Friday, February 25, 2005

Myspace Migration

Today is my last day at Morgan Creek...for now. I just returned from lunch at Echigo (I could write an entire blog on this place), and I'm in the process of rendering my final shots and cleaning up my desk space. Not a huge job, considering I've only worked here for a little over a month. Today I've also finished setting up this blogspot site. All the posts you see south of this one were originally written on my Myspace Blog. Over the past few weeks, however, I've grown to admire my friend Kapooch's weblog so much that I decided to migrate over here myself. (Thanks to Kapooch, as well, for aiding me with my Blogspot html question. My site is now the doppelgänger of hers.) I finally canceled my old Earthlink service and pointed my domain name to this site, so as of now www.NineDragons.net should lead you here. The result of all these online hijinks? A consolidation of my online presence: less loose ends, less unused threads dangling from the worldwide web.

Okay, I can't stop thinking about my fantastic lunch. If you live anywhere near the wesside and enjoy sushi, you owe yourself a lunch at Echigo. The lunch special, featuring the chef's choice of 6 servings of buttery fish on tiny beds of warm rice is only $11. Come early, though, and I would avoid Fridays. This joint is no secret and the overworked waitresses will close off the line earlier than the 14:00 cutoff if it gets too long.

Monday, February 21, 2005

I don't got your back

From the New York Times, 18 February, 2005:

"The People's Republic of China," Mr. Rumsfeld said, "is a country that we hope and pray enters the civilized world in an orderly way without the grinding of gears and that they become a constructive force in that part of the world and a player in the global environment that's constructive."

The hubris of this myopic fool continues to amaze me. China is the oldest living civilization on the face of the earth. It is a country with 3,500 years of written history -- and for most of that era China was outpacing the West in artistic and scientific developments; a country that, while slightly smaller in size than the U.S., boasts more than four times as many people; a country whose GDP has quadrupled since 1978 and is set to overtake our own within ten years; a country that now exhibits a sometimes alarming growth in nationalism; a country whose naval fleet will be larger than that of the U.S. within a decade; a country which Dummy Rummy writes off as if it were living in the Bronze Age. How very "constructive" of him.

Regarding Europe in 1914, historian Barbara Tuchman wrote that, "like the Visigoths for the later Romans, [Germany felt for England] a contempt combined with the newcomer's sense of inferiority." Germans at the time were, in the words of Thomas Mann, "the most educated, law-abiding, peace-loving of all peoples, [who] deserved to be the most powerful, to dominate, to establish a 'German peace'". Many Americans, Rumsfeld apparently included, now feel exactly the same way about their own fatherland. Though I doubt that an inferiority complex is to blame, the insolence of a smaller, newer country toward a potentially more powerful, older one could be viewed unkindly by future historians, to say the least. Look at what the end result of the German ego was.

Most people have had a friend at one time in their lives who liked to pick fights, especially if he knew his posse was behind him. I can't remember how many times in high school and college I would hear the phrase "You got my back?" right before one of my cohorts would yell something insulting and stupid to a complete stranger at a party or after a lacrosse game. Of course I defended my friends, but that was in a different time, when blind loyalty outweighed logic and reason. Not anymore. If my Secretary of Defense wants to insult other peoples and cultures, I can't stop him. I can, however, stick my hands in my pockets and declare myself uninvolved. The world is my country, you small-minded imbecile. If you continue with this "Old Europe" and "Uncivilized China" crap, don't look to me if, when you visit Asia later this year, you get the cold shoulder.



Your twin cobra fist notwithstanding, I doubt you can take on 1.3 billion offended people by yourself, even if you do have that village idiot from Texas behind you. If more of your "friends" called you out on your idiotic insults you might be saved some embarrassment, but I don't see that happening. I guess the moral of my story is this: if you run off at the mouth like a drunken frat boy, you have no right to complain to your peops if you catch a black eye.

Friday, February 11, 2005

KARATE FIGHTERS ONLY

I watch a lot of kung fu movies, as you can probably tell from my movie list. One of the plot singularities of these films that I love the most is when one guy is like, "Hey Holmes, I just learned a new fighting style" and his buddy goes, "Oh? Cool, let me try it", and they just go have a fight. Oh, nothing, just a kung fu fight in the courtyard or outside the hut or wherever. No big deal. Just to test out the technique, to see how it fares. I love how it's just a normal thing for them. Shit like that doesn't happen enough in the real world.

