Every Frame Should Be A Poster. If The Poster Doesn’t Tell A Story, It’s Not A Classic.

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Each of you has experienced a moment of crystallization like the one I had on Tuesday morning. When it hit, you sat in stunned silence for a few minutes trying to process the event and put it into words. All too often in our lives, that moment evaporates because the phone rings, you drop off to sleep, or your dog starts barking like a maniac. Before you’re even aware of it, that beautiful thought, that stunning insight, that moment of eternal wisdom slips between your fingers like the guts of a cloud through your airplane’s propeller.

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My moment, one that is going to help me in my writing more than I would ever have imagined, came during a showing of Rio Grande on Turner Classic Movies. I DVR the best of the bunch and watch them when I have some time. Migraine weeks they almost all get purged from the DVR as I can’t concentrate and write. There was a migraine in process the last three days.

With that kind of a buildup you are probably expecting something magnificent. The title of the blog today says it all. It became blindingly clear to me that what makes a movie a classic is the fact that every frame could be turned into a poster that tells the story of that scene, and probably the whole movie. Today happened to be the day for the flash of brilliance because it was the second movie I’d watched with lots of pauses for phone calls, dog door opening, coffee breaks, bathroom breaks (coffee breaks can cause that,) Facebook messages, alarms on the phone, and wives walking into the room. Each time I stopped that flick I was captivated by the image on the screen. I was mesmerized by the beauty of the background, the careful attention of the actors to their craft, eye movement, beautiful wardrobe, and presence. The greats, and O’Hara and Wayne were among them, held every frame of the movie sacred. John Ford, the director, was a genius in his lighting and shooting of his movies.

Last week I watched Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. Same thing when I started to think about it this morning. Every time I paused the machine the scene on the screen shouted out what was happening. The players were so spectacular in their performances that you had to be in San Francisco with them. The dialogue was a jewel with so many facets that you have to listen repeatedly to catch all the flares of light it blasts on the surrounding film. John Huston again created a world where brilliant lighting and sets enhanced everything that played in front of your eyes.

I’m almost done with what I hope will be the final major edit of my novel, Assault On Saint Agnes, before it’s published. (No date yet, no publisher yet, but so close we can taste it.) I’m going to start over and revisit the first 1/4 of the book with an eye toward that kind of memorable experience. That is my goal as a writer – to leave you with every scene and every dialogue so evocative of the whole book that you will savor them and look forward to the next. It can be done, Hollywood has given me shining examples to look to this past week.

If every frame is a poster, it’s a classic. If every page is a poster, I’ve met my goal. Pray for me, that’s a lot of posters I’ve got to frame in the next few days.

Rats. I’m Going To Miss That Bunch. But I Got Some New Friends Out Of The Deal.

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I got booted out of a Facebook group on Saturday. It was my own fault, I was honest and upfront. I have that bad habit. At least I try to have that habit. Being human it doesn’t always work.

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The group I got the gate from was the Cold War Submarine Veterans. I’d joined it sometime last year. The group was uniformly profane, crude, loud, obnoxious, and my kind of sailors. Yes, the vicious sort of scum with whom I spent my youth. I loved them all.

I had to leave because it seems that the rules of the group had changed. When I applied for membership I was upfront with the admins that I was never qualified in submarines. It was a rare bird that held my NEC (Navel Enlisted Code) package and still qualified on submarines. Submarine qualification isn’t quite like becoming an Eagle Scout. For one thing, a good Eagle Scout doesn’t drink like a fish and have a vocabulary that would stun a donkey at 20 feet. Secondly, again unlike an Eagle Scout, it’s a total lifestyle and not an accumulation of honors, badges, projects and participation that can move from one Scout pack to another. This is not to diminish Eagle Scouts – I never even tried. But to pull off the coveted submarine qualification generally takes doing it all on one, perhaps two, submarines.

You see, learning that maze of piping, electrical, weapons, life support, and communications systems that comprise a submarine is extraordinarily complex. I had a job to do when I was sent to sea on a submarine, and it took up all of my time for at least a quarter of my stay. Sometimes more. What did I do? Yeah, well, that’s still kind of a touchy subject, so lets just say that I was a big help to the captain and crew when they needed me to do stuff involving my job. The rest of the time I specialized in smoking, drinking coffee, telling lies, and sleeping. I did, miraculously, manage to slip in a movie here and there when I wasn’t reading Star Trek books. I even volunteered to do dishes for a few weeks just so I wouldn’t lose my mind. (I’d read all the books and had nothing to do.)

I have spent over 6 months of my life underwater. Before those of you with fish (qualified submariners) start throwing rocks at the nub (new, useless body) keep in mind the fact that I was not assigned to a boat. I jumped from place to place, did some surface deployments in the middle, and still managed to rack up that time in under 3 years at my duty station. I’m proud of what I did, I thank you all for letting me eat your food, drink your water, fill your sanitary tanks, and breathe your air even though I wasn’t officially there. I can prove it: just check my DD214. The trip to sub school is there, but a strange lack of submarine duty shows up on the rest of the form. Spooks. Go figure.

