RIP Malcolm Mooney The Cat (2004-2014)

Malcolm

I’ve had a handful of cats in my life and I’ve never had to put one down until this weekend. Malcolm Mooney was a rescue cat and would have been ten in April. I had him since he was a couple weeks old. He is survived by his brother Damo Suzuki.

Malcolm acted high and mighty when guests were around, sitting on the back of the couch, arms folded under him, looking at you like he’s got your number. If you tried to call him out on it or draw attention to him, he’d look the other way as if to say “Get over it.”

Privately though, Malcolm was the most compassionate cat I’ve ever known. When I felt sick or down he always came over and leaned into me, purring like a lawn mower, and tried to rub some of his feelgoods off on me.

A heart condition led to large clots that paralyzed his back legs. Hearing the emergency vet talk, we realized quickly there two options, and only one would be painless. He passed away peacefully in our arms and I’m glad I was there with him when it happened.

Now who’s going to shed hair all over my fresh laundry?

Suspension Of Disbelief

In 1989, an uptight schmuck named Richard and his terminally unserious buddy Larry found a $2 million accounting mistake at the insurance firm they worked at and, seeing it as an opportunity to brownnose up the corporate ladder, took it upon themselves to point it out to their boss, Bernie, who was so impressed with their insight he invited the both of them to his Hampton Island beach house for a weekend of number crunching and partying in off-hours, which struck both Richard and Larry as a huge opportunity—Richard might finally make enough money to move out of his parent’s place and Larry, who wore sunglasses around his chin dangling from one ear because that’s what a party animal he was, would finally get the weekend of R & R he felt he deserved—however since Bernie is in fact embezzling the money he decides to do what most filthy rich tycoons would do and puts a contract out on his employees, and he’s taken off guard when the mobster he hired, whose wife Bernie was sleeping with, decides to kill Bernie instead, which puts a damper on the weekend’s party since Richard and Larry arrive just in time to find Bernie’s body, comically laid out with a smirk on his face, and despite all reason they decide not to call the cops and to instead try to “figure out what to do”, at which point a roaming group arrive and our heroes find themselves in the midst of a party where all the guests, presumably because they are very superficial, don’t notice the corpse grinning on the couch, so Richard and Larry first try to “roll with it”, pretending nothing is amiss even after the night passes without anyone realizing what’s going on, so Larry decides to string up this carcass like a marionette so he can wave casually at passersby and play a one-sided game of Monopoly™ while drinking all Bernie’s champagne and hitting on the babes, and all the while Richard doesn’t call the cops because he’s distracted by a very 80’s-looking girl (so much so he forgets or neglects his and Larry’s reprehensible behavior and the fact that now they’ve been carting around their dead boss, with no plan whatsoever, for more than a day, dropping him haphazardly, vacuuming beach sand from his face, letting the mobster’s wife have her way with him, Bernie, a dead man) and by this point they’re in so deep they don’t realize they’ve become side-targets of the contract killer, who looks like a long-haired Joe Flaherty and has a tickle trunk full of improbable costumes, and who, seeing Bernie supposedly alive and well on the beach (vis-à-vis the puppet show, the posthumous smirk and rigid, upright posture) decides to go back and finish the job, and meanwhile Bernie, who is still dead, has successfully haggled the price of his Porsche up $15000 from the previous bid and has somehow staved off any of the bodily rot and voiding of bowels so common in these situations, even maintaining well-coiffed hair and a ruddy complexion despite being mishandled by Larry and Richard who seem to want to keep the charade up so they can drink booze and get laid, which actually seems like it might happen for Richard with the typical 80’s girl, and by the time the contract killer finds Bernie again, he (the killer) thinks he’s going crazy and drops all subtlety and shoots Bernie several times through the chest in front of Larry, Richard, and Richard’s love interest, sending them running for a hiding spot until Larry gymnastically wraps the killer up in a phone cord in one smooth, spiraling move to be held until the police arrive who rightly charge the killer for murder and set our heroes (I include the love interest in this group at this point) free to lounge on a beach and enjoy their good fortune until Bernie, whose body had been gathered up by medics and rolled in a gurney into an ambulance that drives off only to hit a bump, opening the rear doors and sending the gurney carrying Bernie down the boardwalk only to land right behind our heroes who run away screaming before a small child finds the unfortunate corpse and buries it in the sand.

Weekend At Bernie’s was a box office hit that prompted a sequel in which voodoo is used to reanimate Bernie for continued hijinks.

Weekend At Bernie's

The True Detective Finale [SPOILERS]

[WARNING: This is not a show you want spoiled for you.]

Easily the hottest new television show this season is HBO’s True Detective. Social media sites have been crackling with theories, projections, analyses, breakdowns, synopses, praise, criticism, and so forth, and speculation on season two is in full swing as we speak.

The build up to the final episode, fueled by social media, was intense and exciting, and the scope and depth of the show made it impossible to forecast what direction the finale would take. Now that it has has come and gone, I find myself feeling a bit deflated. All that hype sweetens the anticipation but contributes to disappointment later; with so much chatter and speculation, it’s easy to feel let down, to be critical and cynical.

