"The babe with the power."

You were minding your own business watching some random film at the movie theater when suddenly you were smitten by one of the characters on screen. The movie may have been a piece of crap but you weren’t really paying attention. After the credits rolled you found yourself dreaming pathetically about some fictional character portrayed by a person you would probably never meet.

Bowie rules!

It happened in 1986… my first movie crush. The film was Labyrinth and Jennifer Connelly had left me breathless. I was twelve years old and I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest. I had liked other girls before but not like this. It was quite pitiful. Years later she popped up in The Rocketeer. The movie wasn’t very good… I think. I can’t really remember the film. It was 1991 and she had grown up… a lot. Yep… once again, I was stupefied by her stunning presence. Over the years she had proven to be quite a talented actress. In movies like A Beautiful Mind, House of Sand and Fog and Requiem for a Dream she had demonstrated her versatility. As an avid filmgoer, I began to see her solely as a formidable element in my favorite medium.

After meeting real girls and going on real dates, movie crushes were soon replaced by real ones. Some may have been brutal and heartbreaking but they were always real and that’s what made them awesome! Now and again our jaws may drop at the sight of some outrageous beauty on the silver screen but we are able to recognize their virtual nature… unless you’re some creepy person living in a basement eerily contemplating on how to attract a certain Hollywood starlets attention. Then you need help.

As with all childhood things, we outgrow our little crushes. I watch her movies now with a great deal of respect and professional objectivity. Although… I still think she’s a hottie.

Who were your movie crushes? 

"Taught never to retreat, never to surrender."

Every decade seemed to usher in the next generation of butt-kickers. From Douglas Fairbanks in the silent era to Bogart and Cagney, even the black and whites had their fair share. Newman, Bronson, McQueen and Eastwood brought their own style of grit to the 60’s and 70’s. My generation marveled at the unapologetic might of Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Van Damme, Segal and Willis.

What the f**k happened?

There were no internal conflicts involving the life consuming consequences of revenge versus the sublime and self-healing qualities found with forgiveness. Their motives were simple. Their solutions… direct. “You tried to kill me, I’ll kill you.”
“You killed my partner, I’ll kill you.”
“You kidnapped my family, I’ll kill you.”
“You killed my family, I’ll kill you.”
“You’re holding the whole world for ransom… I will f**k you up, interfere with your evil plans, then kill you.”

Sometime during the late nineties, the concept of the action hero changed. The gladiators of old had been replaced by troubled souls in search of redemption. It added a little more depth to the characters, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. The new millennium, however, saw something far more grotesque. Our champions had evolved into soft little boys who sparkle while others devolved into mindless raging psychopaths. People just wanted a little more depth. Instead, what they got were a collection of featherweight cream puffs with fractured minds in desperate need of a hug or the extreme opposite... soulless lumps. Ellen Ripley and Sarah Conner could eat these prima donnas for breakfast.

A few contemporaries like Diesel, Statham, Butler and “The Rock” Johnson have come close but, with the exception of 300, their movies never quite seem to reach that same level of quality. Besides, comic book movies shouldn’t count because, while the film and the actor may be modern, the hero is not. Does Christian Bale deliver as Batman? Absolutely. Is Batman a new idea? Nope.

The inability to recreate these archetypal heroes was further proven when studios started bringing the iconic characters of the early eighties back… using the original actors. They were old but still undefeated. Rambo, Rocky, Die Hard and Indiana Jones each made a comeback to the silver screen. While the actual movies may not have been the best in their respective series (Some just plain sucked.), the characters themselves still maintained a certain presence. They commanded a level of respect severely lacking in today’s counterparts.

“People just don’t want that kind of simple brute saving the day anymore.” says the emo-worshipping twit. I beg to differ.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (Which I enjoyed) was a very well put together film. Under the watchful eye of Edgar Wright, it was the perfect combination of action, comedy and heart. Throw in a little popular nostalgia and you’ve got one hell of a fun movie. So why didn’t it do so well at the box-office? Someone else took the cake. Not only did they take the cake, they shoved a grenade up its ass and pulled the pin.

The Expendables.

Sylvester Stallone is a veteran of the formula. He knew what people needed was a brief throwback to real time action with actual explosions mixed in with old school stunts and wireless fights. The plot was uncomplicated and served only to push the action forward. It was a refreshing idea that relied on classical action movie techniques. Computer generated elements were kept to a minimum. Unlike many contemporary films that require a crap-load of CG and an overdose of hyper-kinetic editing to make their heroes seem credible, this movie felt raw and bulls**t free. It presented a group of towering behemoths getting the job done. It was a welcome change from all the puny little wonderboys passing for saviors these days.

Sometimes you want to be intellectually challenged. Sometimes you want to dive deep into your own emotions. Sometimes you just want to see some s**t blow up. But even then...  you want it done right. When push comes to shove and the world is in peril, we don’t want some damaged idiot with daddy issues to come to the rescue. We want the honorable no-nonsense guy who will shoot first and ask questions later. Unfortunately, the gauntlet has yet to be passed and as long as “Go ahead, make my day.” is replaced with “I can do this as long as I believe in myself.” we’re screwed.

“Yippee ki-yay motherfu**ers!”

"Not nearly as smart..."

Once upon a time, a greedy and intellectually infertile Hollywood executive had a masterful idea. Since he could not come up with an original concept and his creativity was less than that of a rancid potato, he would take other people’s ideas instead. Anything that had had a modicum of financial success, he would buy and redo it… in his ignorant image. At first it was kind of fun and in some ways interesting. Then, like a rampant disease, it got out of hand. The age of the remake was upon us.

