Romney Debate Statements That Could Hurt His Bid

During the past two presidential debates between Democratic incumbent Barack Obama and Republican hopeful Mitt Romney, the GOP candidate made potentially detrimental statements that have surprisingly received no criticism.

There are two statements that were stand-outs as potentially damaging to Romney’s campaign:

• “I believe that we are all children of the same god.”
• “Free markets need regulations to work.”

Children of the Same God
There are several obvious reasons Romney’s statement that he believes we are all children of the same god has the potential to damage his campaign. In a nation filled with a population that increasingly declares itself to be nonreligious, atheists, and polytheistic pagans, his statement alienates all those who fall into these categories.

More damning to his campaign, however, is that he uses that reference to the “same god.” Why would this be so problematic? Romney is a devout Mormon. All too many polls show that upwards of 65 percent of Christians in America do not consider Mormonism to be a form of Christianity. Keeping in mind how tightly he sticks to his Mormon beliefs, one can only imagine how many Christian may have bristled at his assertion, which is normally received well-enough when coming from some of the world’s longer established monotheistic religions.

Free Markets Need Regulations
In the first presidential debate, the questions focused on domestic policy. This, of course, centered strongly on the economy. In this debate, Romney clearly stated that “free markets need regulations to work.”  If only the media had panned to a shot of Paul Ryan cringing at Romney’s statement.

In choosing Ryan as his running mate, Romney obviously hoped to garner the support of Tea Partiers, but even more specifically, the Ayn Randists who continuously call for the end of regulations. Those who cling tightly to the ideas and warnings that Ayn Rand presented in “Atlas Shrugged” truly believe that the world is worse off because of all those pesky regulations. Things like, bans on child labor, minimum wage, environmental standards, and such.  

No Mention in the Press?
With all the flak Romney received for his Big Bird and binders full of women statements, it’s a wonder that he didn’t receive much more biting criticism from his base for his free market regulations and same god statements. Of course, it’s not all that surprising. After all, Obama has yet to get called out with any significance for his blatant violations of international laws and war crimes committed under the auspice of drone warfare. Why should Romney be any different?

Jesus Is Not the Reason for the Season

With growing smugness year in and year out, Christians love to tout that “Jesus is the reason for the season.”

What a clever slogan. I mean it. From a marketing perspective, the slogan is gangbusters. This makes sense to the average Christmas observer. After all, it’s baby Jesus’ birthday.

The intent of this post is not so much to try to convince you that Christmas is a sham. On the contrary, the purpose is to pique your interest and entice you to explore the customs that most of you practice at this time of the year.

That said, this post will sting to those who cherish Christmas and who cling tight their belief about the holiday.

I’d like to start this post with the smart-ass, half-true observation that the season of winter (or summer in the Southern hemisphere) happened well before the time of Jesus. Now, for the many reasons that Jesus is actually not the reason for the season.

It’s Not Jesus’ Birthday
This is the number one reason that most do not know or refuse to recognize: Jesus was not born on December 25. Although the bible doesn’t specify an exact date for Jesus’ birth, most objective scholars agree that all the clues point to a spring birth. That’s why there was no room at the inns, because it was time for the census and that required everyone to return to their place of birth in order to be counted.

It’s Saturn’s Birthday
When the Catholic church was just forming as the dominant (and for a long stretch of history, the only) form of Christianity, they chose to celebrate Jesus’ birthday on December 25 because they knew that the pagans they were attempting to convert would never give up their cherished tradition of Saturnalia.

Many Mid-Winter Holidays Aren't Christian
Celebration of the Winter Solstice is the oldest known celebration in the history of homo sapiens. Today in the United States of America, people celebrate all sorts of holidays that relate to either their religion, ancestry, or rejection of past traditions within the last two weeks of the year. Such major holidays include Chanukah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice, Yule, and the increasingly popular Festivus (Thanks, Frank Costanza!)

Most Christmas Traditions Come from Other Religions
The decoration of Christmas trees dates back to Wassailing, a pagan tradition of decorating one apple tree in mid-winter as a fertility rite for the entire orchard. Holly and mistletoe date back to Celtic mythology and Druidic rituals. Lights are an integral part of Chanukah. Santa Claus’ origins reach as far back as the Greek’s Basil of Caesarea. And gift giving goes back as far as Saturnalia.

Gifts: WWJD?
One last word that is meant more as a criticism of the hypocrisy that runs rampant throughout Christianity: Jesus would reject the unabashed consumerism that has come to mark Christmas. If more Christians rejected the consumerist version of Christmas and gave even half as much to the poor and downtrodden regardless of their religious beliefs as they do to friends and family, the world would be a much, much better place.

A Final Word
With or without Jesus, the winter holiday season would still exist and thrive because it is a down and opportune time. Nature can’t be cultivated at this time in most regions of the northern hemisphere. The crops have all been harvested. Cold weather has taken hold along with the long, dark days. What else is there to do but relax and revel with friends and family? Jesus is most definitely not the reason for the season. To insist he is, rejects the pluralism that makes this world so very beautiful.

Brontë - Is It "tee" or "tay"?

A couple months ago, I started to work as an audio proofer at Blackstone Audio. As a writer, this gives me an unparallel opportunity to do the one thing that all writers should do aplenty: Read, read, read.

When I proof a book, it's my job to not only ensure that words are pronounced correctly, but to back up the narrator's pronunciation if an alternative exists.

I've already missed some mispronounced words because of imperfections in my own pronunciation lexicon. So if a word, especially a name, causes me to pause, I look it up. Even if I'm pretty certain it's right.

Currently I'm proofing a book on writers who were hypochondriacs. Among the writer's is Charlotte Brontë, author of Jane Eyre.

Today, I hit a snag. I couldn't find a source to back up the narrator's pronunciation of "Brontë" as "bron - tay." I knew it had to be an acceptable way to say her name. I'd heard it said that way many, many times and mostly from literature professors. Still, I couldn't find any online sources that cited that pronunciation.

They all pronounced it as "bron - tee."

Luckily, the head of the sound studio, the one to make these sorts of calls said it was definitely "bron - tay" and a fellow proofer backed him up.

Score! I could move on.

Still, I couldn't shake it. I needed to know why I could not find "tay" as a proper pronunciation. Was this a case of misinformation being propagated on the internet? I dug deeper.

As it turns out, "Brontë" may be pronounced as either "tee" or "tay," but "tay" is given as the secondary or alternative. Either is acceptable.

Here is the link to one of the reputable sources:
http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/bronte

Some other social-based sources, like Answer.com, brought up a good reason as to why "tee" is the proper pronunciation. To paraphrase one post, think of the appearance of "ë" in names such as Chloë and Zoë. It's always "ee," never "ay."

Now, here's the interesting thing I observed. I checked the books we have in the audio proofing room and those that were published before 1984 cite the pronunciation as "tay," not "tee." However, those that were published after 1995 provided the "tee" first, "tay" second.

This has me wondering if the name was mispronounced for so many years until a reputable scholar came along and pointed out the fallacy (if indeed there ever was one), and now the big guys like Merriam-Websters have both rectified the error and compromised by allowing "tay" as an alternative.

There has to be an intriguing story behind this change. Does anyone know it?

