It’s a big deal to me. Supposedly, the trout are amenable to being caught.
So I’m tying flies, and contemplating my usual–and solitary trek down the trails–where Bears may roam.
From Facebook live—yesterday.
To the McCloud River—not a lot of fishing action in the first half of the day–unless you fish with worms.
And then-go back and see if that River isn’t going to cooperate.
So how’s that for clickbait?Okay . . . sorry. But give me a minute, and maybe that theory could limp out of this conjectural waste of time without falling down. And I don’t care how many prequels or substandard, retrograde loopbacks you make–you’re never going to be able to nail down the predilections of a 900 year old muppet–no matter how hard you try. And Yoda did manage to imply his shelf-life was still viable at 900. Chances are, the guy that could levitate an X-wing out of the swamp at that age probably had a few randy exploits a couple centuries back.
Say what you will, but Star Wars, The Force Awakens has engendered enough heresay, speculation, cogitation, contemplation, and aggravation to last any ONE of us a lifetime. And I’m about to toss in with my own. And no, I don’t care if it’s already been posited by someone–because the overstuffed, crowdsourced, en masse glut of possibilities has probably exhausted every possible genetic algorithm concerning Rey. I’m just here to get traffic. Chill out, man.
Okay, I’ll drop the Yoda-tryst thing. It’s stupid. And the idea that the diminutive Jedi was involved in ANY procreative act also engenders a mental picture of Statler and Waldorf heckling him during the courtship from a Death Star balcony.
And yes, I am writing this being fully cognizant of the fact that JJ Abrams managed to tell a kid that Rey’s parents were not featured in Episode VII–thus supposedly evaporating the first reflexive theory that Luke Skywalker is Rey’s father.
But I’m not convinced that his statement actually commits the obliterative act. And yes, if you follow the link, you will see that Abrams ultimately walked the statements back–most likely at the barrel of executive guns.
He did in fact say that her “parents” were not in the film, and I think that might give him a bit of wiggle room on the plurality–since the question “are either of Rey’s parents in the film?” was not asked. Dedicated audiences of serial cable TV can tell you–these guys play fast and loose with the truth all time.
Then, one day I saw this:
Anyone notice something interesting, assuming that Leia has only one brother?
That’s right. Commas are missing.
In a world in which the grammar Nazis are hiding in the towers, ready to take on even the most cohesive argument over a syntax error–this is pretty extraordinary. For those that don’t see it, I’ll help you by writing it the way it should read, if Luke is the only sibling with which to contend with here:
With the support of the REPUBLIC, general Leia Organa leads a brave RESISTANCE. She is desperate to find her brother, Luke, and gain his help in restoring peace and justice to the galaxy.
Now I don’t believe for a minute that this was an accident. In a world in which every single frame of footage is poured over endlessly–this little slip wasn’t about to go unnoticed. It just simply can’t be.
But that doesn’t mean we aren’t being trolled. And if we are, I am happy. Because I happen to love trolling.
So here’s my theory. Rey is a niece to Luke–the child of a sibling that carries the usual, overabundance of ad hoc pretentious to pseudo-necromancy as well as traumatic, flashback-inducing relationships with heirloom light sabers.
For the first few days the film was viewed, the idea of Rey being Luke’s child was almost a sacrosanct fact. But sheer boredom, and the narcissistic need (including mine) to hash out more and more plausible story arcs made that theory boring real quick.
One thing is for sure: we could all find ourselves prostrate at the foot of Occam’s Razor. Rey could very well turn out to simply be that: Luke’s kid.
A few weeks ago, I was standing outside, in a break area at work, tossing in my harmonies to the rhetorical cantata that was going on at the moment. My co-worker, Bill, mentioned that before he moved to my area, he used to cater food to Hollywood celebrities–and I mean A-List celebrities.
I’m always keen to listen to the war stories from people who have stood in proximity to such writhing gorgons of narcissism. And Bill has no shortage of recollections from these tempestuous, maladjusted dandies.
This particular day, he happened to talk about how many celebrities he knew that spent atrocious amounts of money on their animals.
This–was of course the perfect launch point for me–because if there’s something I love to make fun of, it’s the disproportionate devaluing of human life against the backdrop of anything that isn’t. Bunch of nihilistic, rudderless ships.
I went off on a comedic tangent, saying, “I don’t care if my dog has cirrhosis, Daisy IS NOT GETTING A LIVER TRANSPLANT!”