Foreign films were ripped from their native countries and bastardized into the “New and Improved” American rehash. Germany’s Wings of Desire became City of Angels, while Sweden’s Let the Right One In morphed into the ridiculously unnecessary Let Me In. God forbid they make people read subtitles! Even more distressing is that many of those foreign movies make reference to stuff that happens… elsewhere. Apparently it confuses most Americans if a story doesn’t take place in their own country. Besides… we wouldn’t want people becoming interested in other cultures.

Are U.S. audiences generally incapable of handling foreign films and independent features? Do they really need Hollywood’s help to dumb these movies down and spoon-feed them like cerebral baby food? OR does Hollywood underestimate its audiences’ intelligence thus producing these watered down versions of excellent films whose final result is creating a false sense of intellectual stimulation not unlike claiming to be a Shakespearean scholar because you read the fu**ing Cliffnotes?

In other words… do they dumb down the movies because people are too ignorant or do they make people ignorant by showing them diluted versions of the original?

Too harsh?

Death at a Funeral.

This movie was made in the U.K. in 2007. It was directed by Frank Oz. Aside from providing the iconic voices for Yoda and several of the Muppets, he is an accomplished filmmaker. A few of his previous endeavors include Bowfinger, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, The Score, The Dark Crystal and What About Bob. He is no stranger to mainstream appeal. His latest project was hilarious! The only thing truly foreign about the funeral movie was that it took place in England. What do they speak over there? English! Oh but wait… it’s that weird kind of English. NOPE! For an American audience they were going to have to redo the whole movie and translate it to American in order for it to make any sense. They needed famous people in it too. How could you even think of showing a movie with unrecognizable faces? They didn’t even try putting the original one in mainstream movie theaters because it probably wouldn’t make as much money that way. So… a hearty applause for the genius responsible for creating an American remake of an English speaking film that was only 3 years old. In 2010 we were blessed with the arrival of the “New and Improved” Death at a Funeral.

“Wait!” says the Hollywood serpent. “Let’s not just take another country’s ideas and make them our own… lets dive into our own cinematic history and shred it all to hell!” Apparently every goddam movie and T.V. show must be redone! Nothing is sacred. Our memories are being raped and pillaged by these corporate barbarians. Stories are being rewritten and heroes demolished into McDonald’s Happy Meal toys.

A country’s cultural maturity is measured by the quality of its artwork. This applies to all mediums including literature, music and film. Reproducing mediocre copies of other people’s ideas and smearing all the great things you have done in the past for a quick buck… says a lot.

Click here for an extensive list of remakes past.

Click here for a frightening view of remakes to come.

"That's Morality for you."

There are some sick movies out there.

I would often make fun of people who couldn’t handle certain types of movies. Films like Romper Stomper, Hate, The Accused, Precious and American History X frequently received harsh criticisms from the poor unfortunate souls who simply could not stomach the subject matter. While they dealt with very delicate themes, they were nowhere near as disturbing as other movies out there. The only reason to proclaim these films unwatchable is if you have suffered these atrocities first-hand… or your level of empathy borders on the supernatural. Of course we share the anger. Of course we feel their pain. We cry with the characters and we follow their grief but when all is said and done, we should be able to let it go. After all… it’s only a movie.

I was living in Connecticut. Soon after college I had decided to leave the island for a couple of years in order to gain new perspective, broaden my horizons, see the world from a different point of view… some bulls**t like that. Danny, Julio and all my old friends from college, were back in Puerto Rico. I still kept in touch.

On one particularly uneventful morning, I decided to call Danny. We spoke about the usual and he mentioned a movie he had just seen but would never see again. There was genuine disgust, with perhaps a hint of fear, in his voice. Dan wasn’t the type to shy away from films so easily. Neither was Julio. When I spoke to him, he told me about a movie Danny had recommended that completely shattered his comfort zone and chilled him to the core. I believe he may have cursed Danny’s name in the process.

It affected both of them? What could be so disturbing? These guys were moviegoing badasses. We had lived through some of the most grotesque films on print. We clenched our teeth and hardened our hearts while facing hideous scenes of violence and abuse. We had survived Passolini’s Saló, or the 120 Days of Sodom. Talk about disgusting! I could take the time to offer an in depth critique of the unsettling Italian masterpiece using only the most technical and professionally critical vocabulary. However for brevity’s sake I shall summarize. That movie was F**KED UP! Violence, sodomy, poop… lots of poop, Nazis and rape... THE END. I have no desire whatsoever to sit through that movie again. I emerged exhausted and perturbed but ultimately unscarred.

What could possibly be nastier than that?

Irreversible.

That was the name of the film that had left my dearest friends cinematically catatonic. Wussies. I would have to see this for myself.

Not only did I find a copy of the film on DVD, I bought it… if only to mock my weak-willed acquaintances. I went home and prepared for my movie night. I pulled out an enormous plastic bowl from the kitchen cupboard. It was the kind of bowl used for mixing large amounts of salad. I filled it with Lucky Charms and just about emptied a half-gallon of milk. I got comfortable and the feature began.