Words Are Fun #10

"Thin slice by thin slice"

My sons asked how I ended up eating so much of a bundt cake, and this is how I described how I had done so. The phrase might not "look" that fun, but it's hecka fun to say out loud.

3 Sure-fire Ways to Boost Your Political Profile

With the final weeks of election season descending upon the US population, many voters might peruse the deluge of candidate literature making their way to mail boxes and think, "I'd do a better job than this guy/gal."

If this is you, then there are three tried-and-true things you might consider doing if you've never made a run for city council, county commissioner, mayor, and so on.

Go to Church

---

Although not stated as often as in the past, candidates who belong to large mainstream Christian churches often garner huge support from their fellow church-goers. The evangelism that is a huge aspect of Christianity in all its sects provides an obvious platform for "spreading the word" about a candidate seen as a good, G0d-fearing wo/man.

In the Pacific Northwest, candidates understand the importance of not stating any religious affiliation in their literature. It is, after all, the religious "None" zone capital of the world. However, churches provide an all-too important network for like-minded individuals.

If not already a church-goer, you're best bet is to go with a mainstream Christian church. Baptist, Catholic, Episcopalian, Protestant, even Fellowships are safe bets. Avoid anything considered fringe, like Islam, Buddhism, Neo-Pagan, and even Mormon (unless you live in a heavily Mormon region like Utah). Judaism is a gray area that is dependent on where you live.

Sit on a Board of Directors

---

Most non-profit organizations, such as YMCA and the United Way, provide opportunities for members of the community to serve as members on their boards of directors. The commitment is minimal. Most directors need invest only a mere 2 hours a month. The political points scored are insanely huge .

Coach a Teen Sports Team

---

Is there anyone more heroic in US culture as the person who coaches the high school sports team? Coach a winning season, and your political credentials skyrocket. After all, someone who can lead a team of teens to victory should effectively run a winning political office, right?

As with choosing which church to attend, candidates should pick only the most mainstream of sports to coach. Baseball, football, and basketball all present the greatest potential. Age is also a factor. While coaching Little League or Pop Warner football carries lots off political weight, coaching gymnastics or soccer at the YMCA presents almost no value to voters.

How will your resume look as you head off to start your run for office during the next round? Will you be able to check these three items off the list?

Author Note: I actually view these three credentials with cynicism and generally discount them as meaningless credentials. In my eyes, these are nothing more than empty political hooks. I am much more interested in hearing a candidate's clearly stated position and plan of action than what boards they've sat on or what baseball team they coached.

Vernon Story Tweets - September 2010

Everyone in the room exchanged glances except for one woman in her late seventies. "I always thought that book was overhyped."

"Susan," another woman gasped. "How could you say that? I'm not a huge Kerouac fan, but I can appreciate its merits."

Susan shifted in her seat and gazed deep into the other woman's face. A hush consumed the room. "The book goes nowhere," she said. "You can sum the whole story up with 'man travels across country, gets bored, then travels back, then does it again'."

The man who leant Vernon "On the Road" exhaled deeply, falling back into his chair and slapping the tops of his thighs. "Read it again, Vernon. If you can't see what makes the book special by then, you're a lost cause."

"I read it four times," Vernon said with a tone of desperation. "It just makes me feel more depressed each time I read it."

"Four times," said the man. "Four times and you can't see what makes it brilliant?" His left eyebrow arched.

Vernon's face flushed crimson. "It felt like Sal never grew, just got increasingly restless and never found any satisfaction."

The man's arch stretched higher and a smirk peeled across his face. All but one of the others leaned forward in their seats. "Didn't he, though?" he said. "Think about it for a bit, Vern. What were his last thoughts? What epiphany did his travels elucidate?"

Vernon shrugged and said, "You mean all Sal's rambling about Dean Moriarty as though he were father to us, or should be?"

The man shook his head. "Nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old." His eyes were as wide as someone with Graves disease. The brawny woman beside him rolled his eyes and said, "Can we move on now?"

"Honestly, you two." The prim woman who typically moderated the critique period of the group scowled and crossed her arms. "This is a writers' group. Unless either of you can relate this to our own writings, please, let's discontinue this discussion."

The man smirked and ignored the others, handing Vernon the book. "Read it again. You'll understand in a few more readings." Begrudgingly, Vernon took the soon-to-be battered copy of "On the Road" and shoved it back in his bag.

"Vernon?" The prim woman asked. "Did you bring us something new to read for next time?"

* * *

"Nobody knows what’s going to happen to anybody." The line reran through Vernon's mind like some tired old sitcom as he walked home.

The wind tore through his bones. He felt much older than his years, more forlorn than a man his age should feel. People scurried past him, their gazes cast forward with a determination that implied a clear destination. Vernon dragged one foot in front of the other, turning his head often to look around for something to inspire him, to give him hope.

As he eventually wandered back to his aunt's place, he threw his satchel on the coffee table and flopped down into the cozy couch pillows. He stared at the white of the spackled ceiling, its shadows stirring his imagination with intangible twinges of lament. A heavy sigh preceded the drooping of his eyes, which turned to slits that let in only enough light to blur the spackle to a gray mass.

"I could have written that book," he thought. "I should. I should write about my life. Yeah, right. Like anyone would read it."

A sudden thump followed by a flicking of sheets of papers jerked him upright. Vernon saw his manuscript scattered across the floor and groaned. He sighed again, bending over the disheveled pages. So many exotic words like hyperdrive, Pangalactic Confederation, and Xuluranctinik.

The Secret to Hyperlocal Publishing

For the past few years, there's been a lot of rising hype about hyperlocal publishing.

As print media revenues decline, corporations and individuals alike scramble to make anything resembling profits in an otherwise dying industry. As they do, more and more have switched their business models to focus on, at least on the surface, going "hyperlocal."

I won't go into the details of what qualifies as hyperlocal, or the ways in which entities are reaching into the hyperlocal well. You can visit Wikipedia's entry as a starting point to learn more.

So, what is the secret to hyperlocal publishing? There is none.

That's right. There is no secret to hyperlocal publishing. If you use your blog to post about events, local personalities, or issues affecting your town, you're already a hyperlocal publisher. That is all there is to publishing hyperlocal content.

As long as your content is focused on your locality and is meant to serve the residents of your area of the world, you are a hyperlocal publisher. Save your money; don't buy the guides. You're already a hyperlocal publisher!

Words Are Fun #9

Two "Sunshine" phrases that emerged from my mouth this last week that I thought were fun.

This is fun to say out loud:

"There's sometimes sunshine in the mornings."

This creates vivid imagery:

"Oh, Baylin, with your sunshiney hair and your freckled eye."

Vernon Story Tweets — July & August 2010

Vernon's hand twitched, reminding him of the crumpled piece of paper the man had dropped during their collision on the street.

The man at the desk set his pen down, his eyes widening with a spark of fear. His entire posture shifted to one of defense. He lurched back and nearly fell out of his chair as Vernon propelled the fist clenching the paper toward him.

"You dropped this," said Vernon.

The man reached over his desk and cautiously pulled the crumbled sheet of paper from his hand. He stretched out the paper and ran it up and down along the edge of his desk, keeping his eye on Vernon all the while.

Sensing the man's discomfort, Vernon took some deep breaths and let his shoulders sag and his chest cave.

