Follow the money

If you believe, as I do, that you can generally tell what a society values by where it spends its money, this is baffling and disturbing: One Year of Prison Costs More Than One Year at Princeton

Worst. Movie. Ever.

Trailer: Plan 9 From Outer Space

Recently, I had the opportunity to see Plan 9 From Outer Space as it was meant to be seen: on the big screen in a full theater. Plan 9, for the uninitiated, is by common consensus the worst movie ever made.

It is, in fact, unspeakably bad. Incoherent, non-sensical, poorly filmed, poorly written, poorly directed, poorly acted... It's truly awful. The plot, such as it is, revolves around aliens who have come to earth to implement Plan 9, which will destroy humanity by raising our own dead and unleashing them on us as zombies. One zombie at a time.

The movie, directed by Ed Wood, features some real actors, one professional wrestler (one of the zombies, naturally), a vampy horror movie host, the director's chiropractor, and horror movie legend Bela Lugosi in his final role. And I do mean final: Lugosi died before production on Plan 9 even started. (This is where the chiropractor comes in: he served as the stand in for all the scenes Lugosi was unable to film due to being dead. Unfortunately, the chiropractor looked nothing like Lugosi, so he kept his face hidden whenever he was on screen.)

I could go on. It is a terrible film. But the worst movie ever made? Hardly.

Why not? Simple: it's tremendous fun. Plan 9 is (unintentionally) funny and entertaining. I had a wonderful time watching it, and from their laughter it appeared that the rest of the audience did, too.

It's true that part of the fun was that bit of nasty pleasure you get from from watching something truly inept, like a really good belly flop. But there was something more, something sweeter and more humane. First, there was the sense that Wood really thought he was making a film with an important message; you can tell because there are several laughable speeches advocating peace and harmony. (Ed Wood, Tim Burton's biopic about the director, supports this idea, presenting Wood as a self-delusional dreamer.) Second, there's the fact that you probably couldn't make a better parody of 50s sci-fi horror films if you tried. It's easy to imagine that this film was a very elaborate hoax by the guys from Monty Python, or SCTV, or SNL. It's that hilarious.

I can think of many movies I truly hated, and I bet you can, too. Movies that wasted our time, or were cynical and manipulative. Movies that tried to sell us a false fairy tale about how the good guys always win, or that the boy always gets the girl and everyone lives happily ever after. Movies that pander to the worst in us with gratuitous violence, sex, vengeance and torture.


Plan 9 is none of those things. It's bungling and dopey, but it's sincere: watching it I never felt like I was being cheated or exploited. Wood and his crew were trying, really trying, to entertain us, and I do think he really thought he was delivering an important message. His honest desire to deliver something worthwhile, no matter how thwarted he was by his own lack of skill, shines through. We recognize, and honor, the attempt, even in the face of failure. I think that's why, all these years later, people continue to be entertained by this ludicrous film.

Oakland

"...no country can be well governed unless its citizens as a body keep religiously before their minds that they are the guardians of the law and that the law officers are only the machinery for its execution, nothing more."

-- Mark Twain, The Gilded Age

Although you wouldn't know it if you get your news from "liberal" sources like the New York Times, CNN, or even MSNBC, the police in Oakland, CA got a little medieval on the local branch of the Occupy Wall Street movement, first driving them out of their encampment at Broadway and 14th, then using a bit of crowd control -- in the form of flash grenades and tear gas -- when the displaced protesters staged a march that evening. As is often the case in situations like this, it's not clear exactly what happened, although the video images proliferating online suggest that the violence appeared to be largely perpetrated by the police. (Expect to see many law suits alleging brutality in the coming weeks.) 

As much as I hate to say it, I suspect we'll see more scenes like this before the 99 Percent movement completes its journey through our culture. They are challenging the wealthy and powerful, and history shows that those who have power are not afraid to use it when threatened. So as this story unfolds, notice that the "machinery" seem to be the source of most of the violence, which is largely directed against the citizens they're supposed to be serving. 

42

Douglas Adams* fans will immediately recognize "42" as the answer to the question of Life, the Universe, and Everything, which is commonly interpreted as "What's the meaning of life?"

42 is, of course, a non-sensical answer to that most important of all questions. But I think it's also an appropriate answer, because the question itself is absurd: There is no one "meaning of life"; everyone must make their own meaning. Whether you find your meaning in your religion, your work, your family, or elsewhere, we each need to find it for ourselves.

In addition to each of us having our own meaning, I think meaning can change throughout our lives. For a time, meaning may come from trying to forge a career. At other times, you may find meaning in raising children. And in other periods of your life, meaning may come from devoting yourself to a cause. I think that's common, and I think it's OK. Who says there's one, single meaning? I don't think it's important where you find meaning, merely that you do. That's the thing.

*For those who aren't familiar with him, Douglas Adams is the late, lamented author of the "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" trilogy (in five parts), which I highly recommend to fans of fantasy, science fiction, English humor, or just humor in general. 

A Mulligan?

OK, not really. This isn't a do-over. It's more of a re-start. My original intent with this was to document my journey to grad school; apparently that wasn't a compelling enough topic to keep even me interested, let alone my vast legion of followers (heh).

Therefore, I'm starting again, only this time my theme will be considerably broader. Not just grad school, but life as a middle-aged dad who is making a late career change.

So where do we start?

