Experimentation

A few weeks ago, I tried out heated rollers for the first time ever. I think it turned out okay... Though more practice is needed!

Can someone tell me if your hair is supposed to kink?

A Little Late...

Apologies for being late on this one, but better late than never right?

February's postcard was from Speed Demon so thanks!

If you're interested in what the deal is with these postcards, check out the Great Postcard Campaign on J.Day's page for all the details!

BIRD MAN

Those who knew him called him Bird Man, although no one really “knew” the man—instead they had become aware of his existence after encountering his strange, eccentric behavior for themselves. Because, you see, no one could honestly say that they knew anything about him—not even his real name. Some believe he had been drafted into Vietnam at eighteen and returned a few years later, re-born as a broken-minded man. Though he hadn’t lived in the city as a youth, Bird Man had opted to choose it as his new post-war home.

He always wore the same clothes: a pair of brown pants, a dark, navy blue button-up shirt, and a denim jacket. The clothes never changed, but they never seemed to tarnish, or become dirty. Some folks claimed to hear dog tags rattling around inside his shirt from time to time, which is how the Vietnam theory came to be. He had no true home and seemed to live on the streets. It was claimed that he actually lived in an old abandoned factory not too far from the places he was usually spotted, like the corner of 8th and Spruce Streets, where he would flap his wings in a fury at passing cars and caw at passersby. He sometimes visited area pubs, where he would either continue his bird shtick, or likewise, merely sit at the bar and remain still and quiet. He never ordered anything, but if the bartender slid him a glass of water or club soda, he would drink it.

Small pictures of birds, etched in charcoal, appeared all over the city’s buildings. No one ever actually saw Bird Man physically draw these pictures, but they always seemed to correspond with places he often visited.

“I think he marks these places because they’re where he feels safe,” a local had explained. “He knows he can go there and feel free from predators.”

Bird Man never harmed a single person, nor threatened to; unless he was being particularly loud or intrusive, the police were hardly ever called. He never even spoke in an intelligible language—just strange, guttural bird sounds. Despite this, he became a part of the small city, and the locals accepted him as easily as they accepted one of their own neighbors, or even the mayor. Some of these locals – themselves war veterans – did their best to give Bird Man solitude and respect. Others took innocent and lighthearted amusement in him and would be sure to point him out to others if they saw him on the street. “There goes the Bird Man!” they would shout as they passed by. “How ya doin’, Bird Man?”

But Bird Man never really responded to these greetings. Further, he never seemed happy, sad, or angry. His face was a blank slate, even when he was uttering his strange animalistic sounds. Like a bird, he had no discernible reactions to anything.

A few of the locals weren’t as nice to Bird Man and they antagonized him when they saw him. They jabbed him in the shoulder with their fingers, or sometimes mockingly threatened him with rolled-up newspapers or other objects. They would laugh and jeer and shout insults at him. “Lay any eggs recently, Bird Man?” And Bird Man would caw and shriek at them, much like a frightened bird would, and then run off down the street flapping his arms.

One day, a local man named Morley Herbert noticed that Bird Man hadn’t come around—not to his usual corner, nor any of the bars. After Herbert began asking around, he was able to deduce that it had been at least two weeks since anyone had seen the poor man.

“Maybe he flew the coop!” someone had joked, but Herbert wasn’t laughing. He had always felt bad for Bird Man, knowing that his home was the streets—knowing that he was beyond any kind of help.

Herbert contacted the police and aired his concerns, explaining that he was a “friend” if Bird Man and worried that he might be sick—or worse. An officer came to collect Herbert in his cruiser and the two drove to the abandoned factory where it was believed Bird Man had taken residence.

The factory was years deserted and in terrible shape. Most of the outer structure remained intact, but inside, it looked like a bomb had gone off. Ancient, oily machinery had been shoved into a corner and most of the windows had been broken, either by neighborhood punks or the fire that had brought the factory down in the first place.

In another corner was Bird Man’s nest—literally. A massive pile of bunched newspaper, dry twigs, and single straws seemingly plucked from hundreds of brooms were butted up against the walls. Fast food wrappers littered the floor. Though it wasn’t in plain view, the smell of human waste permeated the air.

Bird Man lay on his side on the dirty concrete floor, his arms tucked close to his body, his legs slightly splayed—like a bird that had fallen out of its nest and died on impact upon hitting the ground. His face wore not a grimace of pain, but a slight smile, his eyes gently closed. He looked to be at peace.

He was buried in a local potters field—a graveyard the church had sponsored where the indigent and the criminal were interred. More people attended his brief funeral than anyone would have anticipated—even those known for antagonizing the man in the past.

