fold, which I believe marks its 'Google' anniversary. In recent weeks a new word was added, by the New Oxford American Dictionary, taken from an action coined in the popular Facebook social networking super-website.


The word: 'unfriend'

Within the context of Planet Facebook it describes removing someone's account from your 'friendlist'. In this digital realm the term has likely been used as much as any valid word, as anything within a light year of this site is riding a wave of relevance that is certain to someday dwindle as fast as it came. Outside of the context of Facebook this word is pointless. I will concede that in this world pointlessness can always be redefined by popularity. Popularity should never be the last word.

"It has both currency and potential longevity," said Christine Lindberg, senior lexicographer for Oxford's U.S. dictionary program, in a statement.
It appears in this case, that Facebook instead has the last word.

We're all the caretakers, the shepherds, and the keepers of this language; this genetic dynamo, this amalgamation of European cousins, this Olympic gathering of words and nations. Past generations have drawn it to greatness, poets and wordsmiths have made dance and sing, and we the current stewards are shirking our duty.

We are raising a monster. In our term of service, our maturing child has grown into one of those goth zombie ne'er do wells, that seems to excel while being neglected by their parents and society, finding new ways to offend and revelling in the complacency of those who should seek to make them better. This lexicon deserves more.

We are forming un-words. We are propagating a divergence by favouring fashionable convention. Facebook and Twitter and social networking as a medium cannot become more important than the means of communication fuelling it. An art form reflects society while interpreting it, thus propelling its advancement.

'Unfriend' is by no means the first of these unnecessary, fashionably buzzing un-words. It seems that every season there is a new action associated with the next marketing mutant phalanx that earns a seat in one of our dictionaries, o a spot on Oxford’s Friendslist, as it were. These colloquialisms seem to get their tickets by means not by their validity or heritage or succinct description, but through ubiquitous (ubiquitous: defined in Patricktionary) popularity. A marketable hybrid of two sellable products, such as ‘sexting’ or ‘freemium’, or a certain mama grizzly’s highly ‘refudiatable’ ‘refudiate’, do not belong in the same book, at the same table, or on the same list as exalt, paramount or loquacious. All that buzzwords earn from me are quotation marks, which hopefully denote their fleeting significance and shorter existence.

It seems like wake-riding marketing, a promotional angle, which is so unneeded and superfluous. After all… more marketing? English is out there, guys, with a solid customer base. We don't need to advertise.

A word coronated by popularity is an exploitation of the power of democracy. Votes from the populace should determine holders of office and directions of state. They should not be used in focused markets or special interests to form public opinion or make decisions that should be directed only by fact.

Have you ever watched a cable news channel use one of their own online polls, answered by the very viewers waiting to be informed, and employing an expert, known only as ‘expert’, to back up their own editorial argument? They then inform their viewership with a colourfully charted diagram of their own opinion, furthering their scripted news marketing.

It is thus un-information. It is the essential folly of modern perception. It's a shit sandwich in Reuben's clothing. It's someone of authority abusing your trust, a doctor prescribing you bad medicine, a mechanic putting bad parts in your car, and being popular rather than adhering to the responsible ethic of their craft. That’s essentially what is happening when a word enters the lexicon through the bathroom window. We can't 'unfriend' our handy-dandy Oxford Dictionary. Perhaps there is a way that the hallowed book of words can manoeuvre the tightrope between trend and institution.

We can't 'unfriend' our handy-dandy Oxford Dictionary. Perhaps there is a way that the hallowed book of words can manoeuvre the tightrope between trend and institution.

We should have a special provision for our buzzwords. They can be part of an official document like an asterixed record from a steroid-enhanced professional athlete. They can have their place, under a gilded halo.

Colloquialisms and buzzwords are perfectly acceptable additives to our conversation and our culture. They can be a touchstone, a drawing on a cave wall, or a sign of the times. Some hippies humming "koom-by-yah" in an annoying drum circle, a douche bag grunting "groovy" from atop platform shoes or Bart Simpson cranking out "aye carumba!" have perfectly valid place in our society.