Every once in awhile my life turns into a movie, if only for a fleeting moment. On Sunday I was cruising around my hood with Chef Mel with our Holgas in tow. As soon as we step outside of my building we get accosted by a homeless woman with chicken pox and a handful of disposeable lighters. At least she said she had chicken pox. I was skeptical, but backed up anyway. She did have an incredibly thick lisp, though. Even though we continued walking while apologizing, and struck the head-shaking-with-hands-in-the-air pose (the universal signal for "You're not getting any money from me"), she continued stalking us, relating her chicken pox story and holding out her lighter-filled hands. Needless to say, it was extremely awkward. She reminded me of the beggars in Shanghai: some of them would follow me for blocks, supplicating and trying to hold my arms the whole time. Not in a threatening way, mind you -- at first I thought I was being targeted for a pickpocketing, but I was wrong -- they just don't have anything better to do and figure that eventually, to make them go away, I would give up a few yuan. But I digress.

Our escape route from Chicken Pox Woman led us behind the Japanese Cultural Center. I knew there was a cute little garden back there that I thought might offer some prime photo opportunities. As we speedwalked up to the gate of the garden, I was vaguely aware that there was a kid standing there. There were people all over the place actually, which isn't out of the ordinary for a cultural & community center, but this kid was standing right at the gate, just lounging. Like a sentry, or a GATEKEEPER. And just as I approach he sort of comes to life and goes, "Only karate fighters are allowed inside". I was completely dumbstruck. Did my life just turn into a movie? Was this some kind of challenge? What's going on? Is this guy asking to try my kung-fu right out here in the open, in my own hood? In MY OWN HOOD? This kid was like 12 and he was wearing thick spectacles; his slight paunch aside, he reminded me of a 12-year-old version of myself. My mind raced -- could a 12-year-old me beat up a 30-year-old me? Depends on how good his kung fu is. Does he know Drunken Praying Mantis Style? I sized him up -- he was scrupulously avoiding eye contact. Hard to tell what his technique is. Dangerous to try to read a book by its cover. I thought of looking at Mel to see if she comprehended the situation better than I, but what if he launched his attack while my back was turned? It was way too crazy.

Finally, I spoke. "Oh, really? Karate fighters only, huh?" I was stalling for time.

"Yeah. Well, you can come in the garden, but you have to stay out of the building because blah blah blah". I didn't even get the reason because as I looked down where he pointed, I saw through the basement windows a room full of little kids, each one wearing a gi. It was all becoming clear to me. There was some kind of competition going on. That's why all the people were milling about in the plaza behind me. That's why some were wearing track suits and slippers. Why some kids were carrying trophies. Ahhh, soooooo. The moment devolved back into real life. The heightened reality dissolved. My life as a movie ended. It's a good thing, too, seeing as how I don't know the first thing about martial arts except for what I've seen in the movies. I would have had to fake the funk with The Gatekeeper, all while trying to keep my Holga undamaged, and hoping the resulting ruckus wouldn't draw the attention of Chicken Pox Lady. Which would have been completely different, and would have made for a really memorable Sunday afternoon.

Reality bites sometimes.

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

Thai Yo

I'm not talking about the sushi joint on Franklin.

A few weeks ago I posted that I still hadn't heard from Yo in Phuket and that I was worried: I neglected to post up when I DID finally hear from her on January 9 and that she's okay. (Thanks for asking, Harbour).

"I'm safe. I'm not get hurt  but my car downed in the see and can not fix it any more.I'm so sad for the big wave .It come so fast . In 10 minutes every thing gone. So ... Bangtao beach cottage damaged . Every one there get hurt , but it not to much. I hope every thing at here will be going on the good way.


Any way , How are you ? and where are you now? . What are you doing ? Do you happy in your life? I 'm sure you happy in your life.  Chris !  I don't know when I can meet you again maybe not . because like now at here not seam befor . I think you don't want to come here again .