The man looked down at the words typed upon the sheet. The ink had begun to run from Vernon's sweating palms, but the man recognized the piece immediately and smiled with relief. "I can't even begin to express how glad I am that you returned this. Allen thanks you, too. I think this might be his only copy." The man's eyes drifted back to "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by \ madness, starving hysterical naked,"

Vernon's hand moved to his jacket pocket, his thumb and forefinger gripped his beat-up copy of "On the Road." "Ever publish fiction?"

The man looked puzzled at how Vernon knew he was going to start publishing out of his bookstore. "How do you know that I publish at all? This is a bookstore, brother." The man straightened the papers before him.

Vernon's eyes darted to the stack of papers near the man and raised his eyebrows. "Looks like an edit in process to me."

"That's quite an assumption," said the man as he slid the stack onto his lap and out of Vernon's sight. The man's chest puffed slightly.

Vernon backed up and started to turn toward the nearest exit, then paused. He slowly pivoted back around to face the man who was now standing. "It's just -" He thumbed the book in his pocket, searching for the right words.

The man hovered on the edge of his seat, silent for a moment then asking, "Out with it, man! I haven't all day to watch you yammer."

Vernon's mouth opened and closed, his eyes bugged out from his skull. He glimpsed himself in the window and felt like an idiot.

"Fool," said the man. "Hit the road already." He shooed Vernon out as far as the door, eventually reaching around to turn the knob.

Vernon slammed the door closed and spun around to face the man, who jumped back with fists raised and ready to scrap. "Please," said Vernon. "I don't mean you any harm. It's just that I have a book that I'm pretty sure you’ll want to publish."

The man dropped his fist and said, "Why didn't you say so in the first place? You stoned, or something?"

"No," stammered Vernon. "Just nervous. I've already received so many rejections, and I've never spoken directly with a publisher."

The man chortled and said, "I'm barely a publisher as it is, and definitely not a publisher of note to date." He thrust his hand out to Vernon and said, "Lawrence Ferlinghetti, pleased to meet you Mr....?"

Vernon stammered once again, finally composing himself to say, "You can just call me Vernon. The pleasure's all mine."

"Well, Vernon, tell me about this great new novel of yours. Let me guess, it's the next great American novel, right?"

Vernon blushed and thought, ‘Would this be considered dramatic irony? Play it with humility, Vern.’ He cleared his throat and shook his hands before saying, "This book will come to define the next generation."

"Ho ho!" The man sounded almost Victorian British. "That's a bold assertion, Mr. Vernon. I'll be the judge of that. "Let's see that book of yours." Lawrence thrust out his hand again, this time waiting for Vernon's fictional manuscript.

Vernon started to reach for his beat-up copy of "On the Road," then caught himself. He slyly converted his reach into a chin stroke. "I don't have it with me," Vernon said. "I have to retrieve it from... from my parents' home in Delaware."

Lawrence guffawed. "How long you think it'll take for you to retrieve the manuscript? You going to have it mailed to you?"

Vernon panicked inside, a bead of sweat forming below his hairline. "Then you're interested in the book?"

"Yes, boy!" Lawrence snapped back so intensely that Vernon lurched toward the nearest exit. "Can you fetch it or not?"

"One week," Vernon told the man. "It should take me one week to travel back and forth between coasts. Is that okay?"

Lawrence smirked with contempt and said, "Take all the time you need." He then sat back at his desk and resumed his work. Vernon stared at the man for a moment, leaving only after Lawrence shot him an irritated look from below his brows.

* * *

About an hour had passed. The sun sat higher in the sky as he exited the bookstore, yet the gusty air chilled him more deeply. Vernon put his hand back in his jacket pocket and thumbed his well-worn, dog-eared copy of "On the Road."

'What did you just do, Vern?' He bit his lower lip to stop it from trembling. 'What did you do?' He sighed and eyed the street. "Guess I need to find a typewriter," he muttered. "Or at least, a ream of paper to transcribe this book onto."

CHAPTER 4
"Science fiction, Vern?" The rest of the writers group shot their own looks of disdain at Vernon, who blushed crimson.

"It's what I like to write," Vernon squeaked. "It's what I know."

"What?" A robust woman in her forties shook her head. "Sci-fi, fantasy...? It's all so contrived. Nobody 'knows' those worlds."

Vernon hung his head and twisted his left foot. His gut tumbled as all eyes glared at him in demand for an explanation. Hours and hours of shows like Stargate, Star Trek, heck, anything with "Star" in its title swirled through his head. 'It is what I know,' Vernon thought. 'It is what I know.'

"Vernon," said a man with long, twisted goatee. "Don't sweat it. You just need to read a wider variety of books." The man reached in his satchel, pulled out a thin, worn book and tossed it at Vernon, who failed to catch it. The book title beamed at him: "On the Road." The man said, "Now Jack Kerouac, there's a man who knew how to write what he knew."

Vernon picked up the beat paperback and shoved it in his bag without another look. "I've heard of it," he told the man who gave it to him.

The man squinched at him and said, "Don't borrow it if you don't plan to read it."

Vernon assured him that he'd start tonight.

Later that night, Vernon found it tough to move past the first few chapters of "On the Road" but managed to finish it before dawn. That was the first time he uttered the phrase that would come to define his cynical outlook on publishing: "I could have written that."

He read "On the Road" three more times before his writing group next met. "I just don't see why it's considered 'great'." Vernon used air quotation marks to emphasis the word great, and everyone in the group rolled their eyes at him.

"Vern," the guy who leant him Kerouac's seminal work leaned forward. "Can't you see how simple the style is? ‘On the Road' defined an entire generation, gave it a voice that it lacked, signaled an end to Bourgeois writing."

Vernon sighed and sagged. "Frankly, I found the story depressing. It didn't inspire me at all."

Services That Come with a Free Lecture

Most industries provide some unexpected services. Three such types of industry include haircuts, bicycle repair and auto repair. Whenever you utilize any of these three professionals, you can bank on receiving a lecture.

Lectures from the Stylist
"Who cut your hair last?" says the woman wielding a set of shears near your ears.

It doesn't really matter how you answer the question, the response you receive will always come in the form of a lecture about how you should only allow a professional near your head. What happens if you inform the stylist currently hovering about your locks that your last cut came from her? Well, you must have seen someone else in-between your cuts with her, because she would never cut your hair that poorly.

"What shampoo and conditioner are using?" That's another common lecture-inducing question. The only way to shut the stylist up is to agree to buy the insanely priced hair products she recommends.

Lectures from the Bicycle Mechanic
"Where did you buy this bike, and how much did you spend on it?"

Ever take that bike you bought for $150 from the closest chain box store (Walmart, Target, et al) in to your local bike shop for a tune up or repair? Then you likely received a long talk about how cheap bikes equal cheap parts equal frequent repairs, or worse, injuries.

In all likelihood, you rode that bike for a few years before it needed anything in lieu of repairs. Still, the repair person will invariably spend more time lecturing you on how you need to spend at least $1000 on a bike than actually repairing the one you brought in to get fixed.

Lectures from the Auto Mechanic
The types of questions auto mechanics unleash depend on your vehicle's condition, as well as make and model and age.