Back to the point: I loved doing it all. I loved the people, the job, the shared world. Nobody can explain it who hasn’t been there for a time longer than a week. That’s why I loved the group so much – every day was a reminder of all that I got from my time with those lunatics. I was proud to call them my friends.

So, on Saturday, I contacted the admin for the group and reminded him that I was not qualified in submarines. Don’t know when my special dispensation ran out, but I’d been let in by one of the old admins and it seems that it was a violation of the rules. I could have kept my mouth shut and continued to laugh at the whole crazy deal. But that didn’t seem right – the whole thing came down to honor. Either I was or I wasn’t qualified to be a part of the group. I sent my email, chatted with him for a few minutes, and then resigned from the group.

Wouldn’t you know it, within 30 seconds the admin, Jack, had sent me a friend request, noted my resignation as an honorable thing on the group’s wall, and invited me to join two other submarine related groups. I just expanded my circle of friends again. To another country as well, as Jack is English.

Will I miss my bubble-head friends? Yes. Will I enjoy the new crowd? Yes. Does it change who I am and what I’ve done? No. And that’s the best part. I keep my integrity, I have my memories, I have my letters of commendation, and I have new friends. The best of all possible worlds would be the old group opening up to those of us who were regularly with them but not of them. But I won’t hold my breath – that would be surfacing without air. Just ask a nub what that means.

The moral of the story? Keep your integrity up and all of the rest will follow.

I Am So Bored With The Whiners In The Media

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I’ll just leap out here and say it: Who cares? Does the media really have nothing better to talk about than an old dude with a basketball team who has attitudes dating back to when he was born? Is this truly more important than all of the real news?

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There’s a part of me that wants to stand on a desk and ask why you care about what an old guy who owns a business said in his own home last week. I really don’t care what you say in yours. Truly. I care more about how you act in public.

Yes, I’m endorsing phony-baloneyism. Be nice to others in public, think what you want in private. Harrumph.

But since some of you have triggered this response with your Facebook posts, may I remind you that each time I see something on your page that reinforces a racial stereotype I cringe? Or that says, “All young black men should watch this!” – etc. You, in your own special way, are as evil and stupid as the elderly man in Southern California who ran his mouth and was surreptitiously recorded by his mistress (which is probably a really good indicator of how much moral and personal influence he has with me as of this moment.) Each and every one of you is just as guilty with your posts about how awful straight people are to deal with on the topic of marriage. And Christians. Boy, those people must be awful based on what I’ve read in some of the groups I belong to on Facebook.

You see, I like you even though you don’t like me, what I stand for, who I descended from, and who I married. I kind of hope you feel the same way about me deep in your heart. But when you throw it out there for all to see, you eliminate the doubt on the topic.

Here’s an idea that I want to run by all of you. So please put the tar and feathers down for a few minutes and read along before you pry up the rail you’re going to lash me up on tonight. Ready?

We’re all flawed. Fundamentally flawed from the moment Adam and Eve blew it in the Garden of Eden. All of us – and I do mean every one of you out there – have harbored irrational hatred and anger in our hearts toward someone else based on ethnicity, skin color, religion, accents, regional dialect, choice of beverage, or the automobile you prefer (That’s for Micheal Demo – he knows who he is…)

I get it: we’re not happy when others act badly. But let’s just put a stop to the mob with the torches and think about this for a minute or two. Here’s where you have to be completely honest with yourself, and then proceed accordingly. Do think that you could withstand the scrutiny the old man is getting if your life had been recorded 24×7 for the last year? Could you honestly say that you never, in that entire year, said anything bad about another person, group, food, car, etc., that could be interpreted to insult another culture in some way? I bet that made you squirm just thinking about it, didn’t it.

Let’s throw another caveat in here – because it’s been used to tear people down before: could you honestly say that you’d verbally objected to everyone within your circle saying/doing/thinking those same evil thoughts in your presence? Did you turn to your brother-in-law and say, “Gerry, that’s wrong and you’re a racist!” when he said some off color thing? Did you chastise your spouse for not defending some group quickly enough? Did you turn to the woman in the restaurant one booth over and correct her bad attitude?

I don’t even have to answer those for you – your answers are your own. That’s the point I’m trying to make. If you say something really stupid in public, you’re fair game for correction. Not taking your business away, not getting fired, not being shunned from society, but being despised. Yup, sometimes that’s all that’s appropriate. Or, perhaps pitied. Maybe, just maybe, forgiven and prayed for by those you offended.

See, that’s what God would like us to do with those situations. Present a noble example, work on ourselves in private, and guide others with love.

I’d better clear the air here before I go. I know that one day I will again say something that bothers someone to some extent and I will be accused of being flawed and judgmental, racist, homophobic, sexist, statist, speciest (is that a word?) or some other form of anguish causing buffoonery.