Thank you to worry about me and I'm so happy to hearing from you. Take care of your self every thing in the world will be change or time .


Bye for now.


Yo."

Friday, February 04, 2005

Redux: The Saga of the OCTOPENIS

***Searching through all the old shit stored in the overcrowded attic of my hotmail account, I came across a few noteworthy emails from my past. I've decided to throw some of them up here because...well, because they make me feel nostalgic and they make me laugh; which is why I suppose I saved them in the first place. When and if I do this in the future I'll preface the blog with the word "redux", and post the original date. ***

On to the Flatmate, a.k.a. OCTOPENIS. In 2002 I was transferred to London to work on the latest installment in the 007 film series, and my company put me up in a posh 2-bedroom flat in Mayfair for about four or five months. The flat itself was amazing: a mere 2 blocks from Hyde Park, I lived next door to diplomats and aristocrats in the mews behind Grosvenor Square (I know what you're thinking, but just wait, for the other shoe will drop). My flatmate was another Hollywood transplant who I knew from work, but didn't really know. You know what I mean.

Anyway, all that was about to change. What follows are two emails detailing my first few days in London dealing with the alcoholic culture and the shenanigans of the man who I would come to call Octopenis, because he has more testosterone than eight mortal men, and his hands are like tentacles: always groping out for anything that looks remotely like a female.

-------- Original Message --------
Subject: 
The Flatmate

Date: 
Mon, 24 Jun 2002 12:35:32 0100

From: 
Chris Lance

Organization: 
Cinesite (Europe) Ltd.

To: 
mharbour@cinesite.com, cybele@cinesite.com


I feel like I'm trapped in an early 70's sitcom like Steptoe and Son or The Odd Couple.  The hijinks started immediately, haven't yet abated, and there's no end in sight.

My first night here I turned in early while The Flatmate was still out imbibing quantities of alcohol that would kill a small horse.  When I awoke at 03:30 and walked to the kitchen to get some water, I found him passed out on the couch in his underwear, in the fetal position with his hands between his knees, half a bucket of melted ice cream on the floor with a spoon sticking out of it, and a dirty brown towel spread next to that.  It was only the next day he told me that while trying to scoop the ice cream out he flicked a large scoop of it up in the air, and when he leaned back to see where it went, he ended up sitting in it.  Ice cream all over his back and the couch.  Does he decide to clean it up immediately? No, he decides to fall asleep in it. You may think this is funny, Harbour, until you realize that this is the couch you'll be sleeping on while you're here.

Another good time was the night we all took Aimee Dadswell out for a fancy dinner at Asia de Cuba.  As the night wore on, The 'Mate ordered more and more wine until I believe he'd had at least two bottles himself.  You can tell when he's getting drunk because he gets this real lascivious look about him -- his eyes get beady and you can just watch him staring at the waitresses' breasts and ass.  I don't think it matters to him if he gets caught leering.  When I went to the bathroom I heard him come in right after me so I beat it immediately for a stall.  While I was in there I heard him talking loudly, but I didn't think he was talking to me, so I kept quiet.  He was mumbling about wanting to stick his cock in the bathroom lamp but it wouldn't fit and about all the fine women in the joint and a whole bunch of other unintelligible babble.  When I came out of the stall, there were two guys standing there waiting for him to vacate the area, looking at me like "what's with the dodgy bloke over there?", as he was still spread out covering both of the urinals, his head against the wall, booming out love-advice to the bathroom fixtures.  Needless to say, I've never washed my hands faster than I did that night, since I wanted to clear out before he turned around and they realized that we were together.  Back at the table, he assaulted our poor waitress all night with what I can only assume are Manhattan Beach/Marina del Rey pick-up lines while everyone else looked uncomfortable.  I was thankful that she was so adept at parrying his clumsy advances because it made the encounters less awkward.  At one point he said something like, "I could wait for you after you get off" to which she replied, "You'll be waiting a long time..."