So… there’s some old man in his underwear talking about some random crap. The camera is spinning. A little dizzying, but I can take it. Some guy is walking into a club. It’s an underground club. It’s gross and dark. The guy seems pissed. He’s looking for someone. He sees him. He takes a fire extinguisher and OH! OH DAMN! WHAT THE… ARE YOU SERIOUS?! HOW?! The camera spins. I am dizzy. Like Memento, the story is playing backwards. After each scene, the camera does a little dance and I am thrust back in time to the events that happened just before the scene I just watched. So why was the guy so pissed? Oh I see. It’s because… HOLY S**T! NO NO NO! ENOUGH! CUT GODDAM IT! CUT! What the hell is wrong with this guy?! I had to hold back the urge to punch my T.V. My eyes were watering. Not so much out of sadness… but out of pure unadulterated rage.

When the perpetual mental thrashing was over, it took me several hours to fully calm down. I looked to my side only to find a gigantic bowl filled with some colorful uneaten slop. I hadn’t touched my cereal. At all. For the entire hour and a half, I had completely forgotten about everything.

I called Danny. I told him I had just finished watching the movie. I may have cursed his name. We agreed that the film was wonderfully executed. We discussed how effective it was in delivering its tragic message of inevitability. We also agreed that we would probably never watch it again. I was screwed. I owned it. I still own it. Seven years later and it sits on my shelf glaring at me. I haven’t seen it since. My friend Dave wanted to watch it. I lent it to him. It messed him up. I believe he cursed my name. He hasn’t seen it since.

This can't save you.

This is not a date movie. This is not something you invite your friends over to see while sharing a gargantuan tub of popcorn. These movies are ferocious. Some don’t even have ratings. They don’t turn the camera to avoid showing the ugly parts. They don’t hide behind visual metaphors. They dive head on into the darkest regions of humanity and explore the unrelenting shadows with the lights on. While this validates their creation and subsequent appreciation, they should not be viewed by everyone. There are films that shock for shocking’s sake. After viewing so many movies, it becomes easier to spot the difference. The ones that linger are the ones that tell the wicked truth. Keep your eyes open. The world is a beautiful place but the natives… can be very dangerous.

Have a lovely day.

EPILOGUE:

The story should have ended there. But alas, Danny is a twisted bastard. You see… the only part of the movie I didn’t quite get was the introduction with the old man. Danny explained that Irreversible was essentially a sequel. Not an actual continuation but a story set in the same universe as another film. He read that, in the previous film, the old man was the protagonist. All I kept thinking was “There’s another one?!” It was called I Stand Alone and it definitely took place in the same world as its successor. It was brutal; maybe not as much as Irreversible, but brutal enough. Danny felt it would make a lovely Christmas gift. He just thought it would be cool if I had the complete collection. Bless him. He hadn’t even seen it but was thoughtful enough to let me watch it first.

Just the other day he informed me that Gaspar Noé, the director responsible for kicking our souls in the groin, would soon be releasing his latest movie, Enter the Void, on DVD. I did a little poking around and apparently it is very uncomfortable to watch. And yes… it is to be seen as a sequel to Irreversible thereby completing his trilogy of doom.

Oh crap… I’ll probably get it for my birthday. 

"I'm a knight on a special quest."

So who is my favorite director? Terry Gilliam. Why? Well… sit back with a nice hot cup of cocoa and let me tell you…

We are told to grow up. We are taught that life isn’t fair. We are given a set of rules and forced to obey them without question. We are expected to understand. The problem wasn’t that I did not understand. I did understand. I just didn’t accept it. Some of these rules made no sense. They had nothing to do with the “good” of the people or the rights of all living things. They catered to the selfish wants and needs of specific groups and self-important individuals.

Time to face the real world.

Reality, apparently, was like a hungry, unwavering animal and I was expected to just stand there and let it rip me apart, chew me, swallow me, digest me and poop me out. And be grateful. F**k that!

How’s that hot chocolate?

It started with a question. When I was a young lad (lets say around 10 or 11) I asked my mother, “What is the funniest movie you have ever seen?” She thought about it for almost two whole seconds and answered, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” I was intrigued. Who was this Monty Python guy and why was he searching for the cup of Christ? Even more intriguing… why was that so funny? I had to know. I begged and I pleaded to go to the video rental place. We went, she rented and we drove back home. I had, in my hands, a copy of what my mother believed to be… THE FUNNIEST MOVIE IN THE WORLD. We placed it in the VCR. Tracking was adjusted. Warnings were read and understood. It began. What the hell is this crap? My mother was in tears. Her whole body was convulsing with laughter. I didn’t get it. Aside from the Black Knight scene and the killer bunny, I thought it was the stupidest thing I had ever watched. That was my introduction to English humor. It was also my initiation into the twisted world Monty Python. And I had just witnessed the work of the man who would later become my favorite director.

In 1991 or thereabouts, I had gone to the movies with a group of friends from high school. We were all big Robin Williams fans at the time and decided to go see his latest film… The Fisher King. I thought it was amazing. It was a very dark film but somewhere within that chaotic story of guilt, redemption, loss, insanity and the conflict between fantasy and reality, there was something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I could feel it but I couldn’t name it.

It also marked the moment where I first got into an analytical discussion about a movie. I can’t remember all the people who went with me that day but I do remember walking outside of the theater and discussing one of the most potent images in the film with my good friend Angella. We talked about the symbolism behind the apparition of the red knight and it’s psychological impact on the Williams character, Parry. We didn’t have all the vocabulary but we had enough. It was fun.

