Wall-E

As much as I like Wall-E, below is the best plot synopsis I have read of it so far. Thank you Yahtzee!!!

I was dragged to see Wall-E last night. Now, objective quality of that film and possible anti-corporate agenda aside, here’s a small plot synopsis:

One or more lovable protagonists have existed for some time in a stable but fundamentally flawed routine, which is shaken up by the introduction of a foreign entity, usually another character, around whom attitudes are initially hostile. Attempts to deal with this character eventually lead to the protagonist(s) discovering a new, unfamiliar world, and in doing so discover the nature of the fundamental flaw in their routine. Villains are usually introduced or only become truly villainous from around the mid-point or quite late into the film. Along the way the heroes enlist the help of various lesser characters with clearly definable quirks and at one point reluctantly enter a high-speed chase. The villain is generally finally defeated with surprising ease, and everything concludes in an emotionally manipulative ending in which routine is restored with the fundamental flaw excised.

Now, consider how many Pixar movies that could be describing. Consider it, bitches.

Got an iPhone

Got myself an iPhone and I have to say… It is really quite awesome. This post itself is typed and sent from it.

Also, got myself a girlfriend too. Her name is Estee and she goes to film school with me. That picture is her, taken with the iPhone.

I’ll update some more soon.

If I could…

…change your life in one, simple way, or one complex way, or any way at all, how would I do it?

A slightly newer poem of mine. I’m, like, so totally romantic, man.

Her thorns are sharp,
Her stem is long,
She blooms like a flower in spring.

Her petals are red,
she tosses her head,
in energetic, sprightly dance.

The wind blows the others over,
yet she stands strong and proud.
To her the sun never disappears, its just covered by a cloud.

Her eyes, her face, her hands, her hair,
even the tip of her nose,
all form the things I love,
for my love is a red, red rose.

That put me in a poetry mood. An old old old poem of mine.

The Curious Squirrel poked his head out,
Looking for his Acorn.
He searched and searched everywhere
But ended up forlorn.

The Curious Squirrel needed that Acorn,
He needed something to hold.
So the Curious Squirrel hatched a plan:
Daring,
Cunning
And bold.

The Curious Squirrel went forth and asked other animals for an acorn.
The Curious Squirrel was scratched and kicked until the early morn.

This Curious Squirrel went home again, feeling tired and worn.
And there,
Sitting on his mantelpiece,
Was his long desired Acorn.

The Raven is so freaking awesome

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

‘The Quick and the Permanently Not Alive Anymore.’ My attempt at a film noir parody from two years ago.

“Love…
Don’t talk to me about love…
Let me explain.
There was this broad, see? She came into my office, looking for a light. “Legs that went all the way up” was the first thought that went racing though my mind, as she opened my door, waltzing into my life.
“A light?” I said.
She said, “Yes. A light. The guy down the hall said you might have one.”
“Did he now?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Does that mean I have one?”
“I’m guessing it does.”
I paused for a moment. “Sit down, dollface.”
The flickering neon sign outside shone through the slits of the venetian blinds, cloaking her face in lines of shadow. She sat down and looked up with those coy, little eyes.
“What are you really here for?” I said.
“Well, I heard you’re the best in the business.”
“You heard wrong. I’m finished and so are we. Run along.”
“Is that the way you treat all of your clients?”
“Only the married ones.” I gestured at her finger, a solid gold ring weighing it down.
“Well, That’s kind of why I’m here.”
“I don’t do that sort of thing anymore.”
“Maybe you should. It would be worth your while.”
I paused.
I pondered. I considered.
I wondered. I calculated. I resigned. I accepted.