True Detective was easily the best show I’ve seen this year. From the start, the show was an example of visual storytelling at its finest. McConaughey and Harrelson gave truly impressive performances, the writing and directing were riveting, the cinematography was beautiful, and the show seemed to open into the mysterious worlds of psychosis and even the supernatural. This stuff is right in my wheelhouse.

The build up to the finale was intense. There were so many questions that needed answers: Who or what is the green-eared spaghetti monster? Has Cohle lost it completely? Has Hart made up his might to end Cohle? With such a network of horror out there in the Bayou, can Hart and Cohle even make a difference?

I thought the finale was great. The bad guy was thoroughly twisted, the chase and showdown made my heart thump in my ears, the denouement was touching and solidified McConaughey as the best performance of the year (as if anyone had any doubt), the detective work was engaging, and the dialogue was sharp and memorable.

So why do I feel let down? It might just be because it’s over (a 2-hour special might have been nice), or it might be because the wild twists I imagined would happen might have been more mind-blowing. Should they have let the bottom drop out and reached into the supernatural abyss of Chtulu? To be sure, a CGI demon would have been stupid, would have short-circuited the whole series. Yet somehow Cohle’s “vortex of chaos” hallucination worked perfectly.

Sure, I would have loved to learn more about the occult ethos, sure I would have loved it if the ending involved Maggie, the daughter, or that cellphone-selling rocket that Marty…did things to. Sure I would have been okay with one or both of the main characters dying, and of course I would have loved some sort of bizarre black magic showdown, but what would I be willing to trade away from the finale as shot to accommodate these speculations?

A dip into the supernatural would have been a mistake. True Detective is not Twin Peaks. The latter wove the supernatural or dream elements into the fabric of the show from the start, which allowed them to knock the roof off in the mind-blowing finale. But True Detective was always about real people chasing real people who may or may not be insane.

A wider focus on the evil underground network of child abusers might have meant a less penetrating look into our main characters. To delve into the occult rituals and sacrifices might have been delicious, but those details would never be the focus in a police investigation. There is only so much narrative, and I think Nic Pizzolatto made strong decisions throughout.

The one decision I immediately questioned—something that usually rubs me the wrong way in detective shows—is that the final episode showed us Errol’s world, even showed us three or four of his personalities without any detective work. The infraction here being that, in a detective show, the audience should learn about the bad guy at the same pace as the detectives. But if Pizzolatto had shown only what the detectives saw, the finale would have been 45 minutes of detective work and then a five minutes showdown. The audience wouldn’t have tasted Errol’s mania, which drives the anticipation through that beautiful Heart Of Darkness chase scene.

We can all nitpick from our couches, but here’s the thing: I don’t know what would have made True Detective better. What are your opinions?

Evolving Computers

My oldest brother was born at just the right time to participate in the groundbreaking new world of home computing. My dad bought the family a Commodore 64 and I invested huge swathes of time playing games, occasionally learning very basic computer programming from my brother. A 386 (one of the first modern PCs) and later a Pentium processor found their way into our home. Soon after that, the internet was born. My brother stayed with the developing technology and is now a programmer at Google.

His kids, on the other hand, have never known a world without the internet, PSPs, streaming video and Bluetooth. Technology has insinuated itself into the fabric of their lives, and they may never experience such a severe paradigm shift as home computing or the internet made when I was a kid. (To give you a sense of my age, I remember the world without the internet, and I remember being frustrated when this new thing called Windows triumphed over my familiar text-based DOS. I also remember the command prompt: LOAD”$”,8,1)

For kids today, computers are second nature. They cannot fathom the complexity of these devices because it is masked by the ease of use. A child has no need to consider the circuitry, the silicon, the programming language or the million increments in technical achievement that accumulated to this incredible moment in history, where we can summon seas of information with the click of a button.

But just because they can’t understand the million steps leading to such ease of use, they will suffer no handicap when it comes to understanding future computers. Indeed, they are already experts, of a sort, and the evolutionary history of computing hardly matters; the outmoded technologies both mechanical and programmatic are not useful any more except to historians or theoreticians. When was the last time LOAD”$”,8,1 did anything useful for me or the people at Google? (Playing Dig Dug on an emulator doesn’t count.)

We might think that kids today are spoiled, reaping rewards accumulated by generations of brilliant minds without fully appreciating it. But this has been the case with all technologies since the wheel. And this time binding faculty of humankind extends to more than just “technology”.

We are all guilty of this ignorance, for example, with our own bodies. We don’t consider the incredibly complex specialization of our eyes, how perfectly the lens focuses light onto the retina, how the rods and cones react, and how our brains parse information about shape, colour, shade, edges, depth, context and so forth. We just see a red curtain and go about our day.

Everything in our bodies is in fact the end result of innumerable biological adjustments, mutations that have been use-tested and refined through the ages by our ancestors’ survival and procreation. And not one of us needs to know these millions of stages of evolution in order to use our own biocomputer at least decently.

There will always be those who have a passion for the specifics, the evolutionary biologists, art historians and so forth, and we need them to impart their knowledge on the next generation of hungry minds. But you can’t blame someone for being born too late to really get it. It’s all we can do to work with what we’re given, do research when necessary, and move forward. Even my brother, currently on the cutting edge, was born about 150 years after Ada Lovelace, the world’s first computer programmer.