A New Hope?

Watching some of "Star Wars" with the boys, I am struck at how rotten the tactics are of the Rebellion. Like in the end, they send 30 small fighters in against the Death Star. Well and good. But they squander their few numbers by bad deployment, ensuring that the fatality rate is terribly high. They basically send a three-man squadron into the trench for a bombing run, without proper cover. Unsurprisingly, Vader and company waste them. What they should've done is much like you'd have in any team sports -- have your forwards taking the offense, and have some guys covering the back, and then maybe some in the middle to lend a hand when needed. So, instead of this...

T.I.E. Fighters === Rebel Squadron A (RS A)

...they could have had this...

RS D === RS C === RS B === T.I.E. Fighters === RS A

Do it like a conveyor belt, and whoever survives A's bombing run loops back to the back of the line, with a reserve squadron running interference to cover them. The above configuration (counting the reserve) would allow for 12 fighters allocated, which would leave 18 fighters to otherwise divert the attention of the Imperials. Just keep it up until somebody manages to fire their proton torpedoes into the exhaust duct and voila!

The point is that instead of the incredible man-wasting tactics of the Rebels and the guaranteed high casualty rates, they have better tactics and better survivability in the squadrons. Vader and his crew couldn't have picked off the squadrons if backups were right on their tails.

Instead, they send them down one squadron at a time, with the other Rebel fliers just apparently holding their dicks while their buds are getting wasted.

Of course, this lets Luke get to play the hero, but it's impossible to believe the Rebels could even have survived as long as they had in the face of such rotten battle tactics.

I mean, in "Empire Strikes Back," they use trench warfare against the superior armor of the AT-ATs on Hoth. WTF is that all about? Oh, I know -- high casualty rates again. The poor bastards in the trenches get absolutely slaughtered. Now, you could speciously argue that they are doing a delaying tactic to buy time (with their lives) for the transports. But the infantry's presence on the battlefield doesn't so much as slow the AT-ATs down. What's more, it's demonstrated by Luke (both in a speeder and on foot) that grapple guns and grenades apparently work marvelously to dispatch AT-ATs, so the Rebels were likely better off charging the AT-ATs on foot with grapple guns rather than futilely blasting them with weapons that are immediately shown not to work (which calls to mind whether the Rebels have faced AT-ATs before, which, in all likelihood, they have). Again, bad, bad tactics yielding extraordinarily high battlefield losses.

*shaking head*

I don't mind a role being established for the heroes of the story, but not at the expense of tactics with the groups in question. At least make the tactics good.

Don't even get me going about "Lord of the Rings," how the Uruks (an army built expressly to deal with cavalry, hence the pikes they carry) get wasted in battle.

Piece of Cake

Oh, I made an apple cake last night that came out tasty. I used apples on hand, so it was a mix of Braeburn, Gala, and Golden Delicious in it. The boys enjoyed it. It's the kind of cake that would be delicious with ginger or cinnamon ice cream, although it was fine by itself, too. Although the recipe didn't call for it, I put Calvados in it, too, just to tweak out the apple flavors a little more. A good cake for the fall, I think.

*KOFF*

B2 is fighting a chest cold, as I'd said earlier. I decided to take a sick day from work (since I have that cold, too), and watch the boys. I took B1 to school -- it amused me -- one of the 2d grade girls saw B2 in his shades (he's been wanting to wear his shades, "Just like Daddy.") and she asked B1 "WHY is your little brother wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day?" and B1 just shrugged. One of the other girls (a more fashionable one) said "Oh, EVERYBODY is doing it THESE days." Made me chuckle. I put the boys in their IRISH kelly green stocking caps, too. One of B1's less astute classmates asked "Why are you wearing that IRISH cap?"

*shaking head*

B1's too nice, but the proper "Irish" response to that kind of question is a headbutt.

Anyway, it's just B2 and me home today, me giving him TLC. His little voice is all hoarse from the coughing.

Today I'm going to do my laundry, half the boys' laundry, and will pay bills and do the taxes (finally). I'll vacuum, too, as the rugs need it. Tres domestique!

St. Ernest of Hemingway

Hemingway first reached me in high school, although I don't think I appreciated his writing properly until I was older, and really got past the larger-than-life image he presented to the world. While his style has been aped, parodied, and avoided over the years, he was, for all of the cult of machismo that arose around him both in his life and after his death, a writer of amazing sensitivity. So much so that I often wonder if the whole Papa mythos, his alcoholism, and his big-game hunting and fishing was a reaction to that same writerly sensitivity all writers of merit must possess to get at the heart of their craft. I always felt that, interpersonally, Hemingway was a bit of a charlatan -- like insecurity drove him to act like he was the biggest badass in the room, almost as if he had to apologize for being a writer of such great talent and artistic sensitivity. The persona he cultivated was, in my opinion, camouflage for the artist that he was -- his veneration of, say, bullfighters, was really him projecting on the self he wanted to be, but never could be -- he wanted to be the participant, but, as a writer, could only truly be the spectator. I think people who aren't writers see that persona as the man, whereas reading his work, his amazing writing, I came to the conclusion above. It's a good thing he did get as much written as he did, as it left a huge imprint on the last century, and certainly influenced me as a writer. His quote when he won the Nobel Prize is illustrative...

"Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer's loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day."

PPD: Goose, Woman, Goat

A goose, a woman, and a goat, are bad things lean.

Up

B2's got a lingering cough from that cold. I just gave him some kiddie Mucinex, and am staying up a bit to keep an eye on him, until the medicine kicks in.

Sun-Day

I just liked the quality of the light this morning. This is facing east, over the lake.

Morning Glory

I went out to snag some groceries, into the blustery, beautiful morning. Although clouds are holding sway to the west, to the east, the sun was coming up and lighting up the sky majestically. I snapped some pix (naturally), will post them later. I was amused to see a hardcore biker also snapping shots of downtown. It lent itself to it -- with all the wind, the air was very crisp and clear.

I snapped a bunch of shots on the way to and from the grocery store -- a mini photo safari. Here and there, detritus from the St. Patrick's Day parade (yesterday) -- kelly green flotsam and jetsam, although not too much, thankfully.

I snagged a trio of 12o-page notebooks. I'm still frustrated by my lack of a laptop, and am, at least in the short run, going to write longhand on first drafts. The pain in the butt of longhand will be offset by the ability to write whenever and wherever I like.

B2 has that chest cold that's been going around (hell, I've still got it, too).

More than a Feeling

B2 loves Boston's "More Than a Feeling." It's so cute to hear him singing it (not really getting the words, but nailing the melody).

Chilly and blustery today -- rain and heavy winds. Good night to stay in and stay warm. Soup weather!

Watched "The Right Stuff" with B1 -- he loves anything with astronauts and space.

St. Johnny of Rotten

John Lydon (aka, Johnny Rotten) completely rocked my teen world. I loved his snarky persona, his killer gaze, his Dickensian anarchic ragamuffin sense of style, his ability to almost effortlessly take the piss at any given moment. Fabulous. I remember first hearing his name when Sid Vicious died, and I can remember reading their names in the newspaper, and feeling this sense of terror -- who would have names like that? "Johnny Rotten?" "Sid Vicious?" "Sex Pistols?" I was 9 when I first encountered those names, and it was years later until I actually listened to the Sex Pistols -- bought them on cassette. For me, it was a revelation. I can vividly remember driving along Route 224, popping the cassette into my car's player, listening to "Never Mind the Bollocks" for the first time and thinking "Wow. This is awesome stuff." I had avoided them before then, because of the whole killer reputation of the band, their infamy. I just assumed it would be noise, not worth my time. But it was sooooo good. It was precisely the itch that I needed to be scratched at that time, when I was just stalking around town by myself. I became a Punk in that transformative moment, devoured the music, now referred to as "old-school" -- but to me, simply Punk. I loved that he had his own unique look, something quintessentially him, a kind of anti-fashion fashion that was quickly overshadowed by people trying to "look Punk" when the truth was that there WAS no look to Punk -- or the point was not having a look, but simply looking unique. And he managed that masterfully. Rotten taught me that so many people are easily outraged and frightened, and their judgments of the merit or lack of merit of something were meaningless, and that the only way to really suss something out was to do it yourself, and to think for yourself. That so often the fearful were afraid to try anything new and odd and different, and locked themselves into tiny cages.

Sure, Lydon lapsed into self-parody later, but his original incarnation was just magnificent. He's one of the few pop culture figures I'll honestly mourn when he finally dies, just because he's so damned fun. I read his biography years ago, found him curious and thoughtful behind his snarly exterior.

My Darling Clementine

I planted a seed from a clementine a few months ago, put it in a cup. Had a bunch of clementines, ate'em, enjoyed'em. One of them had a seed, and I kept it. A little project for B1 and me. I put some marbles in the bottom, for drainage, then put soil atop, and then planted the seed. Wasn't sure what would happen, if anything, but I would periodically water the soil, had the little cup on the windowsill. A hope, a promise, new life, new love. That kind of thing.

I was pleased to see that yesterday, a seedling has sprouted -- a slender finger of green. I'm very, very pleased.

St. Stanley of Kubrick

I'll proceed chronologically with my patron saints, like ones who inspired me earliest. One of the earliest was Stanley Kubrick. I was genuinely sad when Kubrick died -- all day, just forlorn.

I loved his meticulous approach to movie-making, which I know drove actors bananas, had him branded an eccentric, and limited his output to, what, 13 movies? And people may have qualms about his work, his very dark view of human nature, but the quality of his vision is so pronounced, so striking. His background as a photographer shows up so clearly in his cinematic work -- attention to lighting, angle, framing -- everything. I always say to people that you can do a still frame of almost any shot in a Kubrick movie and it will look good. Because he just paid such attention to that. His use of music and point of view, just amazing.

As a teen, I would foist Kubrick movies on my hapless chums, telling them "Oh, you gotta see this." They'd politely watch the movies, but I could tell I was the only one really grooving on his work. They were watching the movies-as-movies, and I think I was watching them as works of (visual) art.

While my major was in audio-visual production (surely inspired by Kubrick), and I'm a fair hand with a camera (including a video camera), I never had any pretensions of following Kubrick's footsteps. But his way of shooting movies absolutely informed my aesthetic of how I watched movies -- he put so much attention to filmcraft that I soaked that up, and applied it to movie-watching, and he made me pay attention to film directors, ones I liked, ones I didn't, and why. That aesthetic has stayed with me, will always be with me. I appreciate a well-shot movie, above and beyond the contents of the story itself. I like movies that look good, and will take note of directors who have that cinematic eye. I think his cinematic eye influenced my fiction-writing, how I construct scenes. I pay incredible attention to that, even though it's all in my head, and down on the page. People who read my stuff comment on how visual it is, and I am sure it's owing to my love of Kubrick's moviemaking, and that sense that everything in the scene is there for a reason.

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm

I saw this when walking home, paused, had to catch it. Intersection of North and Sedgwick.