Stories of Bird Man wildly circulated in the months following his death. Recollections and “remember-when” stories were freely traded in bars, and many drinks were toasted in his honor.

One day, a new story about the Bird Man began circulating. Because the story’s events were so unusual, several of the locals worked together to tie the source of the tale back to one man: Morley Herbert.

Herbert later admitted that it was after a bout of mourning and too many drinks when he let slip something he never intended to share with anyone else—not even the police officer who had been with Herbert at the discovery of Bird Man’s body, and apparently did not see what Herbert had seen.

“The factory was in complete disarray,” Herbert explained. “It had been three floors when it was open for operation, almost fifty years ago, but after it caught fire, the whole place had been gutted. The floors had disintegrated. The walls were the only parts of the building left intact—and the ceiling, which was as least 150 feet high. There were no ladders in the place, and no possible way to climb up to that ceiling. Well, when I was in there, standing over Bird Man’s body, I happened to look up. And at the very top of the wall, close to the ceiling, I saw something drawn on the plaster: it was a picture of a bird…drawn in charcoal.” 

HAROLD

REVIEW: THE FP

For a filmmaker, attempting to manufacture a cult film is a fool's errand. To even try is just as disingenuous as those claims you see from film critics hailing a newly released movie as an "instant classic." No one filmmaker can knowingly create a cult film, and no one film critic can hail a movie as an instant classic. Time, only, will decide if one particular film is worthy of either title.

The FP just might have broken both of those rules in one dope move. 

Conceived and executed by The Trost Brothers (Jason and Brandon), The FP is destined to go down as the most unique film of 2012. I can honestly say I've never seen another film like it, and I absolutely love when I get to say that.

Jtro (Jason Troust) and his brother, Btro (Brandon Barrera), live in a not-too-distant future where underground games of Beat Beat Revolution (a recreated version of the popular arcade hit Dance Dance Revolution) are not only prevalent, but have become the way for gangs to claim dominance over a territory. Hordes of young people gather together in smoky, neon light-filled basement warehouses and watch as two challengers go head-to-head, pumping their legs and twisting their bodies to the roaring techno bouncing off the concrete walls; and when our characters speak, they do so using the most extreme street Ebonics not heard since the days of the NWA. Exclamations of "Oh snap!", "Whack!", and "YEah!! [sic]" flash on the screens during the dance challenge, either encouraging or dissing the dancers' moves.

If you're thinking this concept is ludicrous, that's because it is. And our filmmakers know it is. But that doesn't mean they aren't in on the joke. And wisely, they play this concept as straight as possible. When I tell you that the movie is flat-out hilarious, it's not because there are "jokes" throughout its running time...because there aren't...because the entire movie is the joke. Lines of dialogue like "I challenge you to a beat-off!" or "Dance with your mind, not your feet!" are spoken with the straightest of faces. And the audience who watches from the sidelines as two challengers hit the dance mats for a game of BBR aren't laughing at our characters, because what they see unfolding before them isn't an arcade game, or a joke, but a way of life.

Inexplicably, the entire movie is one absurd allegory of the Civil War. Two gangs, the 248 (the good guys from the north part of Frazier Park) and the 245 (the baddies from the south) are vying for dominance of the FP. The secret "training" headquarters for the 248 is mentioned as once being used in the Underground Railroad movement. The 245 is led by L-Dubba-E (aka Lee, aka Robert E. Lee, general of the Confederate Army). His lesser soldiers wear Confederate soldier hats and proudly display flags of the same. Allusions to Abraham Lincoln are made throughout the film. What it all means I couldn't say, but it's oddly appropriate to see something so historically significant, important, and realistically scary as the Civil War woven through such a strange tapestry of dancing and urban slang.

One smoky night, Btro and L-Dubba-E challenge each other to a game of BBR, and the match grows so heated that Btro literally dies on the mat, sharing an absurdly touching moment with his brother before descending to that big techno club in the sky.

Jtro glares at the heavens as he vows, "I'm never playing Beat Beat Revolution again!" and sets off to a life of isolation as a lumberjack.

But there are people from the FP who haven't forgotten about Jtro, and they beg him to return to his roots and help them regain control of their hometown from the 245s.

A visually impressive amalgamation of other films like Rocky, 8 Mile, The Warriors, and even Mad Max, The FP immediately grabs your attention with its off-kilter approach, and once it does, you are drawn into this peculiar world almost effortlessly, simultaneously laughing at the strange characters and their strange way of life, but also rooting for the boys from the 248 without even realizing it.