Here's the thing about auto mechanics: You will always receive a lecture, no matter how excellent your car is:

• If your car is old, you'll be lectured on how you should consider scrapping it.
• If your car is moderately new, you'll be lectured for having not opted for a particular upsell, or if you did opt for the upsell, you'll be lectured for having idiotically chosen to accept the upsell.
  
• If your car is new, you'll be lectured on the oil weight or brand of parts that you use.
  
• If your car is new, you'll be lectured on how you should have bought another make or model.
  

More than any other industry professional, the auto mechanic is the most brash with his lectures. He's not afraid to unleash a battery of insulting remarks meant to make you feel as stupid as possible. Think going to see the dentist is bad?

What to Do if You Get Lectured
You don't have to listen to anyone lecture you in the service industry. Too often, people in service industries forget that you are the boss. Without you, they have no source of income. They need to show you some respect, and not assume that you want them to browbeat you.

Of course, if the professional is someone who's service you prefer, you might want to keep your frustration with their proselytizing quiet. Instead, try sighing deeply and tell them, "You do great work and I appreciate what you're telling me, but you're stressing me out."

I Don't Always "Like" Facebook Updates that I Like

I also don't comment, every time I'd like. I would love to show support for some of the posts I read, but opt not to take any action. Why not?

The onslaught of comments and Likes that follow overwhelms me.

There's really not much more to it than that. When it comes to family members and friends with limited numbers of other active friends on Facebook, I will Like and comment without hesitation. Concerning fan pages like Tillamook Cheese or The Big Lebowski... Well, those are a different beast altogether.

Any post made on a personal or fan page with over 1,000 friends or fans is bound to garner a large number of Likes and comments. Like or comment on the update earlier than most, and you are guaranteed to receive a tsunami of notifications.

There must be some way to control whether you receive notifications for specific posts.

I'll work on figuring it out. It's my mission to find out. After all, I don't just Like any old musician, institution, album, product... If there is a way to Like or comment without receiving a billion notifications, I'll update this post to include the instructions.

Vernon Story Tweets - May & June 2010

Looks like I totally spaced May's Vernon Tweets, so here's a two-fer:

Vernon had spent a total of six months living on his own in the past couple decades since graduating high school. His mom had kicked him out shortly after he graduated college, when it was apparent that Vernon wasn't looking for work. That's when his aunt invited him to stay with her. She thought he should pursue a career as a not-so-starving artist.

"I'm not sure I want to even try to write," Vernon told his aunt. "It's too competitive. Everything's been written already."

"See," my aunt said. "You're already writing. You're terrific at making excuses. Get 'em down on paper, nephew."

Vernon balked. "Aunt Joanie, nobody writes on paper anymore. This is the end of the twentieth century. Get with the times."

"Get with the times?" she said. "If you mean sponging off your relatives while you play around on the computer all day, no thanks."

Shortly after, his Aunt Joanie started to leave the classifieds and a pen lying around in strategic locations.

* * *

"Why do you want to work for Ubermarket, Vernon?"

He fumbled with his fingers. Only his aunt's face appeared as a possible answer. "It definitely has to be the opportunity to set daily goals and accomplish them," said Vernon.

The interviewer's face lit up. "What experience do you have with telemarketing?"

Vernon replied, "Only when they call my house."

"Excellent!" The interviewer made an exaggerated check mark on his interview sheet. Vernon did his best to hide his confusion. "So," the man said as he jutted out his jaw. "When do you want to start?"

Vernon's gut twirled and he sighed, "Tomorrow?"

The interviewer launched his hand out to Vernon and said, "You start at 8:00. Don't be late."

* * *

His aunt slept as he stepped out to the street, the lunch she had made him the night before clutched in his palm.

Orientation wasn't supposed to take all that long. That's what the interviewer told him. A guy near the office had chuckled. The door to the orientation room was exactly six steps from the entrance to the office space. A permanent sign diffused his confidence.

Three hours later, Vernon felt more tired than when he started. As he emerged from the room, the guy near the office chuckled louder. The whole orientation could have lasted 15, maybe 30 minutes tops. 'How long does it take to learn how to use a headset and program?' Aside from the technical aspects, his job responsibilities were best summed up as, "Make the call. Follow the script. Make the sale."

'Oh well,' thought Vernon. 'At least it was three hours of pay.' He followed his new boss to the cubicle he'd grow to detest.

With his tie slightly loosened and cocked to the right, his boss said, "I'd sanitize the handset before you use it."

As Vernon took a seat at his cubicle, he sighed. The other agents droned into their headsets, vacant stares in all their eyes. 'It's going to be okay, Vern.' For the next few minutes, he sat and glared at the monitor with his fingers poised to type.

"Woohoo!"

Vernon jumped at the sound of the guy two stalls down declaring a sale before running down the aisle for high fives. Within 15 minutes, someone else sounded off their success. Vernon had yet to make a single call, let alone make a sale.

An hour passed before Vernon managed to get an actual person on the line, only to have the recipient slam the phone down on him. The next time he got through, a lonely and presumably old woman started to sob on about how much she missed her sons.

After consoling the woman for a solid twenty minutes, Vernon sensed someone looming behind him. He turned to find his boss scowling and arms crossed. The man pointed to the sign and used his finger to underline "Follow the script." The squat man in the loud tie continued to hover over Vernon. His fingers shook as he reached to make the next call.

"Good evening sir. I'm calling tonight to share an exciting offer from Vitoptimum with you."

The man stood firm behind him.

Click.

Vernon turned to his boss, who smiled. "Sorry. They hung up on me."

His boss smiled in an unexpectedly warm way, then patted Vernon's back. "No worries. Just keep trying. You'll make a sale." The man jerked round and sauntered down the aisle eavesdropping in on the other agents, occasionally stopping to provide direction.

From that point on, Vernon always stuck to the script. It didn't seem to help though; it took a week before he made his first sale. After awhile, Vernon grew numb to the constant rejection. Most of the time, it took him nearly a 100 dials before he spoke to anyone. He was called all manner of obscenities. If most had it right, Vernon and his entire ilk were the worst of the worst.

* * *

"How was work today?" asked Vernon's aunt when he collapsed into the couch. He stared back with glazed eyes and shallow breath. "That good, huh? Well, you got to make a living somehow, right?" Vernon rolled his eyes toward his computer and sighed.

'Something has to happen,' Vernon thought, 'Something exciting, or this whole story that is my life is going nowhere.'

CHAPTER 3
Beneath the slim smear of grime, a glow emanated from the City Lights Bookstore door window. The wind picked up and rattled the door.

Vernon looked up and down the street again. 'Nope,' he thought. 'Nothing's different. They all still look like they're stuck in 1950.' He rubbed his eyes, gave his surrounding one last look, took a deep breath, then turned the door knob to the infamous bookstore.

All around were books, some ramshackled others sparkling new, lining the simple wooden shelves. It took Vernon by surprise. The smell of fresh ink and musty pages mingled in his nostrils with the smell of over-boiled coffee grounds.