Got huge laughs, it did.
The next day, our toy poodle rips her cruciate ligament.
$1,600.00 later, she’s on pain meds, and has a surgical scar the size of the San Andreas Fault.
I knew I was going to look stupid when I brought this up. Not to mention the wholesale stigma and shame that will accompany the fact that my dog will most likely become an addict, and start shaking down other feral castaways for their Norcos.
After wiping about eight dozen helpings of hypocritical egg off my face, one of my co-worlkers suggested we “crowd-fund” the surgery.
And I could have. My video editing skills and narrative abilities could have funded an entire dog transplant; cue the low strains of a cello . . . haunting light-bokeh transitions between shots of daisy clamoring for actualization while struggling to her water dish . . . the contemplative memories of the children, reminiscing under bright ambient lights with a pitch black background, and speaking to an implied interviewer in the periphery. Wrap it up with a little sepia overlay and a grungy adjustment layer, and believe me–you will lose your mind over a little animal and its hardships!
It didn’t take any talent to make Blackfish. We are always rooting for animals. Truth is, I could have made YOU–pay for my dog’s knee replacement. And you would have gladly ponied up the cash by the time I was done picking your emotional pockets.
But I had mercy.
It’s when I try to crowd fund something pertaining to a human being that things start to get a little hairy. And I am a human being.
Which is going to cost me.
But I need to get the thing polished, mixed, and produced at the end.
Not to mention, get myself to South America for a few days.
More on this when I’m not writing on my work break . . .
When i decided on the moniker for this blog, it wasn’t exactly a task rendered under flippant conditions. Even if the title, “Master of None” seems as if it comes out of the same comedic genepool of,”are you working hard, or hardly working?” as a riposte.
But really, I had no other way to chronicle the seemingly schizophrenic turns my artistic pursuits take–it’s nice to be perceived as “good” at a ton of different and diverse endeavors, but it does come with a price: dilution.
I am going to use as my counter example, AC/DC guitarist, Angus Young. There’s a guy that is good at one thing: flailing about the fretboard of his burgundy, classic Gibson SG, playing three chords, and the five notes of the Pentatonic Minor scale.
But oh, can that man play those five notes like no one else. And while you will not hear the refrains of their blockbuster album, Back in Black playing in my house, the incandescent fretwork on that record was one of the flashpoints that inspired me to keep playing when I picked up the guitar at age 13.
Angus probably can’t sing a note. For all I know, that five-foot anorexic is still wearing the same costume he was wearing 30 years ago.
He’s probably not sitting in front of an iMac, rendering 3d auto-cad images with spectral maps, or cogitation the Drake Equation.
Angus Young is most likely not trying to formulate a trajectoral thesis of why his song, Highway to Hell went from pseudo-satanic anthemic proselytizing to a comedic, fist-pumping musical cameo in endless cinematic moments in a single generation.
Nope. Angus is probably sitting in New Zealand, making sure he’s playing those five notes like a champ. And maybe cashing royalty checks from the buyers who think his handling of three chords and five notes, 17 studio albums, 4 live albums, and 11 video albums is pretty swell.
Last time you checked in here, I was caterwauling about my magic act. Well, I did it. Now, I’m bored with that for now.
I’m never bored with writing, but sometimes my writing energy winds up being focused within the non-blogging needs–my magic act required a lot of writing–and memorizing.
Then, of course was all my carping and whining about writing a book. Or . . . books. So I got caught up in this cruel whirling-dervish of a cycle where I spent more time talking about a book I wanted to write, than actually writing it.
Now, I’m back to music (which in all fairness, I never do ignore). But the difference is this: I’ve always wanted to make a record. Not a bunch of cover-tunes, or an over processed run-up of other people’s songs.
I’ve wanted to write my own record. And now, I’m doing it. Every last song will have been written by me (I think). But the cool part is, I won’t be the only one playing on it. I will be the primary singer, but, as this thing starts to gain traction at the demo/songwriting level, I’ve got some wonderful, talented, and at times famous friends that all say they will help me by showing up to sing, play, or whatever.
I won’t say directly who they are right now, but if you’ve followed me for any length of time, I can say a lot with one word:
But mostly, I want them on there because I know they’ll treat my songs with respect. There is a possibility that I could literally have different players on nearly every song. It’s a concept record, and I’ll elaborate more on that later.
I’ll let this hang there for now: