Insipid people, self-righteous assholes, the slow death of television via reality shows, rude behavior, and the decline of society in general; this movie really hits home for me.

Here’s counting down the days until its eventual release, most likely to smaller theaters. But hey, at least at the art house locations people are less likely to be using their cellphones.

Happy (revengeful) Friday!

“What’s this?” I asked Karin, who shrugged her shoulders.

Picking up the envelope I noted that the cancelled stamps originated from the Netherlands. “Hey, I think I know who sent this,” I said, hunting for the nearest sharped utensil I could use to open it up.

Seems my good internet friend Boris sent me a piece of signed artwork! Hey B, you’re the best! I knew you were having an exhibit of your work (you can also view his portfolio here), but you didn’t have to do this. Not only did we get a wedding gift from you, but now we have an amazing example of your artwork.  You’re nothing short of awesome, brother!

Man, you meet some of the nicest people online. Even though we’ve never met in person, Karin and I are proud and honored to call you a friend. Thanks, B, for thinking of us!

As always, please let us know if you need anything from the States!

The web shooters are back, The Lizard is the enemy, and best of all it doesn’t look like we’re going to have to sit through another boring origin story. The guy playing Peter Parker (Andrew Garfield) looks the part of a gawky teenager, the tweaks to the costume are well done, Dennis Leary makes an appearance, and the fight scenes look fantastic.

Perhaps it’s a bit too early to judge, but it looks like the series is stepping up its game, and is poised to top the previous trilogy in both aesthetics and box office draw.

Can’t wait!

Some kids enjoy Legos.  Others find solace in crayons.  Tyler is fascinated by animals.  It’s great to see how big his eyes get when he spies a dog or a cat, or in this case huge fish that could swallow him up whole.  He was so excited about the wildlife that we just barely saved him from taking a purposeful header into the outdoor tidal pool exhibit to get a better look at the Sea Anemones.

At the end of an eventful day full of animals, running around (geez, this kid is fast!), and fresh air he was down for the count on the drive home.

Man, this kid’s got the life  

I've heard of throwing dollar coins into the wishing well, but this is ridiculous

In place of Five Minute Fiction please enjoy another unedited and very much rough initial draft excerpt from my upcoming, best selling, great American novel (heh…).

Setup: Hal is lost in thought when he should be giving the weather report, oblivious to the live television studio cameras pointing his way.

Forecast (pages 5-6)

What people underestimate most when visiting Galveston in the summer is how quickly the heat can sap the energy from even the most prepared.  Without taking the proper precautions it’s far too easy to be overcome by that big Texas sun.

Last summer some cops on beach patrol found six dead sea lions baking on the beach.  Because so many were found dead at one time foul play was suspected.  The bodies were collected and sent to a local marine animal rescue facility where a necropsy was performed, revealing that they died from heat stroke.  Shit, if sea lions can die from exposure, how much of a chance does your aged uncle visiting from Wisconsin have when he arrives on your doorstep with nothing but jeans and gift shop t-shirts?

In case you were interested, and I know you are, there are three main stages to heat stroke.

The first stage is when the body initially begins to overheat.  This can be brought on by a lack of hydration while window shopping downtown in mid-July.  When the body overheats, it tends to cramp up.  Nausea and fatigue soon follows.

If shade and water are not provided then heat exhaustion quickly takes over.  The unfortunately victim might lapse into unconsciousness in the afternoon sun, choking to death on an evacuated fast food and soda.

The third stage is actual heat stroke.  It’s an incredible thing to witness a person succumb to exposure.  The skin blooms red and blotchy and breathing becomes labored as the victim, if they don’t fall unconscious, gets that far-off look in their eyes as they ramble in drunk, unfocused sentences.  Sweat stops being produced.  Hands swell to unnatural proportions.  The world drops away, replaced by hallucinations.  They stumble, topple to the ground, then seize right up as the body trembles and mouth foams.  With all cooling systems shut down, the victim lapses into a coma.  Left untreated heart and liver failure occurs, followed closely behind by brain damage.

You don’t see many roofers or gardeners in the emergency room being treated for heat stroke.  Outdoor contractors are, by trade, professionals who can easily identify the effects of prolonged exposure to the sun, and are smart enough to know when it’s time to seek shelter.  But throw an overweight vacationing computer programmer deep into the depths of a broiling Texas summer and things are bound to go south fast.

In a situation where a person succumbs to heat exhaustion the communal hero mechanism inevitably kicks in as people swarm to surround the body, scrambling for anything to block out the sun and provide life-saving shade.  Water bottles magically appear.  Their contents poured over the victim.

There’s always somebody barking that the feet should be raised.

Some stranger always takes it upon himself to prop the victim up and rub their chest with a damp towel.

Hovering above the action is always that one guy who shouts down to the heaving, delirious victim, “Buddy!  Hey buddy!  You’re gonna be alright!”

As the taped scene of downtown life fades out behind me and the local weather map appears in its place, I wonder how long Alan would last if left tied up in the trunk of my car as it sat alone and ignored in a far corner of the studio parking lot under the noon-day sun.

And it’s then I suddenly notice that it’s oddly silent.

I’m pointing into thin air.  My reference monitor is blank.  There aren’t any images being displayed on the blue Chromakey wall.  Colleen and Alan are speaking.  I can see their lips move but I can’t hear them.

My IFB crackles and shakes with the voice of my producer telling me to wake up.  Get it together.  To turn it over to Alan.  It wants to know what the fuck is wrong with me.  “Goddamn it, turn it over to Alan!” it urges again in shrieking feedback.

I must have blacked out again.  Lost in thought, live on the air.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet the world’s first deaf-mute weatherman.

“It definitely was another hot one today, Alan,” I finally blurt out through a sheepish smile, “But expect the nighttime temperatures to drop a few degrees later on in the week,” I say as I tug on my suspenders in my trademarked fashion.

Camera two cuts to Alan.

Camera one blinks out of existence, taking me with it.

The IFB hums in my ear.  Plucking it out with a hooked finger I let it dangle on the thin wire jutting out from my collar.  It sways back and forth as I walk off the set and press the power button on the box attached to my belt at the small of my back.  No need to listen.  I can imagine what’s being said to me from the control room.

I imagine a finger firmly pressed down on the talk button of the microphone that’s wirelessly attached to my earpiece.  I imagine the tip of that finger drained of blood from the downward pressure.  I imagine my producer, pursing her lips together tightly, her lipstick worn away from the effort, telling me to get my ass in her office.  That she wants to see me right away.

I also imagine that I don’t give a shit.