That place is fashionable, and outside of our formal dialect. We have come thus far with a perfectly agreeable unwritten writing rule: colloquialisms, expressions, euphemisms, and profanities add character to the outdoor voice of our language. Our indoor voice, the one we save for job interviews and cocktail party discussions, must reflect an aspiration, that's what you owe that person you wish to impress.

There should be more gravitas to the induction of a word into our language. We are welcoming a member into an immortal legacy. Shakespeare, Hemingway, and Dylan have poured out their hearts through this language; that legacy deserves a verbal mechanism that is worthy the art they built with it, not a warted husk covered with push-pinned buzzwords and sticky notes.

It tends to be the quirks, the intangible and quite tangible flaws of a person that form the greatest weaknesses and simultaneously the greatest strengths. The greatest thing about the English Language is its fallible mortal nature. Its flexible walls and floors have allowed the great ones to push and create with a language of clay rather than one of bricks.

A language is a child of its society, a reflection of the care given to its keeping. We owe it more than a duct-taped quickie alteration every time there's a new billboard on the social super-highway. We owe it the respect to preserve its finer edges.

‘Unfriend' does not add anything to the mechanism of our language. When the wave of this website has ebbed back from the shore there will be no utility for this word, it will be unused, and with any luck, unremembered.


Your Un-unfriended pal,

Patrick

Chapter 3 & 4

The Third and Fourth Chapter of my Novel for your reading enjoyment.


3

Though he didn’t like how the city changed when the sun went down, Eric knew the lycanthropic shift would bring him someone in need. Cold pins and needles rushed past the back of his neck like fluttering bat’s wings as he felt mistrust surrounding him. That mistrust became antipathy and grew within those around him as the sun came to rest and as he walked.

Stepping from an alley, a long Broadway of looming neon, asphalt and glass stretched before him. From beneath a mixture yellow and pink fluorescence, Eric met the eyes of a young woman who didn’t seem to belong where she stood. She wore form-fitting clothes that could not have provided her with any warmth. She glittered with jewelry and makeup, contrasting her dreary surroundings. Her demeanor was strangely confident. She proudly looked about, making eye contact with the passersby, where most kept their eyes to themselves.

When he passed her she gave him an odd smile, as though she knew him and felt familiar with him. Her smile captivated him until her interest faded and she found new eyes to grasp. Eric had seen many prostitutes before on his walks, but this girl just didn’t seem to fit. He reached the corner, and crossing at the light, turned back to see a man approaching the young woman. The man had the same familiar look smiling into her face, only friendlier. His look captivated Eric in a different way. From down and across the street Eric’s eyes intensified as he watched the man grab the friendly young woman. The girl twitched and struggled like a child with his hands locked around her arms near the shoulder, but she didn’t scream. The man’s smile blazed in Eric’s eyes. Neither of them noticed his approach.

The man’s salivating grin was broken as he noticed the strange hand wrap around his right forearm. Before he could protest, Eric sent him flying into the storefront window behind him. The impact violently wobbled the massive plate glass pane. The force he used to break the lecherous man’s hold had thrown the young lady back to the ground. Eric didn’t notice her fall as his attention remained on the figure within his grasp.

Following the man to the window, he saw that the force of his impact had dazed the man momentarily. Leading him into the nearest alley by the collar of his jacket, Eric mentally prepared himself for his intimidating encounter. Just as the man at his mercy began to whimper and twitch, Eric heard the girl’s voice behind him.
“Wait!” she screamed. The anxious tone confused Eric. His confusion grew as he turned to see her following them, her hand outstretched. “What d’ya think you’re doing?!”

Capitalizing on the moment of diverted attention, the man slipped from Eric’s grip and bolted into the shadows of the alley. Eric’s attention remained captured in the women’s chastising scowl. He then noticed over her shoulder, two men wearing suits emerge from a car parked down the street. They spoke into radios and rushed past Eric into the alley.

“You idiot!” The young damsel as she rose to her feet; refusing Eric’s hand, and regaining her composure. “Do you know who that was?” He had no idea, but kept a puzzled expression focused directly on her fierce mouth. “That bastard’s butchered five hookers in two months. Do you realize how close we were?” Again the answer escaped the bewildered young man. “I should arrest you for obstruction… Fuck!” She shook her head a couple of times before giving Eric a last look of disgust and stomping off toward the car.

Eric’s furrowed expression followed her and remained on her as she spoke into another radio, started the car and sped off to the corner. Whirling tires whistled on the damp, smooth pavement. Eric watched a puddle that glistened under a streetlight wrinkle, as a tire ripped through it, unable to shake the wrench of confusion from his face. Next to the puddle he could see the young lady’s lipstick. It fell from her purse when she tumbled to the ground. The shade of red reminded him of the smile she gave him earlier and the way her lips cut across her face when she screamed at him. He refastened the lid and stared at the shiny black casing as he walked.

It was three more hours before his walk finally brought him home. All the while his eyes watched his feet and he replayed the evening repeatedly in his mind. As his worn out sneakers took turns moving forward over the sidewalk like opposing pendulums, Eric grappled at a reason for the young woman’s anger. Though he understood that she worked with the police, he still couldn’t fathom how attacking that man could have been wrong. He kept wishing to himself that he hadn’t knocked her down. He considered that maybe if he hadn’t hurt her or dirtied her outfit that she wouldn’t have lashed out. Eric’s eyes hid behind his wrinkled brow. Resentment or distress didn’t occur to him while confusion curled his demeanor.

It was as though the sky had been proven purple or the morning sun didn’t rise. He tried to help her and he hindered her. He stood between the bad guy and his victim, and still the pins and needles shivered over his skin.

* * *

No good deed goes unpunished. Dr. Harmon would warn Eric that helping people, intervening into their lives, was always a precarious gamble. People aren’t always ready to be helped. The warm feeling of accomplishment that Eric felt when he helped somebody was rarely a symbiotic byproduct for the person he helped. If they weren’t panicked or racked with stress, they were resentful of the inadequacy or helplessness throbbing in them. Very few people are ready for a hero; nobody was ever ready for Eric.

More than one woman that he’d tried to help up from a fall or pull from the grasp of an intended purse-snatcher had mistaken his intention for some kind of assault. Superman doesn’t look like the kind of guy who needs to attack his woman, so no one assumes he does so.

One of his favorite deeds earlier in his career was helping the elderly across the street. If days went by and he couldn’t find anyone to help he would stop at one of the major intersections on the way home from school. Standing off to the side of the crosswalk he would wait for an elderly person to approach and set upon them like some well-intentioned salesperson. Many of them were far more willful and far less feeble than he expected.

“What do you think you’re doing, sonny?”

“I’m trying to help you across the street.”

“That’s very nice of you, but I don’t need any help. Aren’t you a little old to be a boy scout? How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Like I said, this is nice of you, but let me go.”

“But I’m supposed to help you.”

“No thank you.”

“But…”

“Unhand me!”

Returning home from school, through the pathway behind the mall, Eric came upon a young man and woman engaged in an encounter that immediately sent him to the rescue. His arms pinned her to the wall on either side of her. Her arms pushed and probed about his torso. A moan emanated from her that sounded to him somewhere between pain and fear. Clenching the young man’s coat by the collar, he threw backward into the fence on the far side of the path. Both teens groaned in wonderment as their embrace was torn apart. They were both stunned momentarily, expecting to encounter an intervening parent, but both lashed out at the well-intentioned Eric as they realized who had interrupted their after-school make-out session.

On Eric’s eighteenth birthday he set out for a walk on his own after the rather unceremonious and forgettable birthday dinner. He walked up and down the streets of his suburban neighborhood wondering how the age of eighteen would be different, when across the road he saw a man with a gun robbing the gas station.

Eric dashed into the store, wrapped his arm around the man’s throat and fastened a headlock as the desperate man fired shots wildly into the ceiling tiles. The cashier and customer screamed as their peril boiled over. He squeezed the man’s wrist until the gun fell. The man writhed and wheezed as he tried to escape, until Eric lost his balance and fell into a bank of display shelves. The large rack of shelves tipped under their combined weight, crashing through a large plate glass front window. As he rose to his feet with the man’s neck still clenched in his arm, a police car plowed to a halt in the parking lot in front of him. Though the congratulations were ample from the police and the bystanders, praise wasn’t the first thing on the gas station’s owner’s mind.

“What were you thinking?”

“I… I just wanted to help.”

“Oh, I see. The money in the cash register is insured by the franchise. It doesn’t cost me anything if all they get away with is money. We’d all be better if you just minded your own business. Do you have any idea what it’s going to cost me to fix this store?”

“No.”

“Do me a favor, next time you want to be a hero, be one somewhere else.”

Eric was certain that he didn’t do what he did for the praise, but he was more certain that he didn’t do it to be yelled at. As he walked home that night he couldn’t shake the notion that the owner yelled at him, not because of the damage to his store, but for the same reason everyone else did. He knew that something in his demeanor would always make him appear inferior.

Inferiority filled his mind as he paced slowly back to his apartment, the bellowing scolding of the undercover policewoman still ringing in his ears, while the store owner from his adolescence bellowed in his memory. Eric’s apathy towards the superficial was apparent to anybody that crossed his path. When you don’t care about the name brands you brandish, the shape of your body, or the untrendy way your hair is placed, you tend to wear a banner over your head for all to see, stating something to the affect of: I don’t respect myself so I haven’t earned your respect.

Eric didn’t need the respect of others; it never existed as a part of his motivation to help others. As he learned about respect, he learned that deeds are like intentions, intangible and subject to fallible perception. Actions may speak louder than words, but people still have to be ready to listen.

He returned home under a cloud of failure. He spent the evening staring at anything around his home that would catch his attention. The night dragged by as the ceiling over his bed offered little counsel.

* * *

“So, why do you think she was angry with you, this policewoman you tried to help?” Dr. Maynard was enthralled by the outlay of emotion he was witnessing from Eric, though it was still rigid by normal standards. In their three previous visits he had made every ethical attempt to access his patient emotionally. Though Eric’s demeanor remained calm and subdued as he explained the events of the previous evening, Maynard recognized the first visible chink in his emotional shield. He looked forward to achieving success with the enigmatic young man. “Do you feel that you did something to incur her anger?”

“I did push her down… accidentally.”

“You pushed her?”

“She fell when I grabbed the guy who grabbed her.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No, but I may have ruined her outfit.” Maynard smiled then retracted it quickly.

“So this man that you grabbed, he was the man from the news who had been murdering prostitutes?” Almost under his breath, he spoke in revelation. “Eric, you could have been hurt.”

“I wasn’t worried.” Eric’s eyes met the doctor’s with an intimidating certainty.

“I just wanted to help.”

Patient Log Entry. April 4

I believe I have identified an integral part of Eric’s motivation. He has told me on several occasions about his interactions with others, and how he tries to help them. Most, if not all of the interactions he discusses involve his ‘good deeds’. I intend to probe this issue further; it should offer a great deal of insight into this young man’s true character.

Does he seek out these situations? What does he derive or gain from these situations? If his intention is vigilantism, where lays the root of this motivation?

With every sentence Maynard found himself more intrigued. Not only did Eric present him with the most challenging of puzzles, but also he genuinely intrigued him as a person. As a patient, Eric had barriers without locks. He provided no answers but offered no resistance. He had no evidence of any disorder in his conscious mind. In place of wit, charm, and educated sociability, he presented a complete lack of presumption.

