Last week I went to T.G.I. Friday’s on a Tuesday and Ruby Tuesday on a Friday. I feel like I’ve gotten away with something.

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They say it’s not what you know, it’s who you know that matters. That’s not entirely true. It what you know about who you know. That, and their understanding of your willingness to keep quiet about it in return for certain favors.

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Our apartment is on the third floor, and offers us a decent view of the swimming pool of a neighboring apartment complex across the street. The other day, there were several people splashing around in the pool, having some summer fun. The sky started to turn dark as a storm began to brew in the west. I love a good thunderstorm and settled in at the window to watch it roll in. The swimmers swam on, unwilling to give up their fun for the threat of bad weather. There was a grumble of thunder. Soon, rain started to fall. Not a torrential downpour, just a good, steady rain.

At this point, the bathers clambered out of the pool and, still dripping, stretched their towels over their heads as makeshift umbrellas and dashed for their cars. And I had to wonder: Why? You were just swimming, you’re already drenched, and here you are scurrying under cover so you don’t get—what? More wet? I can understand wanting to get out of a large body of standing water in a thunderstorm, but there had been no lightning, and I sincerely doubt the towels would have helped a bit if there had. This was all about the rain.

So people who had been completely submerged a moment before were now attempting to not be dampened further by small droplets of water on their way to getting in their cars where they would sit and not be rained on, but remain wet. I don’t know, maybe the PH balance of that pool is way off or something.

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Our apartment is on the third floor, and offers us a decent view of the swimming pool of a neighboring apartment complex across the street. The other day, there were several people splashing around in the pool, having some summer fun. The sky started to turn dark as a storm began to brew in the west. I love a good thunderstorm and settled in at the window to watch it roll in. The swimmers swam on, unwilling to give up their fun for the threat of bad weather. There was a grumble of thunder. Soon, rain started to fall. Not a torrential downpour, just a good, steady rain.

At this point, the bathers clambered out of the pool and, still dripping, stretched their towels over their heads as makeshift umbrellas and dashed for their cars. And I had to wonder: Why? You were just swimming, you’re already drenched, and here you are scurrying under cover so you don’t get—what? More wet? I can understand wanting to get out of a large body of standing water in a thunderstorm, but there had been no lightning, and I sincerely doubt the towels would have helped a bit if there had. This was all about the rain.

So people who had been completely submerged a moment before were now attempting to not be dampened further by small droplets of water on their way to getting in their cars where they would sit and not be rained on, but remain wet. I don’t know, maybe the PH balance of that pool is way off or something.

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George Carlin, one of my comedy heroes, died Sunday of heart failure. He was 71.

I’ve always connected with Carlin, enjoying his cynical view of the world, his examination of language, and his skewering of everyday life. Carlin had the comedic gift of showing you something you’d seen, said, or done countless times before and saying, “Okay, but now look at it like this.” And from that new angle, you saw it in an entirely new way, one which was more often than not ridiculous. And you couldn’t help but laugh.

The good comedians make you laugh. The great ones make you think while you’re doing it. Carlin was one of the greats.

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I know, this is hardly an original sentiment these days, but I feel the need to add my voice to the choir asking the man to stop—just stop—before he does any more damage to my cherished entertainment memories.

It was bad enough when he decided to “improve” the original Star Wars trilogy with some highly obtrusive digital effects. Then, of course, he refused to allow fans to have the true, original, un-messed-with movies on DVD until they howled so much that he relented… and then turned out some half-assed non-anamorphic, non-restored, laserdisc ports and called it good. Not satisfied with constantly tweaking the old movies, he finally revisited the galaxy far, far away only to turn in three pretty bad films, full of clunky dialogue and stale plots, all so he could further play with all his digital toys, seeing just how many Gungans he could put on screen at one time before the render machine choked. Then he started cutting in elements from the new prequels into the original movies (Temuera Morrison’s voice for Boba Fett, Hayden Christensen in the Jedi lineup at the end of Return of the Jedi) to give his saga some semblance of planned cohesion. But now, no longer happy with botching the Star Wars universe, he’s turned his attention to Indiana Jones.

A little background, in case you don’t know. Frank Darabont, screenwriter and director of The Shawshank Redemption, was hired, among many other screenwriters, to work on a script for the new Indy movie several years ago, based on a story by Lucas. (At this point in my career as a jaded cynic, I realize that “story by Lucas” means he at one point said something to the effect of “Let’s do something with crystal skulls. And the lost city of gold. What’s it called? El Camino? Ah, look it up. Oh, and Russians. Throw some aliens in, too. I like aliens.”) So Darabont worked on the script for a year, collaborating closely with Spielberg, until he had something both he and Steven liked. Harrison Ford read it and said he was on board. Everyone was happy with the script… except Lucas. He scrapped it (sort of) and said they’d start over with a new screenwriter. Darabont was understandably upset and parted ways with Lucas. Indy 4 eventually got made with a new Lucas-approved script.

Now, I like Darabont, enjoy his work, and I was disappointed that his script didn’t make the cut. I was even more disappointed after seeing Indiana Jones and the Adult Diaper of Doom, finding it a hollow, pale imitation of the series’ former glory, disjointed, meandering, with lousy dialogue, obvious sets, a hero who is no longer the hero, and the clear indication that Lucas was grooming Shia LeBeouf’s character to be the new Indiana Jones. Still, that’s life in Hollywood. Tough break for Frank and the fans.