All I had to do was to think of a witty repartee.
“Now your speaking my kind of English.”
“Am I?”
“Yes you are. Maybe we can come to some sort of an arrangement.”
“I’d like that. Here’s my card.”
I took it and she walked out of my life forever.
That was a year ago. I never pulled together the guts to call her. I got moved to Los Angeles the next week. And now I’m here, Sir.”
Sergeant Daniels looked up from his paperwork. He looked around his clean, neat office, sullied by this pretender of a detective sitting in front of him.
“A very convincing story, Mr. Marlocke, but it doesn’t rub with me.”
He stood up and walked to his filing cabinet, “Do you want to know why?”, he asked, pulling out a folder.
Marlocke asked in his weedy, nervous, little voice, “Why, Sergeant?”
Opening the folder and reading its contents, Daniels said, “Well, first of all, it says here that you are a former bodybuilder.”
“What is wrong with that?”
Daniels looked inquiringly at his secretary, Darren, at the back of the room, as if to say “Is this guy for real?” or possibly “What’s four hundred and eighty six divided by seventeen?” As it was most likely the first question, seeing as that was his kind of personality, we will leave it at that. He continued.
“Mr. Marlocke, you weigh 45 kilograms.”
“Yeah, I know…”
“It also says that you worked for the District Attorney in New York. May I see your papers relating to that period of employment?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well… because they… they… um… I… um…crashed my Packard off the pier, and…and…and my papers were in there. ”
Sergeant Daniels raised an eyebrow.
“I file all of my employment papers in my car, Sergeant.”
Sergeant Daniels raised the other eyebrow. He realized that it gave him a look of amazement, which was obviously the wrong emotion that he wished to get across to Marlocke, so he lowered both of them.
“I see. Mr. Marlocke, you must be told now, before your hopes get too high, we are not going to hire you.”
“You’re not?”
“No. However, with your penchant for storytelling, we may have just the post for you.”
A piece of paper is passed between them.
“Go downstairs, to the right, and past eight doors. In the ninth, you will see the ‘Literary Detection’ section. You are assigned to there.”
“What…What do they do there?”
“You will just have to find out. Now get out, I have work to do.”
Marlocke stood up, clutching the piece of paper to his chest like a piece of paper that was pretending to be a childhood blanket, but was failing miserably. He walked out, downstairs, to the right, past seven doors, went into the eighth, discovered it was a ladies bathroom, exited, went through the ninth, and was in a basement, fully furnished with incessantly dripping pipes. Immediately the smell of mold assaulted his nostrils. Two desks were set up on one side and a dirty huddle of beige filing cabinets on the other. A strangely out of place metal door lay at the opposite end of the room. At the table furthest from the door sat a largish man who tried to look well dressed, but just ended up looking like he rolled out of bed, fell onto a pile of clothes which, despite the various laws of physics, then fell onto him. He tried to initiate conversation with the man.
“Hi… I’m Freddy Marlocke.”
“Philip Mar-?”
“No. Freddy Marlocke.”
“Oh, ok. I’m Wickson. Jeffery Wickson.”
They shook hands, getting the feel for each other, quite literally in fact.
Marlocke asked, “So, this is the Literary Detection section I presume, Mr. Wickson?”
“Doctor, actually, Mr. Marlocke,” said Wickson, slightly taken aback, “and yes, this is the Literary Detection section. Quite a busy little agency we have here, eh?”
Marlocke nodded, looking around the dank, featureless room, filled with nothing but irony and two lonely detectives.
“Well, Dr. Wickson, why are you here?”
“I’m here because there’s no room in the world for a doctor who has a penchant for murder mysteries. After trying to start up a practice, and failing due to the lack of customers, I decided to indulge in my greatest interest. Murder. However, Sergeant Daniels did not see me fit for Hard Boiled detective work, so it looks like this highly interesting department is the one for me.” The vibrating air discharged from Wickson’s mouth immediately fell to the floor with the aid of the literary analog of gravity, due to the weight of sarcasm pulling it down.
“Yes, I ran into that myself. So who runs what here, Mr-”
“Doctor.”
“No, I’m not a doctor.”
“Yes, I am aware of that. I am merely pointing out to you that I am.”
Marlocke pondered this for a brief moment. This moment stretched into what many call an ‘awkward silence’. This ‘awkward silence’ progressed into an exceedingly long sentence, that seemed to have little desideratum for the continuance of the narrative but was merely there to strengthen the idea that Marlocke was indeed rather unintelligent.
“I see, Dr. Wickson. However, the question still remains… Who runs what here?”
“Well, I report to you, and in turn, you report to Daniels upstairs.”
“That seems fair enough. Now, If you don’t mind me asking… what.. what exactly is it that we do here?”
“Mr. Marlocke, why did you want to become a detective?”, asked Wickson in a sarcastically superior tone.
Marlocke, completely oblivious the previous sentence’s ‘sarcastically superior tone’ clause, answered truthfully, “To solve crimes, Doctor.”
“Well, we do that, but in literature.” Wickson waited for the pin to drop.
Perhaps it would be better if he leaned back in his chair, opened one of those peppermint sweets that he was always so fond of, and popped one between his sweaty, oversized lips. He would be waiting at least thirty seconds, during which he could have divided four hundred and eighty six by seventeen or worked out why exactly his desk drawer was completely devoid of peppermint sweets.
“In literature?” asked Marlocke, finally comprehending.
“Yes, In literature. Classic Literature, Modern Literature, everything.”
“I see. Well, I think that we had better get started on all of this. What’s our first case?”
Wickson got up from behind his desk and waddled over to the aforementioned beige coloured filing cabinets. Pulling out a plain, brown manila folder, he re-waddled back to his desk, handing Marlocke the folder. Today must be boring colour day at the offices of ‘Literary Detection’. Tuesdays is bingo day.
Marlocke reached for the folder and opened it. Inside, past the empty peppermint sweet wrappers, lay a single sheet of paper. It merely said:

And here I got bored and switched to another idea. A better one. If you want to read it, Ill chuck it up. Comment