These are just two examples, but something like the former or the latter happens almost every night.  You must remember that I don't despise The Mate for his shenanigans.  I just feel a mild pity for both of us, mixed with a fair amount of embarrassment or disgust, depending on whether or not we're sitting at the same table while out on the town.  But I must embrace him as he is and for what he is.  He makes me want to be a better man.  He completes me.  He is my other half, the id to my ego, the Moriarty to my Holmes, the Randy Quaid to my Chevy Chase.  He is the one and only Flatmate.
-- 
c       i        n        e       s        i       t         e
chris.lance lance@cinesite.co.uk 44(0)78.1728.8217
e           u             r          o            p           e


-------- Original Message --------

Subject: 
Flatmate Update

Date: 
Tue, 02 Jul 2002 14:09:41 0100

From: 
Chris Lance

Organization: 
Cinesite (Europe) Ltd.

To:[edited, because one of the addresses still exists]

I suspect the Flatmate is some sort of Bizarro-world Homer Simpson-esque beer-consuming robot.  I may start referring to him as The Machine instead of The Flatmate.  I've never seen anyone consume as much alcohol as he does and remain conscious (if you can call him that).  On Friday evening from 7pm until 5:30am he stood in line with a few hundred other people at Wimbledon.  During the course of the night, he consumed a case of beer.  He says he passed out around 4 a.m., but was up when the line started moving at 5:30.  He was up all day Saturday eating and drinking even more.  He came home on Saturday night, took a shower, and asked me if I wanted to go out.  Not one to ever miss seeing a train wreck, I went along with him.  Three pints of Guinness later, I was tugging on his sleeve begging for the sweet release of death.  My stomache was so bloated I looked like I was smuggling a soccer ball under my shirt, and my head reeled and ached from the smoke, alcohol, and live music (if you can call it that).  Meanwhile, he had outpaced me drinking Jack and Cokes and was still circling the ladies (if you can call them that) with a toothy grin.  I stumbled home holding my belly, and I think he followed an hour or two later.  Sunday was when I began to suspect I'm living with Beer Droid.  Out watching the Brazilian celebrations in the late morning, we stopped into a Japanese store to say hello to a friend and he comes out drinking a Kirin.  Then we lunched on Leicester Square, where he had another pint.  I had an iced tea, and a twelve-year old kid smoking a cigarette made fun of me as he walked by because I had a "girly" drink, which drew loud guffaws from the Flatmate.  I've now realized that I'm the one who is the stranger in a strange land.  I am the foreigner in a kingdom full of Beer Droids: the Flatmate has found his people.

Harbour came in last night, so he and the Flatmate, D.Rey and I and a few other people went out to the pub.  My face is now green and my head is swollen.  This is a picture of me taken this morning. 

I bet on the trifecta of evil last night and lost.  Wine, beer and then a double shot of whiskey on a Monday night.  Harbour's on the couch sleeping and I'm up in here weeping.  D.Rey is at Pinewood Studios with Dottie, but I don't think he's as hurting as I am.  I don't think anybody is.  I'm tempted to say never again, but I might be going to Amsterdam this weekend with D.Rey to watch M.Rey play bass with Eek! A Mouse.  The good news is that I'm slowly killing the Alcohol Resistance within me, though.  If I keep bombarding myself with drink I may lose a few battles, but I think I may win the war.

-- 
c       i        n        e       s        i       t         e
chris.lance lance@cinesite.co.uk 44(0)78.1728.8217
e           u             r          o            p           e

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Special Ops Cody held for ransom

The war in Iraq has taken a tragic turn. (I avoid the term 'insurgency' because, with this latest development, the situation has clearly escalated.) Iraqi guerrillas have kidnapped an action figure named Special Ops Cody and are holding him hostage. If U.S. forces do not release Iraqi prisoners, the kidnappers threaten to break off Cody's plastic head.

You think I'm joking don't you? Would that I were. Look at the photo posted on the website of the Al Mujahedeen Brigade.


(CNN has archived the original photo; this copy is from DigitalMonkeyBox.com)

They're threatening him with his own plastic gun.

The full story is on CNN. Yes, CNN.

So what's the deal behind this latest madness? Do the Iraqis have fucking Destro on their team now? And where the hell is G.I. Joe when we need him? Knowing is half the battle, my ass. Somebody needs to save Cody.