Someone shuffled pages from behind one of the racks, rose to their feet and cleared their throat before rounding the end of the shelves. It was the man he ran into on the street. He had combed his hair down, cleaned his glasses and tucked in his button down shirt. He also wore the uniform of those in the literati: a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. His coffee mug steamed with weak coffee and copious amounts of dry creamer. He cleared his throat and began to speak. "Have any questions? Speak up if you do. I'm working back here." He turned and rounded the shelves. The sound of scribbling ensued.

Vernon rose his hand slightly and began to gape like a fish out of water. He tried to speak, but nothing would come. He rubbed his eyes, took a gander around and found that nothing changed. 'Should I pinch myself, or would that be too cliché?'

"Too cliché," he muttered.

The scratch of writing ceased and the man in the back said, "What's that?"

"Um..." Vernon searched for the right words but found none. "Nothing." He walked toward where the man sat, and then loomed there.

The man at the desk tapped his pen, staring at Vernon and waiting for him to say something, anything at all.
Vernon Story Tweets - May & June 2010
Looks like I totally spaced May's Vernon Tweets, so here's a two-fer:

Vernon had spent a total of six months living on his own in the past couple decades since graduating high school. His mom had kicked him out shortly after he graduated college, when it was apparent that Vernon wasn't looking for work. That's when his aunt invited him to stay with her. She thought he should pursue a career as a not-so-starving artist.

"I'm not sure I want to even try to write," Vernon told his aunt. "It's too competitive. Everything's been written already."

"See," my aunt said. "You're already writing. You're terrific at making excuses. Get 'em down on paper, nephew."

Vernon balked. "Aunt Joanie, nobody writes on paper anymore. This is the end of the twentieth century. Get with the times."

"Get with the times?" she said. "If you mean sponging off your relatives while you play around on the computer all day, no thanks."

Shortly after, his Aunt Joanie started to leave the classifieds and a pen lying around in strategic locations.

* * *

"Why do you want to work for Ubermarket, Vernon?"

He fumbled with his fingers. Only his aunt's face appeared as a possible answer. "It definitely has to be the opportunity to set daily goals and accomplish them," said Vernon.

The interviewer's face lit up. "What experience do you have with telemarketing?"

Vernon replied, "Only when they call my house."

"Excellent!" The interviewer made an exaggerated check mark on his interview sheet. Vernon did his best to hide his confusion. "So," the man said as he jutted out his jaw. "When do you want to start?"

Vernon's gut twirled and he sighed, "Tomorrow?"

The interviewer launched his hand out to Vernon and said, "You start at 8:00. Don't be late."

* * *

His aunt slept as he stepped out to the street, the lunch she had made him the night before clutched in his palm.

Orientation wasn't supposed to take all that long. That's what the interviewer told him. A guy near the office had chuckled. The door to the orientation room was exactly six steps from the entrance to the office space. A permanent sign diffused his confidence.

Three hours later, Vernon felt more tired than when he started. As he emerged from the room, the guy near the office chuckled louder. The whole orientation could have lasted 15, maybe 30 minutes tops. 'How long does it take to learn how to use a headset and program?' Aside from the technical aspects, his job responsibilities were best summed up as, "Make the call. Follow the script. Make the sale."

'Oh well,' thought Vernon. 'At least it was three hours of pay.' He followed his new boss to the cubicle he'd grow to detest.

With his tie slightly loosened and cocked to the right, his boss said, "I'd sanitize the handset before you use it."

As Vernon took a seat at his cubicle, he sighed. The other agents droned into their headsets, vacant stares in all their eyes. 'It's going to be okay, Vern.' For the next few minutes, he sat and glared at the monitor with his fingers poised to type.

"Woohoo!"

Vernon jumped at the sound of the guy two stalls down declaring a sale before running down the aisle for high fives. Within 15 minutes, someone else sounded off their success. Vernon had yet to make a single call, let alone make a sale.

An hour passed before Vernon managed to get an actual person on the line, only to have the recipient slam the phone down on him. The next time he got through, a lonely and presumably old woman started to sob on about how much she missed her sons.

After consoling the woman for a solid twenty minutes, Vernon sensed someone looming behind him. He turned to find his boss scowling and arms crossed. The man pointed to the sign and used his finger to underline "Follow the script." The squat man in the loud tie continued to hover over Vernon. His fingers shook as he reached to make the next call.

"Good evening sir. I'm calling tonight to share an exciting offer from Vitoptimum with you."

The man stood firm behind him.

Click.

Vernon turned to his boss, who smiled. "Sorry. They hung up on me."

His boss smiled in an unexpectedly warm way, then patted Vernon's back. "No worries. Just keep trying. You'll make a sale." The man jerked round and sauntered down the aisle eavesdropping in on the other agents, occasionally stopping to provide direction.

From that point on, Vernon always stuck to the script. It didn't seem to help though; it took a week before he made his first sale. After awhile, Vernon grew numb to the constant rejection. Most of the time, it took him nearly a 100 dials before he spoke to anyone. He was called all manner of obscenities. If most had it right, Vernon and his entire ilk were the worst of the worst.

* * *

"How was work today?" asked Vernon's aunt when he collapsed into the couch. He stared back with glazed eyes and shallow breath. "That good, huh? Well, you got to make a living somehow, right?" Vernon rolled his eyes toward his computer and sighed.

'Something has to happen,' Vernon thought, 'Something exciting, or this whole story that is my life is going nowhere.'

CHAPTER 3
Beneath the slim smear of grime, a glow emanated from the City Lights Bookstore door window. The wind picked up and rattled the door.

Vernon looked up and down the street again. 'Nope,' he thought. 'Nothing's different. They all still look like they're stuck in 1950.' He rubbed his eyes, gave his surrounding one last look, took a deep breath, then turned the door knob to the infamous bookstore.

All around were books, some ramshackled others sparkling new, lining the simple wooden shelves. It took Vernon by surprise. The smell of fresh ink and musty pages mingled in his nostrils with the smell of over-boiled coffee grounds.

Someone shuffled pages from behind one of the racks, rose to their feet and cleared their throat before rounding the end of the shelves. It was the man he ran into on the street. He had combed his hair down, cleaned his glasses and tucked in his button down shirt. He also wore the uniform of those in the literati: a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows. His coffee mug steamed with weak coffee and copious amounts of dry creamer. He cleared his throat and began to speak. "Have any questions? Speak up if you do. I'm working back here." He turned and rounded the shelves. The sound of scribbling ensued.

Vernon rose his hand slightly and began to gape like a fish out of water. He tried to speak, but nothing would come. He rubbed his eyes, took a gander around and found that nothing changed. 'Should I pinch myself, or would that be too cliché?'

"Too cliché," he muttered.

The scratch of writing ceased and the man in the back said, "What's that?"

"Um..." Vernon searched for the right words but found none. "Nothing." He walked toward where the man sat, and then loomed there.

The man at the desk tapped his pen, staring at Vernon and waiting for him to say something, anything at all.

Vernon Story Tweets - April 2010

Despite advice found in every issue of "Writers Digest," Vernon had come to recognize no one gets published without connections. New York was too big, his neighborhood too buried, for him to garner any meaningful connections with publishers. Besides, New York publishers didn't really appreciate his experimental form of prose. Heck, no one really cared for it.

That wasn't exactly true. An agent from San Fransisco had fawned over Vernon's submission during a recent author conference.

