Passive Voice

This phrasing bugs me...

Ohio vet's car strikes people lined up for parade
By Associated Press

Police in Ohio say a car driven by a World War II veteran went off the road and struck five people lined up for a Memorial Day parade.

Authorities say 84-year-old Everett Cole's vehicle rolled over and hit a tree in front of a house in West Chester, about 15 miles north of Cincinnati.

Cole was conscious and talked with emergency personnel as they extracted him from the car. There was no immediate word on the extent of any injuries to him or others.

Because, clearly, the man was behind the wheel of this vehicle, and was, therefore, ostensibly in control of it. It's the usual "you're allowed to run people over if you're too old to be driving" thing that always happens.

Headline rewrite: Ohio vet strikes paradegoers when he loses control of his vehicle

First paragraph rewrite: Police in Ohio say a World War II veteran in a car lost control of his vehicle, went off the road, and struck five people lined up for a Memorial Day parade.

The original, by keeping it passive voice, it eliminates agency. And people might say "Oh, give the poor 84-year-old a break." And I'd say: 1) He shouldn't be driving anywhere at 84 years of age, least of all at a parade; and 2) five people got injured by this -- what about them?

The double standard with oldsters behind the wheel is dangerous to them, and to the people around them. Camouflaging it with passive voice doesn't do anybody any favors. Passive voice is used all the time in the news to spin things this way or that.

Rainy

Doesn't it always rain on Memorial Day? It sure seems to. We have storms here today.

Nothing fancy going on; just working on the screenplay, minding the boys, gonna watch the Blackhawks game tonight, gear up for the workweek.

The boys amuse me -- they conceived of "Daddy Club" -- basically getting to do stuff with me. If one of them does something that bothers the other one, they say "Now you're gonna have to be in Mommy Club." Which prompts Exene to say "Hey, what's wrong with that?" They know. Daddy Club is much more fun, at least to my boys.

I guess I won't stay on; it's thundery today.

"Bohemians Behaving Badly"

This title made me snicker. Not the book, but the SALON article title.

Lane Change

I saw this article in the NYT about Nathan Lane, and I was reminded immediately of my comments about Stanley Tucci a few months ago -- Nathan Lane is another of those East Coast cold-eyed "I can do anything" type of performers. Who may, in fact, be very professional and capable performers, but that iron-shod professionalism makes them, in my view, cold and a little creepy. Sure, they can sing and dance and act, but what's going on behind that mask? I dunno. The eyes always creep me out. Cold eyes, cold heart? I don't know -- maybe he's the nicest guy in the world, I don't know him, but I've seen clips of him talking (when not in character -- and even when in character, the eyes creep me out). I always see this with the East Coast entertainer types. Not all of them, but it does seem to be more prominent with them. I don't care if he can cock both his eyebrows up in a faux-affable expression -- the eyes are fucking blank.

Haunting

This house always gives me the willies. Even on sunny days, it just has this unfriendly vibe to it. It lurks and looms.

Sunny Afternoon

I walked to Subway and back (Tuscan Chicken Melt, if you must know), and enjoyed the good light today, and the mild-but-sunny weather. Just lovely. Snapped a few pictures on my way, including that haunted fucking house I've photographed before (but likely haven't put on this blog). Just a loomy kind of old Victorian building. Gotta watch out for those looming Victorians! Anyway, I was disappointed at Powell's -- their free book box was ransacked by a codger who snapped up a thick stack of novelized screenplays just before I got there. D'oh! Had I gone to Powell's before Subway, I'd have snagged a treasure trove of'em, but I was hungry, and I wanted to get ahead of the Subway lunch rush, so there you go. I thought of asking the old guy for the "Deliverance" and "Taxi Driver" (two that I saw, among the baker's dozen he snagged), but I figured he might as well enjoy'em, but I was peevish at being thwarted!

I think of both of those movies are Horror, even though they're not actually officially branded that way. But how can anyone watch "Deliverance" and not feel the terror and horror throuthout it? And I'm not just talking about poor Ned Beatty's character getting piggy-raped in the Georgia forest; the whole movie is deeply, darkly Southern Gothic in all sorts of harrowing ways. Even the banjo duel just drips Southern Gothic...

Banjo Duel

One scene in particular scared the hell out of me as a teen -- I remember watching it, must've been my senior year in high school, in our big house, all alone. Our den had some doors you could close to seal it off from the rest of the place. Anyway, I would watch movies by myself and shut those doors, feel reasonably safe in there.

So, I'm watching "Deliverance" and it's skeeving me out, as it always does, and because it was on late, I dozed off on the sofa, and I woke up during this part when Jon Voight dreams that the body of the man they killed surfaces -- and it's this creepy-as-hell moment where there's the water of the lake made from the dam, and this hand surfaces from the water with this droning music playing.

Anyway, I woke up to that music, that fucking hand rising from the water, alone in my folks' house, and I was completely creeped out!

The Trinity

This sounds interesting!