Jason Trost as Jtro has the hardest job as the lead character. He has lost his brother, and so he is a broken man; however, the other characters surrounding him are by contrast dynamic and quirky, energetic and bizarre. They have the ability to mask their own understanding of how silly their film is with their own idiosyncratic performances. Trost, however, remains dour for most of the movie, repeating the most ridiculous of lines while remaining stoic, calm, and disenchanted. The FP depends on his performance to work, and so it does.

Special mention must be made of Art Hsu and his manic performance as KC/DC. He remains energetic from the first minute until the last, serving as MC over all the BBR challenges and badly singing a profane version of the National Anthem (not so much of the United States, but of Frazier Park). He shares one particularly amusing scene where he explains that L-Dubba-E has come into ownership of the FP's sole liquor store, but refuses to sell its booze, forcing people to look to meth to satisfy their addictions. In a teary-eyed monologue, he explains that without booze, there are no bums, and because there are no bums, there is no one to feed the ducks...and so the ducks stop coming to the FP. "And what kinda town ain't got no mothafuckin' ducks?!" he demands through his tears. Hsu is not only the heart of The FP, but the catalyst, as it is he who retrieves Jtro from his lonely life and convinces him to come back and fight for all that the 248 have lost.

Lastly, The FP has perhaps the greatest final shot of all time.

Produced by the folks who brought you Paranormal Activity and Insidious, The FP is brought to you by Drafthouse Films, the infamous Texas-based movie theater who have for years hosted special screenings of films new and old. The FP marks another release by their relatively new distribution banner, and if it's just a taste of things to come, I look enthusiastically forward to their new venture.

The FP begins a limited theatrical release beginning March 16. To see if it's playing in your city, or for more info on the movie, go here.

Grade: A+

MANGA

The Enigma of Amigara Fault

Read.

SOUNDSCAPE: THE DRIVE

I've been into creating sound designs ever since college. Though I'd enrolled in support of studying film, I hadn't ever really considered audio to be its own entity until I took a class on the subject. Suddenly, film wasn't as interesting anymore. It became all about audio. From nothing you could create something. You could tell stories, establish a mood. Sure, you can do this with film, too, but sound is so much more accessible. So long as you have your heart in whatever you're doing, technical know-how goes out the window. All you need is an idea, patience, and the ability to spend hours trolling the internet for the perfect sounds to give life to this idea of yours. Because of this, Adobe Audition has become one of my favorite things, and the Internet has proven an infinite playground for finding the most perfect audio for whatever harebrained project I have in mind. I've assembled all kinds of soundscapes, ranging from projects I embarked on for shits and giggles, to more serious ideas.

This is my first real project. It's something I never intended on sharing, but rather was a "demo" of sorts I was putting together to see what I could accomplish with nothing more than all those things I mentioned earlier: an idea, patience, and late night hours. Credit must go to The Haunted Gallery, whose own work helped me to realize just what kind of projects I've always wanted to create.

First and foremost, all I really wanted to do was create a mood. My original premise was simple: someone goes out for a late night drive in some shitty, rainy, and thunderous weather. The hum of an engine, rain on the car hood, and maybe some relaxing music. That was it. I'm a night owl, caused by periodic insomnia, so I am always on the lookout for something to throw onto my iPod and let lull me into unconsciousness. Sounds of rain, or the ocean, or thunderstorms. Many folks rely on these soundscapes to sleep, and while I wouldn't say I depend on them, they certainly do help. So that's all I had set out to do: create a setting, establish a mood, and hopefully create something to fall asleep to before it ended.

But then a slight hint at a story began creeping in. Being a writer by nature, the need to tell this person's story became overwhelming. This featureless driver became defined - a man, middle aged, with sad, tired eyes. Where was he driving? What was the purpose? When was this taking place?

Suddenly he wasn't just driving leisurely anymore. He had a destination in mind. He had a reason for going where he was going. As I was working on this project, and strictly by happenstance, I stumbled upon an old Bing Crosby radio special that aired one Halloween night years ago. This completely random project fell into place: a man takes a night drive, sometime during the 1930s or 40s, and with the rain and the thunder happening on Halloween night, it would only be appropriate if he ended up at a haunted house.

He arrives, makes himself at home, and just when things begin to get creepy...

...it stops. (Sorry.) The story got away from me, and what I had originally planned as a conclusion became too epic in scope, and was threatening to curtail my original intention: to establish mood using ambiance only. So yes, fair warning: this "story" of mine has no ending. Not that I run the risk of truly upsetting anyone, but I figured I'd warn you, anyway.

I plan on creating more soundscapes in the near future. I have a much more specific idea in mind of what I will be doing, and I'm looking forward to sharing them with you.

For now, here's this.

Full dark listening is recommended. And for the love of Jebus, use headphones.