Then my good friend over at Scuzzbuster.net got his hands on what appears to be Darabont’s original script. He was nice enough to send it my way and I read through it. Suddenly I went from disappointed to outraged. This script was definitely better. The dialogue had that familiar Indiana Jones zing. Indy himself was more fully realized, given an actual character arc and development, rather than just putting the hat on again and calling it good. Marion was still in the movie, but now a far more active participant, involved in the quest in a direct way right from the beginning, not just someone who got kidnapped. There was more action, more humor, great nods to the original movies, just an all around better story. Indy was once again the star of the show, an active participant, rather than the tag-along baggage boy he basically is in the new movie. But it all got shelved because Lucas, out of new ideas, needs to keep mining his previous glory and had to establish a new character to take over for Ford so he can milk the franchise for three more pictures.

To add insult to injury, large chunks of Darabont’s script were lifted and placed in the new script. Sadly, the now-infamous refrigerator scene was one of those elements, but there were plenty of others: the fire ants, the warehouse chase, the rocket sled, the jungle truck chase, the three waterfalls, many more. Lucas apparently hand-picked some of the moments he decided were “cool” and had the new writer cram them in around the new material. So the audience gets a watered-down Indiana Jones movie, Lucas gets another $14 million, and everyone’s happy (except the audience).

Some folks will likely say I’m a fanboy whiner, that no Indiana Jones movie would have been good enough after 19 years of waiting. Possibly true. Those movies were from a different time, and I was a different person. Even Darabont’s script probably wouldn’t have provided the magic I felt back then. But you know what? Having read it, it probably would have come a lot closer and just been a generally better movie than what they wound up throwing on the screen, which is a shameless attempt to establish a new franchise at the expense of the old one. Lucas has even said he wants to do more Jones films, with Shia as the star and Ford as the sidekick, teaching the kid and passing the torch, and that’s why I have to implore Lucas to, for the love of God, stop. No more. Quit. Retire. Make home movies. Come up with some new ideas, if you can. But for crying out loud, stop destroying the franchises that made me fall in love with movies to begin with.

And Star Wars TV series, now? Two of them? Dude, it’s over.

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In preparation of the upcoming election, I decided I should join a political party. Not wanting to join one of the usual two, I eventually settled on the Anarchists, but, you know, they’re just so disorganized…

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Hollywood lost a legend Sunday with the death of effects wizard Stan Winston at the age of 62 after a seven-year battle with multiple myeloma, a cancer of blood plasma cells. Winston was responsible for some of the most memorable creature effects in modern cinema, including Aliens, Predator, the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park, Terminator, Edward Scissorhands, and most recently Iron Man.

I’ve always loved movies and still have a penchant for sci-fi and horror. If I saw Winston’s name on the credits on the latest film I’d just plunked down my cash to see, I knew, if nothing else, I’d be getting some quality effects work. I even dragged a few friends to a midnight showing of his creature-feature directorial debut, Pumpkinhead, just based on the fact that Winston was directing. Not a great film, but we still had a lot of fun, and isn’t that why you go to a movie in the middle of the night?

So from that dorky teen who once sat in a darkened theater and watched a metallic killing machine, an intergalactic hunter, an army of xenomorphs, and a park full of dinosaurs–who watched, was amazed, entertained, inspired, and believed every second of it all–thank you, Stan, and rest in peace.

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Despite what all the positive thinkers and self-help folks tell you, failure is most definitely an option. Most times, it’s actually the easiest one.

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Dear University,

It pains me to write this letter, but you’ve left me no choice. We had some good times, some laughs, and I enjoyed our time together, but it’s over. It’s been over for years. You need to accept that. You need to stop living in the past and move on with your life. I have. You need to get over me, let me go. And you really, really need to stop asking me for more money.

Seriously, this has been going on for over a decade now. Roughly once a month, you send me a letter saying how much you miss me, how great our time was together, and then you slip in a request for cash. I paid plenty when we were together and I was actually benefiting in some way from the relationship. Why you expect me to keep footing your bills now that we’re apart is utterly beyond me. Besides, I certainly don’t remember you paying for a lot of the stuff we did together. Seems like I was the only one shelling out the money. And, as I recall, the only thing I got for my contributions at the end of our time was a piece of paper and that stupid hat I’ll never wear again.

Come to think of it, you probably wouldn’t need quite so much money if you would just stop wasting it on postage, envelopes, and those clearly expensive brochures. It’s hard to feel any sympathy for your financial woes if it looks like you just wasted a wad of green on a presentation to convince me of how much you need money. If memory serves, you offered a few economics courses; maybe you should take one yourself.

So please, leave me in peace. I’m not coming back and I’m certainly not giving you any more money. It was a good four years, it really was, but that time is over. We’re done. There will be others in your future, new people that will give you what I no longer can. Forget about me. Live your life without me. It’ll be better for both of us.

Sincerely,
Me

P.S. And stop sending me the glossy four-color notifications of who has what job now or who just had a baby. I don’t care. They were your friends, not mine.

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