I looked up the director’s name and found a list of his previous endeavors. The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, Brazil, Time Bandits, Jabberwocky and… huh? Monty Python and the Holy Grail? By that age I was already more familiar with the Pythons. I didn’t know all of their names and I definitely had no idea, which one Terry Gilliam was. After doing a little research, I discovered that, while he did make a few appearances on the show, he was mainly responsible for all the weird animations. I loved those!

After diving into his limited but potent filmography, I was hooked. Munchausen had been based on the legends of an actual German baron. Visually breathtaking, it made me realize that this guy was a technical genius and a master storyteller. Time Bandits had an equal effect. I was devouring every bit of it. As prepared as I thought I was, I was nowhere near ready for… Brazil. This thing blew me out of the water. Too young to truly understand the Kafkaesque criticisms of modern bureaucracy, I could still tell this was a powerful piece of work. I would come to appreciate it in full as an adult. The sickening ballet between zombified public officials and redundant paperwork felt like I was participating in a distorted version of Swan Lake being performed by a group of crippled orangutans on crack.

Needless to say, I awaited each of his subsequent movies with great anticipation. I still do. As an avid moviegoer, I appreciate the fact that he never underestimates his audience. He tells his stories with a matter-of-factness allowing fantasy to merge with reality in the most unconventional ways. He doesn’t spend thousands of hours explaining how the “machine” works, simply that it does. That is a level of trust and respect seldom found in directors nowadays. Granted, there is a certain complexity in the presentations themselves but once you get past the “weirdness” and see the movies as a whole, you begin to feel their underlying message. That said, I would never presume to know what goes on in his brain. I can only speak of what I see, how I interpret and what I feel when I watch them.

Be it an escape through drugs in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or the back and forth race through time in 12 Monkeys, it was always about the struggle; the struggle for happiness within the confines of the “real” world. Even in the documentary Lost in La Mancha you saw Gilliam’s own war against the inevitable as everything, from illness to natural disasters, led to a whole slur of legal banter which ultimately impeded the completion of his Don Quijote film.

When The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus was announced, I was thrilled. When Heath Ledger died halfway into production all I could think of was… “Crap!” It was a tragedy to say the least. Ledger was turning out to be a fine actor. It was a brutal loss. Gilliam just seemed to be surrounded by s**t. Here was another film about to be lost to the relentless beast. Thankfully, I am not the only Terry Gilliam fan and Heath had a few good friends as well. Johnny Depp, Jude Law, and Colin Farrell stepped in to help complete the movie; a testament to Gilliam’s abilities and Ledger’s talent. But how in the hell was he going to justify four guys playing the same role? The answer… flawlessly.

Reality can be a difficult place. It is vicious at times and most people are as insane as the rules they follow. So why bother? Why fight it? Why not just turn my head to the ground and assimilate? Because of the other element in his films. The other soldier in that great war and the reason why fantasy plays such a predominant role in his features. It was that thing I’d felt when I had watched The Fisher King so long ago and the only weapon against the onslaught of the unwavering animal…

Hope.

For his unique vision of the world, his untiring devotion to his craft and for inspiring me to not take life too seriously lest it consume me… he was and still is my favorite director.

So, finish your cocoa and check out his movies when you get a chance. Let me know what you think.

Storytime (short)

The Miracle of Flight (short)

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Jabberwocky

Time Bandits

The Crimson Permanent Assurance (short)

Brazil

The Adventures of Baron Munchausen

The Fisher King

Twelve Monkeys

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

The Brothers Grimm

Tideland

The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

The Legend of Hallowdega (short)

And coming soon… The Man Who Killed Don Quixote

Oh and… who are your favorite directors? My cocoa is ready.

"What's in a name..."

 “What's in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet."

So wrote the indelible William Shakespeare in one of his most beloved plays… Romeo and Juliet. But the real question is... if the rose’s name had actually been Catpoop Weed or the rare and beautiful Blooming Tickfart would you really want to smell it in the first place. It would certainly smell the same, to be true, but the allure would most likely be lost.

The same could be said when coming up with a title for a movie or a book or even a simple little blog. Despite the content, the title has the power to draw people in or push them away. I read a neat little quote from Suite101.com that said “The title should reflect the subject of your story, without giving everything away. It is the ultimate tease. It is the ultimate promise.”

Think back to some of those movie titles that just grabbed you… regardless of the quality of the movie itself.

Here are some of mine:

Blade Runner

City of Lost Children

Rhapsody in August

Die Hard (It just sounds so final.)

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Mysterious)

Slumdog Millionaire

12 Monkeys

My Blueberry Nights (Huh?)

Amores Perros

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly

Requiem for a Dream  (Poetic)

Wicked City

Dark City  (I guess I have a thing for titles with the word “city” in them)

O’ Brother Where Art Thou?... and many, many more.

Feel free to add your favorite titles in the comment box below:

"Parting is... inevitable."

I am a firm believer that neither movies nor music nor the shows on T.V. are responsible for the corruption of our youth. That is usually the pathetic battle cry of an ignorant parent. However, if the child is already in pain… these things may very well serve to fuel a fire that was ignited long before.

It was sometime during 1987… A.D. (Just in case.)

The world was changing. As worlds often do. Aretha Franklin had become the first woman inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The Single European Act was passed by the European community. Our World population had reached five billion people with a baby who was born in Croatia. U.S. President Ronald Reagan underwent prostate surgery too. As far as films were concerned, I was about to receive my sanguineous induction into movie manhood.