A part of Eric’s brain was somewhat dysfunctional. Sigmund Freud would have called it his ‘Superego’; the fine-tuning that civilized society expects of him without wanting to tell him. He spent his life imitating and reacting, free of an ego of his own. The absence of that part’s effectiveness left him unable to grasp higher concepts, it kept him from excelling scholastically, or earning success in a conventional sense. Life without superego-etiquette also robbed him of the opportunity to mature into cynicism, mistrust, ambition and malice. He had never sampled the taste of jealousy, the pride of victory, wrath or greed. These facts were apparent to anyone engaged with him in the briefest of conversations.

Log Entry. April 7.

To my surprise, Eric is quite willing to discuss his good deeds, his missions, or ‘his walks’, as he calls them. He speaks of them like most would discuss a vocation, almost with an air of pride. He tells me that he walks a lot. When I ask him why he walks so much, he tells me that it makes him feel good.
What still puzzles me is the nature of this association. What spurs him to take these walks and seek out people to help, to put himself in danger? I feel that a great deal of the answers surrounding this young man revolve around this motivation.

“Does it distress you that the woman was angry with you?”

“No.”

“But you would have preferred if her reaction was more pleasant?”

“I guess. I didn’t really think about her reaction when I did it.”

“Then Eric, why did you do it? Why did you try to help?”

“I’m just… I’m supposed to help.”


4

Home is sanctuary. Home is the haven that provides warmth and love to those lucky enough to dwell within. Eric had never felt the security and warmth of his roots spreading deeply through a foundation of a house always happy to welcome him with open arms. He never had a place to run to. He didn’t know how to answer people when they asked where he was from, aside from providing his address. He had never belonged.

Eric’s dwelling would best be characterized as modest. He kept a standard one-bedroom apartment in a quiet building. He had the necessary furniture and house wares, an acceptable wardrobe and a television. A handful of pictures that were hung for him decorated the pale, uncolored walls. The fire escape doubled as a balcony, where Eric kept a comfortable chair. He watched people on the street with far greater interest than those on his television. In the place of open arms, a soft purr welcomed Eric when he returned. A cat that had shown up one day that he had never named shared his home. When he kept returning to be fed, Eric decided that they could benefit each other; the cat did not dispute.

Both Eric and the cat were creatures of routine. Their world was smaller than others. Contentment was the accepted substitute of aspirations and elation. The cat’s routine consisted of nightly prowls, a bowl and a water dish filled once a day; and the window to the balcony left open a crack. Eric’s routine was found in nightly prowls, a select few television shows, a strict cycle of his limited wardrobe, and some weekly errands. Thursday was grocery day. Thursday was his favorite.

Two blocks down and five blocks over was McKees Grocery, one of those general stores that exist as the beating heart of the neighborhood, a source of more than food and supplies, hospitality and gossip. It was the neighborhood’s Sunday dinner table. Frank McKee, the store’s founder and proprietor knew the name of everyone that came around, and had a private running joke that he would build with each customer and every visit. It had been almost five years since Frank had passed away, leaving the family business in the hands of his eldest daughter, Margaret, known to her patrons as Molly.

Just shy of her twenty-fourth birthday, life and responsibility had managed to steal from Molly most of the youthful glow that emanates from most young women. Her mother had died a short time before her father, leaving a household and three younger sisters on shoulders that could only precariously handle the weight. Her duty left her unable to consider her sacrifice; she still had a smile for every customer, especially for Eric.