* * *

"It's about time someone had some guts," said the agent from the writers' conference. "And it's even readable." The man gritted his teeth as he read through Vernon's brief manuscript. At best, it was a novella. The man's legged twitched. "Yes, yes, yes!" The people in line at the Harper-Collins table lurched in sync as the small press agent burst out with approval. "Let me take this back to my boss," the agent said. "It's exactly the kind of experimentation he loves."

Vernon bit his bottom lip and wished he had spent the money to print up a copy of his manuscript. "But that's my only copy."

"Well," said the hirsute agent. "When you're ready to get serious about publishing give me a call." He handed Vernon his card with the manuscript. The paper was bare, except for the man's name, phone number, and email.

"Where are you located?" The agent didn't hear him at first; he was too busy shaking his head at the authors in the Haper-Collins line. "Excuse me," Vernon spoke a little louder.

The agent turned and said, "Made a copy of your manuscript already?"

Vernon blushed and stammered over the restatement of his request.

"San Fran, baby!" The agent swiped his finger across his nose.

Vernon thanked him and wandered down the aisle, winding his way around lines of would-be authors queued up at the major houses.

* * *

The subway all but emptied after the first stop. Vernon had found a paper clip and attached the agent's card to his manuscript. 'Experimental?' He stared at the ream of paper awhile, then let an all-too audible groan. 'I wasn't going for experimental. Come on, vern. Put this in perspective. He liked it. He really liked it. No one's told you they liked your writing before.'

He looked up, scanning the remaining people in the car. One woman fiddled incessantly with her iPhone while a vagrant watched her. Two seats down, a man read a paperback novel that looked as though it once resided in some back alley gutter. Vernon returned his gaze to the business card on his manuscript. 'How different could San Fran be from the Big Apple?'

The subway screeched to a stop with more urgency than normal. The woman dropped her iPhone, but the vagrant caught it before it hit the floor. The woman looked terrified, unsure if she should reach out for her gadget or write it off as lost. The bum extended the phone back out to her.

The guy two seats down watched the whole scene go down, his brows furrowed mostly at the woman now cuddling her phone.

Vernon went back to the card and his work. "How different, indeed," he mumbled making the woman squirm even more than before.

* * *

Standing at the threshold of his mom's abandoned apartment, Vernon scanned for anything he might have left behind. His pillow and blanket lay crumpled in soft rolling hills beside the deep indents where the couch used to rest. The pillow was new, full, plump. His aunt gave it to him for Christmas. His mom scowled at the gift.

His Aunt Joanie had kicked him out a couple years back and enjoyed not-so-subtly razzing her sister for taking in Vernon.

Vernon Story Tweets - March 2010

He rolled his eyes, sighed, leaned back and grabbed the hair near his temples. "I won't publish anytime soon if you keep hounding me." Vernon looked to the clock, dropped his hands, slammed his laptop shut and dashed for the door. Editing awaited.

"Vernon!" His mother yelled after him as he dashed out the door. "Vernon, remember today's the day."

* * *

The wind whipped his cheeks even harder as the city bus flew past him. Again, he'd missed the bus and would have to run to work. 'So much for a raise,' Vernon thought as droplets of sweat rolled down the nape of his neck and chilled his back.

He slipped through the warehouse doors, up through the stairwell past the smoking warehouse supervisor and into his chilled chair. His monitor crackled to life as he flicked the mouse. His eyes probed over the cubicle. John, his manager, was nowhere in sight. "All clear." Vernon sighed as he relaxed back into his chair.

"What's all clear?" The sound of his boss behind him made him lurch. "Got something for you, Vern." The smirk on the clean-shaven, slick-haired man with the steaming coffee cup made him squirm.

Vernon's chair squeaked as he turned to face his boss. He wondered if his boss noticed his legs quaking with anticipation and trepidation.

The man with the mug reached inside his shirt pocket and pulled out an official looking envelope and placed it in Vernon's shaking hands. "Congratulations," said his boss before walking back to his corner office. Vernon watched the man's chuckling back walk away.

Vernon held the envelope, too afraid his raise request was rejected. But his boss had congratulated him, hadn't he? He fumbled to open the envelope, finally ripping one end open. The meat of the document within was torn and pink.

* * *

The letter said he had until the end of the day to vacate his cubicle, but he didn't need that much time to pack up his meager items. He had plenty of time to catch the bus back to his mom's house but opted to walk instead. 'Delaying the inevitable,' he thought.

As he passed the welfare office, he had to step into the street to get around the crowd of people clustered around the block. A cab squealed up beside Vernon and rolled down his window. "Need a ride buddy?" With a whopping $3 in his wallet, Vernon declined.

Five steps from his mom's front door, thunder rolled and the sudden deluge of rain soaked him to the bone before he entered the house. Vernon turned his eyes to the sky and thought, 'Why must my entire life be such a cliche?' He turned the knob only to find it locked.

Even with the deafening patter of rain, passers-by were startled by his deep groan. Some kid asked his mom, "Is he right in the head?"

He sighed and lifted the sopping wet doormat, searching for the spare key. It was gone, but a soaked envelope awaited him. The heavy pen lines had started to run, but Vernon could make out the message well enough: "The back door's unlocked." There really was no back door at his mom's place. What she meant was that the window around back was unlocked.

Vernon managed to climb the fire escape to the apartment's window that overlooked the grimy alley. As promised, it opened. As he stumbled through the window, he noticed that the apartment was virtually empty. Within a few short hours, his mom had moved out. His room was untouched and a few kitchen and bathroom items littered the rest of the apartment. Another letter waited for him.

Dear Vern,
I'm sick of harping on you and hoping you will get your life in order. I'm tired of you relying on me to take care of you. It's time for my little boy to grow up. You can keep this place if you can afford the rent, but let's face it, you can't.

When you get your shit together and find a permanent place to live, let your Aunt Joanie know and I'll be in touch.
Love,
Mom

New York was no place to try and make it on your own. Now that his mom had moved out, the landlord was sure to raise the rent. People in the Midwest bought mansions with mortgages that compared to this roach-infested two-bedroom flat. How could he afford it? 'Besides,' thought Vernon, 'How much chance do I really stand in New York? I need to switch coasts, need to get out West."

Vernon Story Tweets - February 2010

He took two slow steps back from Vernon and jerked his head at the door. Vernon took the man's signal, unlocked the door and left. Vernon walked backwards, his eyes peeled on the door, which slammed shut as he felt the top of the stairs. His eyes darted up and down the hall. A trace of the burning smoke fumes wafted toward him but dispersed before reaching him. He glanced down the stairs and took one step down. With one eye on the rising hallway and the other down, Vernon made his descent.

The lobby was much smaller than he remembered. As he reached for the knob, someone burst through the door. A bespectacled man pinned Vernon to the hallway wall with the door. The man's eyes widened and seem to mumble in apology. The shocks of his curly hair looked pronounced thanks to his receding hairline. His eyes darted toward the stairs and his legs followed. There was something awfully familiar about the harried man. The swish of his denim trailed the clomping of his boots up the dark stairs.

The door swung shut as Vernon jumped clear of it. He reached out for the knob again, quicker and with more confidence this time. As he stepped out the door, a chilly San Francisco wind cut through Vernon's Van Heusen button down and the light blinded him.
Both sides of the street were scattered with men in business suits and fedoras, and a truck full of denim clad laborers.