During my pre-adolescent years, my mother had taken a fantastic job that unfortunately required her to travel quite a bit. I stayed at my grandmother’s house during her often lengthy trips. I actually enjoyed it. My Spanish was no longer an issue so I was able to make new friends. After a couple of years of hanging out with the neighborhood kids, I had grown from a shy little boy to a genuine little s**t. Yes! I had become a bilingual pain in the ass. I could piss people off in two languages.

My best friends growing up were Pito and Juan. Our passion for bikes, Legos and arcade games brought us together. We were as different as three people could be without hating each other. Juan was the jock. He played baseball and basketball with the greatest of ease. He was also good at picking fights. Thank God he was on our side. Pito had a massive brain. One time he built an actual full-functioning record player with his Lego set. Anything he bought, any gift, any toy, he would dismantle then put back together just to see how it worked. I was the artist. My talent with a crayon was unrivaled. We had been through many adventures and had survived many close calls but when the border between the ages of 12 and 13 was reached... priorities began to shift. For one thing, the girls from the next street over were starting to look a hell of a lot more interesting. Things were definitely changing.

One hot summer day while hanging out at the mall (the one with the big theaters), we decided to catch a movie. Unfortunately the movie we wanted to see was rated R. Dammit. This would have to be a “double feature” then. We had heard of such death-defying feats but had never actually attempted one. In theory it was quite simple. We would each pay for one ticket… a ticket for a film acceptable for our particular age group. We would then proceed to watch the film in its entirety. While the end credits rolled, it was just a matter of going to the bathroom, waiting until the lobby cleared then walking back into a different theater to watch the R-rated show. “Why sit through the whole film? Why not sneak out half way?” you ask. If we got caught… at least we would have seen a whole movie. No money lost. It was just the kind of thing little s**ts did. This might actually work. Let’s do it!

The ticket person was always some pimple-faced narcoleptic who barely paid any attention to the customers. The only other person inside who could pose a threat was the clinically depressed usher who was probably too busy fantasizing about the popcorn girl. Whether they honestly did not see us or were being paid way too little to care, we actually pulled the whole thing off. Good times.

  They were playing Superman IV: The Quest for Peace. That would be our way in. I had no problem whatsoever. I had always loved the Superman movies and was actually looking forward to seeing this one. Of the countless number of silver screen heroes I worshiped during my youth, Superman ranked high among the pantheon of my celluloid gods. Christopher Reeve’s interpretation of the man of steel was the perfect combination of strength and humility. There was a stern kindness in his performance. A role model for the ages. Unfortunately… the movie sucked. I felt so disappointed. The story, though noble, was unbelievably weak and the villain was ridiculous. Nuclear Man? Seriously? Whether I was outgrowing the franchise or the movie was actually bad, one thing was for sure... Superman was about to meet his match. Thump, Thump, Thump.

After the movie was over and we had executed our pitiful yet successful plan into the theater next door, we beheld a motion picture that would change my entire perception of heroes altogether. This was a new type of hero. All my original concepts had been obliterated by his gigantic semi-automatic pistol and the relentless thump, thump, thumping of his every step. “Dead or alive, you are coming with me.”

Robocop had almost obtained an NC-17 rating for violence. A rating usually reserved for highly explicit sexual content. It was that bloody. Apparently they had “toned it down” to receive its less disturbing “R”. They could have fooled me.

You know that feeling you get when driving by a gruesome car accident? While every nerve and muscle commands you to look away, there is a little voice that tempts you to take a peek. I was peeking. Hell, I was flat out watching! I had seen the campy horror flicks of the time but they always felt fake and a little bit silly. This was brutal! Gone was the good-natured hero righting the wrongs and bringing the bad guys to justice. This was a hard-core victim of the system punishing the wicked and beating the living crap out of the criminally inspired. It was the most visceral display of carnage I had ever witnessed. Heads were shredded, limbs were left dangling by a single vein and OH MY GOD! THE ACID! The guy’s flesh was hanging off the bone! Savage and terrifying… Robocop was awesome!

When it was all over and we sat down at the nearest eatery enjoying the fine Burger King cuisine, the question was finally asked. “Which one did you like more?” The answer was unanimous. Superman had lost. Had we just destroyed another layer of our innocence? Was something dark and ominous festering within our putrid souls? Had this vulgar exhibition of gratuitous violence nurtured any aggressive tendencies that would manifest themselves at a later date in the most despicable ways?

Nope.

We had a great time and aside from a little pre-teen mischievousness, nothing was permanently wrong with us because of the film. There among the rancid hamburgers and foul tasting milk shakes, we sat feeling wide-awake and victorious. It was time to go home. The girls from one street over would be waiting to see us and we would tell them the daring tale of how we snuck into an R-rated movie. And they would love it.

Seriously?

PRELUDE to "Parting is... inevitable."

Circa 1980 (I love how that sounds… circa.)

I don’t remember watching it but I know I did. Superman II had come out while I was still living in the U.S. I remember tying a bright red towel around my neck and running around the house pretending to be the last son of Krypton. One of the neighbors’ kids (we shall call him Chris) was also a fan. He would even wear a pair of red underwear on the outside of his pants. Hard core. If memory serves, one day Chris decided to dress up in full costume and jump from the second floor window of his house. I don’t recall if he had broken his arm or his leg. But he broke something. Idiot. Even at the age of six, I understood the difference between what I saw in the movies and the real world. 

How? 

I WAS TAUGHT!

 You don't have to get into Newtonian law with an infant but "Superman is an alien from another planet which is why he can fly but we can't." makes sense. Kids aren't stupid. Except for Chris... he was kinda dumb. 

