Film, Code, Design, Life

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So we’ve begun a new venture in bringing you, our delighted audience, into the awesomeness of the now by offering regular casts on Shoot This Podcast, a little experiment in film conversations and observations. Go on over and have a listen.

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The Newest Night Guy

The corner Shell had been dead for hours when the newest night guy awakened sensing a presence beside him.

There was a stranger on the other side of the bulletproof glass. He must have just come from the washroom; his pink hands glowed against the grimy rest of him, moving over and around each other in the warmth escaping through the cash trough. He nodded on seeing the night guy awaken.

“Mickey off for the night?”

Soot deepened the wrinkles around his eyes. Over his shoulder, the sign at the corner bank performed its time and temperature loop: 5:20 am, 45 degrees.

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It is cold, very cold in the south.

The plane touches down and I thank the operators above that I am alive. It is a new life I live in; being welcomed by my family at the gates of airport baggage claims or seeing them as I progress down escalators with tan in hand. There are so many reasons why I love Christmas and those reasons are compounded and distilled by the few days I have to spend here within my town of upbringing. I love this town. I love my friends within this town. Most of all though, I love my memories of this town. They remind me of chances left undertaken. If there is a Hell, it is the memory of a cold winter night, standing quietly outside whilst I tell myself that the warmth inside is something I shouldn’t deal with.

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Trip Time

Oklahoma Bound.

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Halloweenhead

Orange trees sweep past my window as the crusty asphalt of the Turnpike rattles underneath the truck’s tired chassis. It’s Friday, and the muses have inspired me to make a change of scenery. Several factors helped determine the decision; all colluded that my being needed to leave the City - today, now, this second. My window view slowly has passed from the silver skylines of the City to the current view of halcyon citrus boughs. Later this sight becomes corrupted with golf courses, icing colored ranch homes and artificial lakes. These are the haunts of the elderly, the artificial city of Orlando. The place where the aged go to eat breakfast early, lunch even earlier, and dinner at 2PM with a side of bingo and shuffleboard.
We enter the time-share complex Heather set up for the trip. It looks like a neon, cartoon version of a HUD home. A brochure entitled “Kevin’s sackful of activities” litters the coffee table and proclaims insidiously banal ventures like ‘craft time’ and ‘krazyoke’. My mind reels at what my elder self will do when seeing this same documentation at a later age. Will I break out in anticipation knowing that today is staff-versus-guest volleyball?
I’m hungry and beer thirsty, so we make a trek to the 7-eleven for alcohol and a suspicious in-resort bar called the L’il Bamboo for dinner.
Two beers, and we head to the Studios for a desired scare. If heaven needed highways, then they would look like the highways in Orlando. Roads neat and smooth, signs announcing Magic this and Miracle that. Either is strangely ominous.

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You should listen to This American Life (if you don’t already)

Just last week a broadcasting student extolled to me that “radio was dead”, and while spinning through the dial recently I realized that, for the most part, she was right. In casually perusing through the dial, I ran across four stations playing the exact same song. Music snobbery aside, wouldn’t it be in the best interests of these channels to at least, oh I don’t know, offer variety? At least an inkling of nuance that set themselves off from the dozens of other stations pumping out the exact same thing?
Yes, yes, I am familiar with media consolidation and yes Clear Channel is evil, but only in corporate America could we see the concept of turning a free service into a product so mind-numbingly bad that it drives listeners to alternative listening formats. The end answer being that playing something unique on the airwaves is a concept so past its reality that the only salvageable option is to play the same milquetoast crap…constantly.
So yes, radio in the pedestrian term is deceased, and aside from the high points of broadcasting in cities I have no access to (WWOZ and occasionally the Wave come to mind) there are some real gems out there that bear some consideration. Public Radio is a polarizing concept. Some folks just start glazing the eyes over when I talk about my admiration of some of the broadcasts out there. Really, if you haven’t given This American Life from WBEZ Chicago a listen, you really, really should. Really.
Funny, touching, and sometimes downright heart-wrenching, TAL is easily some of the best stuff out there. Save yourself the trouble of scheduling a time to be in your car for an hour on Friday evenings (when their broadcasts run) and grab their podcasts online, or just buy some of their best-of’s at their site. Being public radio, they can always use the extra pocket change.
Its ironic to note that a friend discovered the show the same way I did: searching desperately one night for something good amongst the sea of radio Hell floating quietly over my head.

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May 3, 1996

My shift overlapped with Paul’s. Think he does the schedule like that. Showed him the Roquefort thing. He laughed but wouldn’t do it himself. He’s got fast track aspirations. Told me just don’t get caught.

Told him I believed the fact that oranges come in slices is evidence for the existence of God. Somebody’s thinking see. He says to me the slice is likely to have evolved merely (he said merely too) as a more efficient means of seed dispersal. The monkeys divvy up the orange on the jungle floor, each carrying a seed containing slice in a different direction. Thus (his word) - more orange trees. The bastard. Everyone’s either dumber than me or so smart they pooh pooh everything I say.

Viva la vas deferens,

David Kheuffeus

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May 2, 1996

Today’s word - inelegant.

Writing this in the stockroom. God I hate that Lance bastard. Reading Anna Karanina (SP?) Not sure which one’s right. Like the way he tells you what people’s expressions and gestures mean instead of attempting to describe the expressions and gestures themselves. What does it matter if every reader imagines something different as long as every reader imagines it clearly? Got a customer.

Bye for now!

All my best,
David Kheuffeus

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April 26, 1996

Our new place is a security complex. You can’t get in without a card. Costa Mesa’s Pine Creek Village - Simulated mountain living driving distance from three major shopping malls. Our guide led us down one of the sun dappled walkways that wander through the complex. He threw one arm around me and with the other gestured toward an attractively arranged “waterfall”.

“We’re not like other complexes, we don’t paint the bottom of our streams blue.” He was right. The streams are very clean, very clear.
“Do you have poi?”
“No poi. We have to chlorinate.” He appeared crestfallen. (my new favorite word)

I don’t regret fleeing Los Angeles. Everything I need is here on the impeccably kept grounds of Pine Creek Village. Gym. Snack Bar. Jacuzzi. Basic cable. Did I mention security everything? Danger-free walks now possible. Leave the windows open all the time, even nights, Shelia and I lulled to sleep by the clean lifeless stream under our bedroom window.

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April 6 1996 - Day 2

Shelia = lousy travel companion. She refuses to get into the spirit of driving. through the desert. Pretend we’re outlaws I say. I can’t take this heat she tells me. She fails to see.

Me? My shirts off, nectarine juice sticky on my lips and down my arm - putting 80 miles every hour between myself and the sun fading at my back. No need to sleep when the air is a heavy drink. The sun is dimming, but the heat remains - trapped in the rocks on the desert floor.

I will resist her every attempt to shrink my life, to keep me in her drab box with a can of aspirin and a box of Kleenex.

Later:
Just passed a car in flames off the opposite lane. People were slowing to see. Now approaching Las Vegas.

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