Scene: Boy, Howdy

Man, this Michigander wannabe Lothario named "Ted" was really, really working hard to try to pick up a gal on the bus tonight. He and his wingman were dogging this moderately attractive gal -- he was wearing his aviator shades, had his gelled hair, his worn jeans and flip-flops, overtanned face, teeth way too white (he looked like one of my former high school classmates set to Frat Boy), and chewing gum while offering 20 Questions to the gal (she was brunette, reasonably tall but seeming taller in her cork heeled sandals) -- endless question after question, which she gamely answered, while trying politely to communicate lack of interest. The guy kept going in that frat boy monotone that involves name-dropping various places around town, trying to gauge her interest. "Ever been to...?" and on and on. Finally, he turned to his friend (back to the gal) and said "Lemme borrow your iPhone; set it up, I need to get a phone number, here." and he turns and says "How about those digits?" and she looks at him, like "I can't believe he's trying to pick me up on the bus." and she gives him a number, which he duly enters, then hands the phone back to his buddy, says "Dial it up, see if it's really hers." then turns to her, says "He's gonna call you, see if it's yours." and the buddy dials it and her phone (which she's had out the whole time, as she's been texting) doesn't ring. "Ted" is like "Whoa...." and she says "Must be a dropped call or something." and he's like "I dunno, man." and his buddy tries again, but no dice. Now, the whole time, "Ted" is busy cracking his gum and trying to be cool, but at this point, he's got no play left, and his buddy's snickering (he was seated next to me), and says "Man, you got shot down, Ted. What a great start to the evening! That was awesome." Meanwhile, "Ted" is busy trying to salvage what's left of his douchebag dignity, turning his back on the gal and bantering with his buddy about what they're gonna do this evening.

It was amusing seeing him go down in flames, just because he wouldn't leave that gal alone. For her part, she just handled it pretty coolly. I wanted to laugh, had to bite my lip.

Sproutly

My darling clementine is still growing nicely.

Butterfly Wings

A butterfly landed on my chest this morning, after I'd dropped off the boys. Butterflies love me! It's the second time one's done it in a week. The first time, it was at the playground -- one of B1's friends said "Mister, there's a butterfly on you!" and he caught it, and (fortunately) let it go. I could see B1 trying to come up with some logical explanation for why they like me!

I should keep a tally of butterfly landings. It's nearly always Orange Lacewings, like the one above. They like me. Maybe because I'm sweet? Bahah! Or salty? (since I sweat pretty readily) Not sure. I used to blame it on shirts I wore with flowers on'em, or colors, but today's shirt is a white golf shirt with lateral navy blue stripes on it. I wanted to snap a shot of the butterfly before it fled, but wasn't quick enough.

Posty McPostington

I'm aiding and abetting the Net's war on attention spans by writing short little posts instead of my usual lengthy ones. I came up with a good ending to the second screenplay I'm working on (I shelved the first one because I don't think it was quite scary enough for the festival I'm sending this to), and I started another one last weekend (hence the high word count, trying to get it done in time -- it's due by next Friday). Anyway, I was on the bus, jotting notes, trying to think of an ending, and then it just clicked for me. I don't even know what inspired it, but I was really pleased with it. It's a far stronger piece than my original effort (I like the original, but it's more of a SF thriller than a horror story, whereas this new one is more psychological horror, and I think it'll work better -- although I'm sure I won't win the festival, because I know my luck).

Bizarrely, just yesterday, I saw the surname of one of the characters on the side of a charter bus! I'd only come up with the surname a couple of days before, and I was just sitting on the bus, daydreaming, and I saw the name roll by the bus windows (with a wave motif, which was even more perfect), and I was momentarily astounded by that. Like the Cosmos having a bit of fun with me.

Snakes Alive!

I saw a nice, healthy garter snake in my work neighborhood the other day. I think that was the first time I've ever seen a snake in the city (I'm sure they were probably here, but I've just never seen one before). It was great -- easily two feet long, maybe two (of my) fingers thick, slithering across the sidewalk and into a garden. I loved seeing that. Some Latinas were approaching with a stroller, and I announced the snake, like "Wow, a garter snake!" because I didn't want them to run over it with their stroller (they didn't see it until I mentioned it). It was way cool. I just loved how healthy it was. The street that it was on is perfect for it, because it has gardens all around it, not too much traffic, and there's a wild area on the side of the Metra tracks, too, that provides a kind of mini-sanctuary for it. Go, snake!

Happy 40th!

Man, did you notice that I have stubbed my toes 40 times since March 10? Christ. I am a chronic toe-stubber. In honor of the 40th (which happened just a few moments ago), I'll mention it briefly -- I was walking from the computer room into the living room, and I completely nailed my left foot, third toe, against B2's little bike with training wheels (while I'd sidestepped the bike itself, the black training wheels evaded scrutiny). Total punt. Lordy! I really need titanium house slippers, or at least steel-toed ones. Simple math...

Big Feet + Small Apartment = Stubbed Toes.