"Up, up and away buddy!"

Loss PART 3: "Luminous beings are we..."

Clasps of purple lightning scratched their way across the midnight sky. Bursts of violet hues ignited the clouds from within. I sat in silence. I felt a gentle breeze on my face and the smell of rain but not a single drop would fall. I was watching the celestial phenomenon from the second floor balcony of one of my best friend’s house. David and I had known each other all through college. We had one of those competitive friendships that survived long after the competitions were over. He made me a cup of coffee, sat in the chair next to me and quietly watched the sky. He knew me well enough. Any other time and we would be cracking jokes about some random college event or debating over who’d had the crappiest day. Not that night. That night… I won. It had been a very bad day.

Earlier that afternoon my mother and I had undergone the barrage of bureaucratic idiocies necessary to insure that someone is unequivocally, officially and altogether legally deceased. After signing a myriad of documents at the hospital we then had to proceed to the funeral home, which added a whole new level of surrealism to the experience. What the f**k is wrong with those people? Usually they prey upon the bereaved, as a vulture would feast upon a festering corpse. They had obviously never met my mother and me. I had to tone down the sarcasm… a lot. I almost lost it when a man resembling Lurch from the Adam’s Family showed us into the “showroom” and proceeded to list the specials they were having that week. There was a solid gold coffin in the corner! Who buys that? I leaned over to my mother and whispered… “What are we supposed to do here? Should I hop inside a couple of them for a test drive?” She tried not to laugh. At least for a moment I was able to make her smile.

We decided to go to our respective houses and meet up in the morning for the funeral. It had been a long and exhausting day. We needed sleep. Little chance of that. I called up my friend and decided to kill some time at his place. Coffee in hand, we sat back and watched the lightning display unfold.

A week earlier I had been standing, like an idiot, in front of an antique toy display in the middle of the mall. The portly young fellow behind the counter asked, “Can I help you?” I pointed at the Yoda puppet behind the glass. I was fighting the onslaught of tears and my eyes were burning. My voice was so shaky that I hissed through my teeth. “How much?” He pulled it out from behind its glassy confine and looked it over. “Sixty dollars.” he belched. I did not hesitate. I did not haggle. If he had said $500 I would have forgone my rent for the month. “Done.” I said. I ran to the nearest cash machine and ran back as quickly as my bony legs would take me. I must have looked insane. Hair disheveled from sleeping on a hospital couch, bloodshot eyes from the lingering sadness and I probably smelled funny too. He placed the little hand puppet in a tiny plastic bag and I grabbed it like “the precious” from Lord of the Rings.

My cell phone rang me awake. What the… It was my mom. “Are you on your way?” she asked. I had come home after a few hundred cups of coffee at Dave’s and must have passed out for an hour or so. “Yeah… I’ll be there in a few.” I answered. “ Did you see the storm last night?” she inquired. “It was like the rainbows yesterday.” Oh geez! The day of the actual passing, my mom had decided to take a ride through Old San Juan to clear her head before dealing with all the technical crap. She told me how she had seen not one, not two, but three rainbows at the same time hovering over the ocean. She said she felt a sudden calm inside as if my grandmother had been watching over her. Now, apparently my grandmother, via an electrical storm, was blasting her way into heaven or something. We see what we want to see. I saw nothing. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I said and hung up the phone. I cleaned up, got dressed and took one last look around the room to make sure I had all I needed for the colossal day ahead. There, on a little stand, stood my oldest friend. I took a deep breath, cracked a smile and walked out the door.

We invest so much of ourselves in the ordinary everyday things. An old toy, a piece of jewelry, a favorite shirt, a rainbow or three… can hold a great deal of value for us. We associate moments of great significance with the mundane. I think it’s because these trivial things have the power to harness our emotions. The same way we use a digital camera or a camcorder to record specific moments in our lives, these trinkets manage to imprint our feelings and preserve them for “viewing” at a later date. A wedding ring will not only remind you of the event but of the emotional gamut you ran through that day. Hopefully it was a good day or else that very same ring will only bring you pain. For a few days, I was reminded of my childhood and all the pleasant times I’d had under the warm blanket of my innocence. Unfortunately the initial effect had worn off and the dark shadow of the present had reared its ugly head once again. If anything, remembering my youth had only made things worse. The puppet's charm was teetering.

“I’m so sorry for your loss.” Thank you. “She was a very special person.” Yeah…I know. “If there is anything I can do for you… anything at all.” Can I have a hundred dollars? “She has gone to a better place.” You’ve got to be kidding. “She will always be with you.” Go f**k yourself. I hated this crap and I knew my mother wasn’t having the best time either. We three, my grandmother, my mother and I had never been the huggy-mushy types. When it came to the heavy emotional stuff… stoic. We were never about spewing our feelings all over the place. And when it came to how we felt about one another… we knew. We always knew. Words are the tools of the unsure and the insecure. While it is pleasant to hear an “I love you” now and again, the incessant use of the phrase will eventually render it background noise. It’s meaning lost. We had spent the better half of the day consoling everyone and feeding their ridiculous egos by pretending that they were in fact consoling us. Enveloped in fortune cookie proverbs and self-help clichés, the attack was taking its toll. There were a handful of genuine people. The rest were hypocrites and drama queens. This was hell.