Molly the reason Thursday was his favorite. Girls hadn’t taken control of his youth the way it tends to with young men. Hormonal lust had thus far not broken into Eric’s motivation. As with many of Molly’s regular customers, the motherly, unconditional quality of her smile filled that little emptiness that festers in loneliness. Eric had been coming on Thursdays for almost two years; they had long ago developed a rapport that included his ‘usual’. Eric had a shopping list that never varied. Occasionally, Molly would suggest a new flavor of cat food that had come in, but she was careful not to intrude on Eric’s routine. If she had time, she would gather his groceries for him and have them ready at the counter for him at precisely 9:30 AM.

She would ask how the cat was doing; Eric would return the question concerning Molly’s sisters. They would thank each other and look forward to next Thursday. Eric would never have noticed, but Molly’s ‘goodbye’ and delicate wave had an extra ring when he came by. Thursdays were Molly’s favorite too.

The two spots on his carpet where his feet dropped from his bed in the morning, the path from those two spots to the closet, then from the closet across the once plush carpet to the bathroom had been worn into an unmistakable trail. He followed each almost the same way he always did, the only noticeable difference was that it was Thursday morning. He stopped to pet the cat as it ate and rushed out the door. The cat looked up from his bowl, almost as if to recognize that Eric never rushes.
Without the intentional use of a clock, Eric had arrived precisely at 9:30 for almost two years. Molly’s look of slight shock was almost unwelcoming as he stepped through her door at 9:15.

“Eric… You’re early.” He nodded thoughtfully and started down the first leg of his normal route through the aisles. Just after he grabbed his favorite cereal and just before reaching his bread, Eric stopped at the cat food section. He hadn’t planned on buying cat food that week, as his roommate was in adequate supply, but for some reason one of the labels caught his eye. Eric was a creature of routine; very seldom did he stop to consider things. When the cat first came to take up residency, Molly showed Eric her best deal in cat food. Henceforth his hand chose the same brand without consideration. He now found himself wondering how a cat could interpret tuna or chicken from the contents of the tiny can, and if so, did they like it? Just as he had begun deciding whether the cat would prefer an imitation of poultry or fish, heavy boots stomping their entrance throughout the store halted his train of thought.

He returned to his cat food comparison as Molly engaged in conversation with an unfamiliar voice that matched the boisterous entrance. He ignored their conversation at first, concentrating instead on the shift from his shopping routine. The man’s voice suddenly intruded into the back his thoughts. It wasn’t the content of his conversation with Molly, he heard her discuss and argue prices and money with many customers in the past. It was the forceful quality of his words and the tone in which he delivered them, like his heavy boots that stomped against the floor. Eric shook his head as the words from the front of the store wafted down the aisle, causing goose bumps to rise on the back of his neck. He walked slowly around the back of the shelving aisle.

Molly came into view first. Her eyes stared forward with a stubborn mixture of strength and mortal fear; her strength was waning in the form of small tears dropping down the side of her face. Her lips pursed and twitched trying to stay sneered and defiant. Eric’s eyes grew to match hers as he eased around the corner, and the source of her expression came into his view. He held the gun inches from her face; while at the other end the imposing thug looked into Molly with an inverse combination of strength and fear. His weight nervously shifted from one foot to the other; the skin around his fierce expression was moistened with adrenaline. His thumb reached over the back of the gun and slowly pulled back its hammer. Molly’s eyes closed and her body forced out a short squeal.

“C’mon bitch… the money… ‘fore I pull the fuckin’ trigger.”

“I told you, it’s 9:30, we don’t have any money. There’s barely twenty dollars from the float.” Her voice was shaky and shrill.

“Ah bullshit! What’choo got in the safe?”

“There’s nothing in the safe, we deposited last night… I swear!”

“You’re gonna die this minute if you don’t cough up some green.”
Eric’s eyes tightened.

A box of cereal, a carton of milk, and a can of chicken flavored cat food fell to his feet. He had forgotten he was holding them. The milk erupted over his shoes. The mess failed to interest him as he started up the aisle. Cold chills ran to the tips of his fingers and heat burned in his stomach, up to his throat. His knuckles turned white as he advanced on the gunman.




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