Here goes: I have, at one time or another in my life, made jokes, stereotypical statements, slurs, slanders, obnoxious statements, and offensive remarks about everyone and everything. I have maligned wearers of dreadlocks, mullets, high-and-tights, shaved heads, curly haired gingers, and people with alopecia. I have criticized every linguistic group I knew of, and often mocked them in bad accents (including Fargo, my native accent.) I have picked at and not eaten some foods just because they were weird, and anyone that would cook them or eat them was weird as well. I have mocked peoples choices in clothes (ethnic and Walmart) as well as their pets. I have scorned and abused them in private for their chosen lovers and friends of every sexual orientation possible – and a few that really aren’t but made the joke that much more pungent. I will answer to God for all of this, and more, upon arrival to judgment.

But I try. I am working on improving myself every day. I will fall again. I will get up and try again. And you will as well.

In the meantime, leave the old man alone. He knows what he said. But I have to wonder why we know, and why we care. Something about a plank in our own eye comes to mind.

That’s Going To Leave A Mark On The Old Medulla Oblongata

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My autonomic system struggled mightily on Wednesday while the upper half of my brain was in a training class. I managed to escape with my breathing and pulse intact, but the damage had to be present in some form.

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For those of you in non-technical jobs, there is a special form of “geek-speak” that takes place in classrooms where the illuminati of the nerd-world are assembled. Phrases like GPON deployment will not supercede DSLAM and IPTV in the short term, but it inevitably will include non-voip applications as well as voip once the standards internally are relaxed. In the meantime, only one of two standards will be deployed on the 4 port card without the use of the frammitizer and the gonculator frame application. Or, perhaps, something like that.

The worst part is that we understood all of that jargon. I kept having daydreams while I was listening about characters in a book that spouted that sort of drivel – I’d have to kill them off or lose the reader. Fiber optics is not an engaging topic unless you’re using it as a means to crank up the tension: “Genevive applied more pressure to the fiber pig-tail in hopes that she might exceed the internal reflective zone tolerance and mitigate the signal that would trigger the explosive. Her years of optics training had uniquely prepared her to save New York.” On second thought, that’s not going to cut it either.

Like nerds everywhere, we’re a socially immature group. At one point the word “straddle” was used in the presentation. Hands went up to cover giggles and smirks. Yeah, pathetic. I was one of them as well.

Thursday does not hold the hope of additional training. It will involve writing and editing – and a darned big steak dinner. That’s why the day job is tolerated – that paycheck buys nice things. But I love doing this even more.

Now, if I could just find some way to combine the two. Oh, yeah, it’s called techno-thrillers. I’m writing them. I guess it does happen sometimes in this life.

Who woulda thunk.

Now, back to what I was doing. You, on the other hand, are probably reading this as a result of one of those packet distribution networks we were talking about earlier. I hope you appreciate the noble nerd who has made this all possible. Light a candle for them tonight, place a whoopie cushion, and drink an energy drink before bed in their honor.

There’s A Lesson In Here Somewhere…

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It’s a writer’s disease symptom: looking for a way to turn every event in your life into a blog post or chapter in the next book. You know the deal: “I’m putting that in the next book. Thanks!” Yeah, how about you just keep quiet instead when someone manages to hit themselves in the face with a dead carp.

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This morning was one of those mornings. I had spectacular dreams involving foreign lands, ports I’d visited 30 years ago, people I know today, and places I plan to visit down the road. All of it is either evidence of a brilliantly creative mind or psychosis so profound that I should be medicated right away. I won’t be going into that dream, it would scare or bore you.

I hopped out of bed (the 50+ equivalent, anyway) and went right out to dig some holes in the yard. No, not looking for pirate treasure. Getting ready for a rhubarb plant transplant from a friend. That’s excitement in my life.

I dug around in the designated areas, got it the right size and marveled at the rich earth. Lots of black dirt, worms, dog doody. While that was surely bait for some kind of post, I just couldn’t muster the enthusiasm about the history of that soil, the vegetables that have grown there, the dogs that fertilized the dirt, etc. It was just a pair of holes that were dug carefully so as not to injure the knees (tore a meniscus doing this a few years ago) or back. Wearing winter gloves because my work gloves are too hard to find.

Then we scooped dog poop. Stormy wasn’t very helpful with this task. But I did pat myself on the back for using my snow blower to vaporize the majority of the mess this winter. You wait until the poo freezes, then it snows, then you take your 10 horse snow blower to move it out of the backyard you own to the one of your neighbor. It lands in a fine spray of atomized dog poop and snow. Perfect fertilizer. My yard was almost poop free this spring as a result. Man, am I smart or what?

Finishing the project, the garbage truck arrived. See yesterday’s post for an idea of how exciting that event can be. I went to the fence and watched while she had her fit. It was kind of fun. She didn’t know what to do, if it was okay, or what. After a moment or two she merely resumed her meltdown and had a great time. That’s my girl.

Finally I put the tools in the corner and came inside to a lovely cup of Cafe Bustelo. Cup in hand, I sat here to write something profound. I think I’ve failed. But, as any writer will tell you, once you hit the word count for the day you’re a success in your own mind. 507. Done.

Have a great Wednesday. I’ll be back tomorrow. With new rhubarb plants.