The morning of the burial was more tolerable. There were fewer people and although it had been raining those past couple of days, we caught a small break the moment we arrived at the cemetery. The sun shone through the clouds and the proceedings went on without a hitch. It was done. I could go home. I could rest. “Did you see that?” my mother asked as we drove back and the rain began to fall again. “See what?” “The way the storm stopped, It was like she…” Oh good god. She’s grasping. Here we go again.

I had finally gotten back to my little apartment. My clothes were covered in mud and my feet hurt. My head hurt. Everything hurt. I sat down at the edge of my bed and tried not to think. A movie perhaps? No. I looked around for something to do. There was my little puppet staring back at me. I picked him up and just looked at him for a while. I rolled him around in my hands and took in every inch of detail. Every little wrinkle, the crusty texture of its worn out hair… was he actually my puppet? I tried to make him move but my hands were too big to fit anymore. Suddenly, I did something I had not done in twenty-three years. I whispered to it.

“My grandmother died.”

I felt the rush. Waves crashing into my chest. I had but to utter the words and I could feel everything. My mother wasn’t grasping. I could see her in the lightning bolts. I could feel her in the sun that morning. She was there. She was always there. She would always be there. As for my little aging friend… I understood. He would harness these feelings. He would record them and carry them for me throughout the rest of my life and when I looked at him I would remember. I would remember how this felt. The clash of emotions. I would remember the joy. I would remember the pain. I would remember that for a moment, if ever so brief… I actually believed in magic. Real magic. I pressed his little green head to my forehead and for the second time in my life I could feel my heart breaking. For the second time in my life I cried harder than I had ever cried before. Only this time… this time… I was not alone.

My old friend.

THE END

Loss PART 2: "I think I'll miss you most of all."

2005 A.D.… 

I had recently purchased the complete volumes of L. Frank Baum’s OZ Chronicles. I had watched The Wizard of Oz hundreds of times as a kid. It wasn’t that I was a big fan of the movie itself. They just seemed to play the damn thing over and over again on T.V. Eventually I had grown curious as to its relationship to the books. I could never find a decent copy until then. They were nothing like the movie. For starters, the actual Wizard story was only the first of fifteen tales in two tomes. It was also a little darker. Lets just say the Tin Man actually used his axe. Dorothy’s subsequent adventures were even more interesting and the whole thing felt a lot more elaborate and complex than the happy little munchkin musical of my youth. At one point Dorothy returned to the magical realm with her Auntie Em and Uncle Henry in an effort to save their lives. In Oz, you see, they would heal immediately and cease to age from that moment on. They would become immortal. This is bullsh**t. Why was I reading that kiddy crap anyway?

My neck hurt and my eyes were swollen. I had been reading for hours with nothing but a little flashlight in the dark. I stood up from the uncomfortable couch I had been lying on. I checked all the little machines. I didn’t know what they did. Then looked at her. She was asleep. That was good. I adjusted her little breathing mask. It had an annoying tendency to slip. She was so thin. I hate hospitals.

You grow up. You graduate from high school. You graduate from college. You get a job. You get a house. You buy a car. You pay the bills. You forge friendships. You fall in love. You fall out of love. You keep moving. You’re an adult. You’re ready.

I was 31 years old. I was doing quite well for myself. I had gotten a job as a professor at my old Alma Mater and to my surprise… I loved it! I was living in an awesome little apartment and had just purchased a brand new car! I was focused and I felt unstoppable! Isn’t this the part where something goes horribly wrong?

I had gotten a phone call from my mother telling me that my grandmother had fallen down and broken a bone in her foot. The doctors checked the break, applied the cast and sent her home. She was 89 years old but, up until that day, had been in relatively peak physical condition. We took her to get more X-rays and regular check-ups. She was doing fine. It was no big deal. I wasn’t worried.

The thing is, at that age, one fall can apparently set off a chain reaction and in a few weeks… she started losing weight. She’ll be alright. Soon after, we had to rush her to the hospital. She had become incoherent. Phrases like “blood transfusion” and “total system failure” were tossed around by people in white coats. How is this happening? All she did was fall down? She was fading. Fast. There were moments after a few transfusions and a veritable cocktail of drugs where it seemed as if nothing had really happened but those days were becoming few and far between. She stopped eating. She spoke less and less with each passing day. She couldn’t breathe. Till one day the only way she could speak was through her eyes. Too fast. This is happening too fast.

You’re an adult. There wasn’t going to be a happy ending. There wasn’t going to be some last minute miracle that would swoop down from the heavens and make this go away. There would be no OZ, no Neverland. I looked for anything that could ease my anxiety towards the inevitable. There were no books… there were no songs… there were no movies that would offer me comfort. There was no one to talk to. My mother was going through the exact same thing. Worse. This was her mom. My friends couldn’t help. I ignored my cell phone most of the time. I really wasn’t in the mood to hear well-meaning but altogether pointless lectures on the complexities of life and death. I knew them all. I had given them. I had too many memories of her. My entire childhood was layered with images of this magnificent person. My grandmother had been a symbol of peace. I had never seen her truly angry. She always helped people and valued family above all else. Stop it! Even when I behaved like a complete bastard growing up she never faltered. She really loved my mother and me and she was always so proud of us. Stop torturing yourself! There was nothing I could do. That’s life… deal with it. No room for childish dreams and wishes. There would be no magic here.

As adults we can deal with just about anything. We know the rules. We understand the logic. But there is always that little kid inside who simply doesn’t understand. What about him?