"Must be making a movie," Vernon mumbled to himself.

He looked up and down the street but couldn't spot a single camera. The wind kicked up, and all the men on the street grabbed hold of their hats and turned down their heads. The few ladies in sight pressed their dresses against their legs. One woman stopped and shivered as the wind cut through her nylons.

Vernon spun round to escape to the apartment building's lobby and collided into the only guy who didn't seem to fit in the crowd. The man's shirt was wrinkled, not pressed like everyone else. His tweed jacket looked as though it had come from a pile on the floor.

The disheveled fellow dropped a pile of papers and they scattered to the wind. Vernon reached for the papers and managed to clutch one. The man rushed around grabbing at the flying papers, like some contestant in a wind chamber trying to harvest a flutter of dollar bills. As the man scurried desperately, Vernon uncrumpled the sheet balled in his fist and began to read.

'I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by / madness, starving hysterical naked.' Vernon's jaw dropped.

"Could it be?" Vernon looked at the paper again and each typed line only verified it.

The harried man snatched the paper from his hand. He flattened the stack of papers against his chest, gave the pile a good shake, then dashed down the sidewalk.Vernon took one glance at the apartment building, then chased after the man with Ginsberg's infamous manuscript.

As he rounded the street corner, Vernon managed to spot the man entering a doorway. He picked up his pace and gasped when he caught up. A makeshift sign hung on the nondescript door. It read "City Lights Bookstore."

Chapter 2

---

"You haven't published so much as a letter to the editor, Vern." A woman loomed over Vernon as he tapped away at his keyboard. He continued to peck away, one letter at a time. "Vernon! Don't ignore your mother when she's speaking to you."

What the Na'vi Could Learn from Jake Sully

After Jake Sully completes his tests and becomes a man in the Omicataya tribe, he visits the trees of the ancestors with Netiriyi.

She tells him that now that he has become a man of "The People," he has the right to choose any tree from which to make his bow. Also, he may have his choice of any woman in the village.

Netiriyi, obviously suffering a heavy heart, names some of possible candidates that Jake might consider claiming as his mate.

After some playful jibing, Jake says, "I've already chosen, but she also needs to choose me."

Just as holds true on our own planet, no culture is perfect. No culture is rock solid noble and wise. The Na'vi may have been keyed into their planet, into their mother Eywa. But when it came to this practice of the Na'vi culture, it was obvious that women were considered secondary to men.

No one should be considered property that another can claim. This was perhaps the greatest lesson that the Na'vi could learn from Jake Sully.

Vernon Story Tweets – January 2010

"I could've written that," Vernon thought as he closed Kerouac's "On the Road" and laid it on the side table. "Born in the wrong era." That's what he thought whenever he read anything written by the Beat writers.

For more than two decades, Vernon submitted short stories and novellas to publishers. He had the stack of rejection letters to prove it. It's not that he didn't enjoy the Beat writers. It's just that what they wrote was so simple, so direct, so fun.

Vernon sneered at his dog-eared copy of "On The Road." "Kerouac. He couldn't write his way out of a paper bag." He picked up the book in one hand and bowed it in the middle. "I was born in the wrong era."

A knock at the door startled Vernon. The pages of the book shuffled like a deck of cards before falling to the floor. He looked at the door as though it were a loaded gun pointed at his head. No one he knew ever visited him at his 12x12 studio. In San Francisco, you could never use enough caution when it came to answering your door. "Where's a peephole when you need one?"

The knock came again, a little louder this time. Vernon recoiled slightly, a sense of dread creeping up from his gut. "Who is it?" He heard no response and called out a little louder. Whoever stood on the other side of the door rapped harder and with more urgency.

Vernon moved to the door and pressed his ear against the flimsy wood. Cartoon noises resonated from someone's TV down the hall. The loudest knock yet boomed into his ear drum. He jumped back. His heart leapt. Stars ushered in a blinding whiteness. As the whiteness consumed him, Vernon saw his door burst open and a dark figure step through, reaching out for him.

* * *

"Ding ding. Ding ding." Vernon's eyes fluttered open. His apartment floorboards vibrated a little less as the trolley passed outside. Bright morning light filtered through his window, splashing across his eyes and obscuring his view. "How long have I been out?"

The lighting hinted at a morning hour. He blinked until his ceiling came into focus. Gone were the peeling flecks of paint. The slide-whistle call of someone slipping on a banana peel blasted through the wall, the same cartoon that was playing before his fall. The animated funnies now came from next door, the sounds of the program so clear Vernon felt like a blind man watching TV.

"What the hell you doing in here, boy?" The voice, a rich blend deep south and inner city Chicago, lunged at Vernon. A dark fist clutched his shirt and lifted him from the ground. A sweet burning scent danced over the hulking man's shoulders. "Don't make ax you again." The menace of the man's voice shook Vernon to his core.

Vernon stammered and looked around the room. His vision started to clear and all around him came into focus. The stranger pinned him against the wall by his throat. Vernon couldn't explain his presence even if knew.

The man's nostrils flared and his eyes opened wide. He released his grip on Vernon's neck and dashed for the black cloud of burned grits. Vernon grabbed the door handle, jerking the door open to make his great escape. He hadn't counted on the slide chain lock. Before he could slide the chain free, the angry man slammed him against the wall and stuck a blade in his face.

Then the angry contortions of the man's face twisted into that of confusion. He slowly turned his head toward, then back again. He squared his face with Vernon's, one eyebrow obtusely raised. They both turned their gaze back to the firmly locked slide chain.

The boi-oi-oing of someone stepping on a rake and getting smacked in the face came from the television next door. The man lowered the blade ever-so-slowly and loosened his grip on Vernon.

---

This is a monthly compilation of tweets posted throughout the month of January 2010. Want to read along? Follow me on Twitter @kylestich.

Introducing My Story Tweets

On 1 January 2010, I began a new writing project via my Twitter account. Each day, I tweet one sentence, sometimes more depending on the length of the preceding sentence. Each sentence serves as the next line in an overall story.

My goal is to tweet once a day, every day for one year. In the end, I should end up with a complete story that is 40,000 - 50,000 words in length.

I've milled around this story for awhile. It is somewhat reminiscent of Kurt Vonnegut, in that there are sci-fi elements. Here's the basic storyline:

Feeling as though he were born fifty years too late, a desperate writer unwittingly travels back to the Beat Generation in an attempt to beat Jack Kerouac to the punch.

I have a four-part strategy to crafting and publishing this story:

• Phase 1 - Tweet one sentence (or more if space affords it) per day.
• Phase 2 - Compile and blog all my story-related tweets on my blog at the end of each month.
• Phase 3 - Create a WebRing exclusive to the chapters of this story.
• Phase 4 - Revise and then self-publish my tweets at the start of 2011.

My Challenge to You
I encourage each of you aspiring writers to follow suit and start tweeting out a story. If you've always wanted to write a novel, but never seem to find the time, Twitter is the answer. You merely need to type up to 140 characters a day, including spaces and punctuation.

Not a writer but want to read along? Follow me on Twitter @kylestich.

Does James Cameron Hold No Hope for Humanity?