How about with a quick catch up? Here's where things stand:

• Byron is 22, living in San Francisco, and has become a responsible adult working his way towards his career of choice. He's doing great, and I'm intensely proud of him.
• Flannery is 16, in her junior year in high school, and preparing herself for college applications. She's a stellar student -- smart and disciplined, a killer combination -- and has focused a steely eye on her goal: Wesleyan University, in Connecticut. She's become quite popular with the boys, is funny and self-assured and caring and... can you tell that I'm hugely proud of her, too?
• Barb is... well, she probably would prefer I not give away her age. We've been together almost six years, and I love her deeply. She's been a self-employed consultant for a couple of years now, and is doing very well. We're looking forward to Flannery's graduation... that's when we sell my house and finally move in together.
• The cats -- Bianco and Marrone -- think they run the house. To a large extent, they do, of course, but I resist giving in.
• And me? I've finally begun the Marriage and Family Therapy Masters program in the Ed Psych school at CSUN. I'm having a blast, and my only regret is that I can't quit work and devote all my time to school.

My plan is that this will be the last "about me" post. Instead, I'm going to try to share thoughts, things I've learned, observations, etc. So stay tuned.

I killed my dog a few days ago...

Actually, that’s not exactly true. I paid someone to kill my dog.

That is true, but it doesn’t really tell the story. I paid a veterinarian to euthanize my dog.

It was the right thing to do. Rosie, my dog of nearly 15 years, was dying of liver cancer. She had stopped eating several days earlier (this after we had been hand feeding her for about a week). I gave the go-ahead when the vet, describing the likely progress of the disease, said seizures were a distinct possibility.

I couldn’t put her (or, to be honest, me) through that. So I decided it was time. While I stroked her head, trying to calm her (she hated the vet as much as many humans hate the dentist) she received a sedative. It calmed her, but also made her appear drunk, with her with tongue lolling from her mouth. Then, the vet gave her another injection, and we pet her until the vet, listening to her slowing heart with a stethoscope, said quietly: “She’s gone.”

Turns out that wasn’t even the hardest part. The hardest part: living without her. Being reminded over and over of her absence. Feeling the void in my heart.

In short, I’m surprised to discover how much I miss her.

I’m surprised because I didn’t actually want Rosie. My then-wife brought her into the house, without consulting me, at the urging of our then-6 year old son. Given my druthers, I would haven’t had brought her, or indeed any dog, into the house.

But despite my initial resistance, I grew to appreciate her. She was a sweet thing, always excited to see me return home, and friendly to anyone who approached. She retained a puppy-like energy and enthusiasm long after moving into doggy adolescence and adulthood. She played well with the kids and our older dog, and even adapted with little complaint when we brought to kittens into the house.

Sure, she was too quick to bark, and seemed to think it was her responsibility to police the neighborhood. As she got older, she became obsessed with food, spending virtually all of her time watching me for a sign, any sign, that it was time to eat. She would leap up and following me anytime I went anywhere near the kitchen where her food was stored. Late in her life, she began waking us to eat earlier and earlier in the morning. In the name of getting a decent night’s sleep, I eventually resorted to feeding her a second dinner immediately before I went to bed. (Don’t worry. To prevent canine obesity I didn’t actually give her any more food; I just split her usual allotment into three instead of two.)

Plus, she had terrible, deadly, paint-peeling, breath.

But she was family. Not just a pet we “owned,” but a vital part of our lives. She was there every morning, waiting (okay, begging) to be fed. She so loved to go for walks that she became ecstatic at the mere sight of her leash. She met me at the door when I came home, tail wagging so hard her whole body shook. She would lay with me in bed, and snuggle next to me on the couch. When she got older, and could no longer climb onto the bed or couch, she would lay at my feet, simply wanting to be as close as possible.

Most importantly, she gave us the kind of unconditional, absolute love that only a dog can give. She adored us. And, it turns out, I adored her. Loved her. And, as I said, now I miss her. I miss her greeting in the morning. I miss hearing her nails clicking on the hardwood floors as she moved through the house. I miss feeling her warmth through my bare feet when I walked over a spot she had just been laying in. I miss her doggy smell. I miss looking into her deep, soulful eyes.

I’m not sorry I had her killed. It was the right thing to do. But I am sorry she’s gone. I miss her. A lot.

Rosie Weiss
1996-2011
R.I.P.

It's not important that you fall down...

...as long as you get back up.

That's what a motivational speaker, or life coach, would say. Here's the moment when that bit of advice becomes relevant to me and this project I've set out on.

You see, I got a letter from the CSUN MFT program the other day, telling me I am an "Alternate" for the MFT program this fall.

I was NOT accepted.

That really wasn't part of the plan.

The plan was to fill do the application, get the transcripts, ask for the recommendations, complete the prerequisites, sit for the interview... and then get a letter that says "Congratulations."

And that's how everything went, up until the letter.

So now I have to re-think the rest of the plan.

According to the letter, as an alternate, I could still be invited to join the program. That could happen as late as August (for a program that begins in September). So I have four months before I have to finally conclude that I'm not attending CSUN in the Fall.

In the meantime, I have to create a contingency plan (something I probably should have done many months ago).

I see several options:

1. I sit back and hope my status changes from Alternate to Accepted.

2. I plan to re-apply for next Fall

3. I apply at a different school -- probably Pepperdine, for this Fall (yes, it's possible) or the following Spring.

Note that one option is missing: "Forget the whole thing."

That's what my life coach (if I had one) would call "not getting back up."