Another day. My neck hurt and my eyes were swollen. The couch was uncomfortable. When my mother arrived that morning, I took off. I went to work, did some chores, but instead of going straight back to the hospital, I went to the mall. I needed to walk. Just walk. I needed the noise. I wanted to keep the reality of it all from sneaking in. My grandmother is… no! I walked into random stores looking at nothing and everything. She’s going to…SHUT THE F**K UP! They were having an antiques show in the middle of the hallway. I like old coins… go look at the coins. There was nothing that could truly hold my attention. There was war waging between the grown up and the child. I’m not ready… please! Just look at the coins. Screw the goddam coins! Accept it. No. Accept it. NO… I DON’T WANT HER TO… huh?

My eyes locked onto a display counter in the middle of the mall. The sound of the crowd faded around me. The lights seemed to dim as I focused on a tiny corner of the showroom. Antique toys. I could care less but… my jaw dropped. I could not speak. It can’t be! My eyes widened. There are no miracles. I walked toward the little display. There are no signs, only coincidence. My legs were shaking. We see what we want to see. I dropped to my knees and put my hand to the glass. Then what the hell is HE doing here? He was exactly as I remembered him… a worn out rubber puppet with crusty yarn hair. Could it be? I looked him over for what felt like hours. IMPOSSIBLE! HE HAD HOLES IN HIS EARS! For a moment I was eight years old. I was back in Naranjito terrified of the lightning storm ahead. I found him. After twenty-three years I found him! My old friend!

"Found someone, you have."

TO BE CONCLUDED…

Loss PART 1: "I'll believe in you all my life."

A brief history…

I was born in Puerto Rico. A few years after that cataclysmic event, my family and I moved to Greece. After a couple of years under the watchful eyes of Olympus, we went to the U.S. for a while. It was at this time (I must have been about seven) my parents got divorced. My mother and I flew back to Puerto Rico and the rest, as they say, is history. Granted, it’s a history you know nothing about but a history nonetheless.

Winged Nosferatu

Naranjito. We had moved back to the land of my ancestors. Deep valleys covered in trees, humble rivers cutting through the green, the sounds of nature lulling you to sleep and the biggest blood sucking mosquitoes I had ever seen. They were vampires… winged nosferatu. There were other bugs too. Relics of the Jurassic age or some escaped mutation from a secret lab somewhere in the mountains of the Cordillera Central. There were snakes as well… small snakes but to an eight-year old… anacondas. I was not a country boy.

Naranjito

I went to school in the middle of the actual town of Naranjito. The town was basically a giant roundabout. The minute you drove in… you were out. Small. The discomfort was accentuated by the fact that my Spanish was still raw. Having spent my first years of school abroad, I had learned English in greater detail. This made things difficult. I wasn’t able to make many friends either. There were two things that gave me a modicum of comfort. One, there was a tiny movie theater in town and it was within walking distance from the school. And two, Yoda. A Yoda hand puppet to be exact. I had carried that thing around since before we had returned to the island. It was my favorite toy in the world. He was perfect. He never complained even though I threw him in the middle of the road, tugged on his crusty yarn hair and poked holes in his gigantic rubber ears.

I took that puppet everywhere. In times of great fear (and as an eight year old kid there were plenty) he kept me company. I remember dark nights and massive storms. He was there. Being right smack in the middle of the country, there weren’t many children around and those that I did meet I barely understood. I never felt alone, though. Between Yoda and my imagination, I had no reason to be. I spoke, he listened… he always listened.

One day my mother and I had gone to the city. I’m sure it must have been to visit my grandmother but the real surprise was when she decided to take me to the movies. The BIG theaters! I sat down, Yoda in hand, and I watched. Hey! It was a little brown-haired boy… like me! He didn’t have many friends… like me! He met an alien that would prove to be his greatest friend in the world. I had a little alien friend too! I felt genuinely happy that day. Needless to say, it was my favorite movie ever! (Shut up… I was eight.) In fact I had seen the movie eight times before they finally removed it from circulation. It was my first experience identifying with a film.

Of those eight times, about five were in that tiny little theater in Naranjito. Since it was so deep into the island, they usually received the movies long after the city theaters had finished with them. Bliss! Mind you… it was one of those unassuming movie houses with the dimly lit lobby and the sticky floors. The chairs often smelled like damp clothes and the candy was an assortment of chocolate covered crap with stale popcorn. I loved it! Sometimes, right after school, I would rush to the tiny locale, buy myself a ticket and catch the adventures of Elliot over and over again… Yoda in the seat beside me. Always beside me. My mother worked near the school so it all worked out.

Once E.T. had run its course in Naranjito, I still frequented the theater every chance I got. It was my sanctuary. On a particularly warm evening I asked my mother if she could take me to the movies. She had something to do but agreed to let me go… alone. Cool! I was going to watch a movie at night… by myself. Well… almost by myself. I got dressed, grabbed Yoda and went off to the show! I can’t remember what I had seen that night. All I remember was walking out of the theater and meeting up with my mom. As we walked toward the car I realized with a sudden leap of horror… Yoda! I left Yoda in the chair! I ran back as fast as my skinny little legs would take me. They were just locking up but the usher let me in. I searched every chair, every corner… he was gone. The lights were shutting off all around me. He was gone! How? I wasn’t even out that long! What was happening?

My chest was hurting. I didn’t understand. My heart broke for the first time. I had lost my friend. My best friend. My only friend. I cried that night. I cried harder than I had ever cried before. Oh God… I was all alone.

TO BE CONTINUED…