Before I begin, I have to state that I thoroughly enjoyed James Cameron's "Avatar." Still there were some things about the movie that bothered me. I recently posted my thoughts on the 2D version versus the 3D version that you can read here.

Nothing's Changed in 300 Years?
I, for one, would like to believe that we would have come much farther than how Cameron depicts us in his film. The year is 2154, but the corporation that is mining for unobtainium on Pandora acts pretty much like those who built the railroad or mined or staked claims on land long since occupied by Native Americans.

Today, such abhorrent activity would be staunchly opposed and blocked by activists. I see this as us evolving our cultural ethics as a whole. If in 150 years we've regressed to acting like our ancestors who lived 150 years ago, our future looks truly bleak.

In 2154, I highly doubt that we would behave in the manner in which Cameron depicts. And don't even get me started on the Marine mentality that is portrayed in this movie.

Nothing's Changed in 150 Years?
Something I disliked even more was how Cameron's team spent not one ounce of energy in updating or "futurizing" the products of our culture, aside from some of the technologies:

• Clothes - Every item of clothing that the humans wear on Pandora is taken directly from our present day.
• Hair styles - Every haircut is typical of the characters they belong to as they exist today.
• Lingo - The military speak flat out ate at my every nerve. The lingo each generation of soldier uses changes. Any one of the lines that the marines in this movie spewed could be stripped out of any number of current military-based films.
• Attitudes - From the golfball-putting corporate lack of concern to the scientists berating the mercenaries' lack of intelligence, the same divisiveness that exists between these sectors is firmly in place in "Avatar."
• Technology - I'm not completely up-to-date on current military technologies, but most of the gear that the mercenaries don is taken straight out of our current military attire.

Cameron's Attempt to Avoid Alienation
One of the largest criticisms of sci-fi movies is how producers tend to don their characters in "futuristic" attire. The clothes come off as hoakey to most and often keep people from engaging the story.

The recently revisited "Battlestar Galactica" television series changed this long-running paradigm. At first, the way that so much of the attire and technologies matched those I could find in my own world held me back from appreciating the story. But, that's because I'm a major sci-fi fan who has come to expect producers to be more creative than that.

Over time, the lack of creativity on the BSG wardrobe department stopped bothering me, as the story drew me in. It also drew in many fans that wouldn't have existed, including a council of the United Nations. The lack of overly sci-fi elements like wardrobe, allowed the usually non-sci-fi set to more readily accept and appreciate the story.

Perhaps, James Cameron took a queue from the producers of BSG.

Avatar – 2D vs. 3D

Yesterday (6 February 2010), I finally broke down and spent the extra dollars and time to travel 3 towns over to watch the Real 3D version of James Cameron's "Avatar."

I thought that after two months in theaters that choosing to attend an 11:55 AM viewing would afford a relatively empty theater. Whenever a new hit movie comes out, I purposely avoid watching the film for a few weeks. Packed movie houses are no fun for me.

My sons and I arrived a full ½ hour early, only to step up to a long ticket line. After buying our tickets shortly before the show sold out, I surveyed the audience. Most of those in line and the audience did not look like the typical sci-fi going set.

I considered that the recently announced Oscar nominations were directly responsible for this resurgence in attendance. The confused look and desperate scrambling of the staff seemed to verify my suspicions.

As we walked into the theater, I was immediately discouraged to see that the only available seats were near the bottom. I considered asking for a refund and waiting another month but decided to tough it out.

With our Real 3D glasses in place, we were ready to see if the technology lived up to the hype.

Before I begin my review of the technology, two things:

• I already viewed the 2D version when it first came out. Although I thoroughly enjoyed the movie, I didn't find it really offered anything unique or revolutionary to the sci-fi genre. Overall, I thought the dialogue was downright cliché and that world and creatures of Pandora still looked too animated for me to completely suspend disbelief.
• I strongly believe that "Avatar" would have been all but ignored by the Academy had it not been produced by one of their darlings - James Cameron.

The First Ten Minutes Were the Most Painful
If I included the 3D movie trailers, this subheading should read "The First Fifteen Minutes." As I donned my glasses, my eyes went buggy. Instead of a clearly focused 3D experience, I felt immediate strain on my eyes and the images were in double vision around the periphery. It took about ten minutes into the movie before the double vision went away, but the eye strain remained.

Space Scenes Weren't Any More Impressive
As Jake Sully emerges from stasis, a few drops of condensation coalesce before my eyes. The stasis chamber was quite a 3D extravaganza (but my eyes still hadn't fully acclimated to the glasses).

The camera then pans out to reveal the ship on which Jake is traveling and Pandora with all its accompanying planets and moons. This was my first moment of feeling letdown by the hype. The entire space scene lacked any extra depth. It looked exactly the same as the 2D version.

Errors Were More Obvious in 3D
There were several incidences when I noticed glaring errors in the 3D version that I hadn't noticed in the 2D version. Most obvious is when a character's hand will move straight through another object, like the floating seed pods or plants.

Also a bit too obvious was the absence of movement of some plant life when others moved. For example, as Jake and Netiriyi are talking while walking on one of those mammoth tree limbs, the leaves are blowing in the breeze. The ferns and other vegetation near their feet, however, stand still.

The Loss of Scale
When the Omiticayan shaman fails to successfully transfer Grace's soul into her avatar, Jake's avatar holds the deceased doctor's hand. The Na'vi are a giant people, so Grace's hand looks like a toddler's when Jake holds it. Later in the movie, Netiriyi holds Jake's human body and he reaches up to touch her face. The difference between their hand sizes reduces greatly, his hand looking only slightly smaller than hers.

The Errors Were Forgivable
The thing that makes Cameron's attempt at improving the 3D experience is that the technicians put much more effort into how much detail they provided. Unlike the 3D experience of yesteryear that favored obvious objects (like traveling bullets and pointing fingers), Cameron's team gave most all objects the 3D treatment.

The amount of effort involved to pull this off is intense and costly, so I can forgive Cameron for the minor technical errors.

The Little Things Were the Most Impressive
I had anticipated much more focus on the objects used in the battle scenes. On that front, I was mildly unimpressed. The little things, though, were the best. In particular, rain drops, ash from fires and the floating seed pods were by far the most realistic, the most 3D. Several times, I wanted to brush away the ash cinders.

Real 3D Is Just One Step Closer to True 3D
Overall, the Real 3D technology is an improvement to the red-and-blue 3D that preceded it. However, it still missed the mark for me.

The strain on my eyes was even more pronounced than when I watch a red-and-blue format. In fact, one day later, my eyes are still sore. My sons didn't report any such strain, though, so it might just be me.

When it comes down to it, I don't think I'll ever truly be impressed by 3D technology until it no longer requires the use of special lenses. Only when holographic technologies have been perfected will 3D movies come to fully satisfy me. Although Real 3D is a cool experience, it is merely one more step toward a True 3D experience.

Overall, I feel that the 3D version of "Avatar" is more of a ticket price-raising gimmick. I do not feel the same as all my friends who stated that something must be lost in the 2D version. When it comes down to it, a movie's story must drive you, not the technology used to present it.

Would I recommend the 3D version over the 2D version? Sure, why not? It will only be in theaters for so long, so why not check it out and see if it lives up to the hype for yourself?