Viewed: Theater

I saw this opening weekend, but I’m just now getting around to commenting on it — surely you don’t wait for my review/comments before going to see a movie. In a broad stroke: I loved it.

I even think the movie is better than the graphic novel. The movie cut out all the extraneous stuff, condensed the stories to their essences, and wrapped up the ending in a much more logical way. Nothing necessary is missing from the movie, and a lot of the unnecessary from the novel was wisely left out.

The actors were spot on, near perfect choices (although movie Dreiberg is in better physical shape than novel, retired hero Dreiberg), and their performances were damn good and accurate, too. I actually came to like The Comedian, even though he’s still a very bad man. I liked Rorschach a lot in the book, but I absolutely loved him in the movie.

Other than the cut out bits (thank goodness), the movie is pretty close to being a frame-by-frame duplicate of the graphic novel panels. What may look like something gratuitous or meaningless to a watcher who hasn’t read the novel, is a pretty cool and honorable image taken right from the pages.

I went back a week later and watched this movie a second time. The second time felt a little long in places, but I didn’t feel that the first time. I can’t think of anything bad in this movie. And the only things different from the book are better in the movie.

I’ll buy this on DVD when it comes out. And that’s saying something, because I only have about a dozen movies on DVD. I don’t buy movies unless they really strike a cord with me and I want to see them again and again.

Bullgrit

*Ring ring*

Hello?

<Hey, this is Bullgrit.>

How ya doin’ old man?

<Good, good. I’m a bit tired though.>

Really? Why?

<Came home from work, mowed the lawn (first time this year), then ran errands, then went over to my mother’s-in-law house and did some painting.>

“Mother’s-in-law? It’s not “mother-in-law’s”?

<The house belongs to “mother” not “law.”>

You sure?

<Look, I’m calling in to say I can’t post today. I’m really tired and need to go to bed.>

But you have to post something, you got fans.

<Fans? You mean “fams,” as in “family.”>

No, seriously, you know people read this site. You see the numbers every day.

<Yeah, yeah. I know people read this site. But I’m really tired. Can’t you post something for me?>

Like what?

<I don’t know, put up a picture or something. I’ve taken a ton of photos. Grab something out of the folder where I download all that stuff.>

You need to go through that folder and delete a lot. You’ve got some pretty stupid, mundane crap in there. You have a blurry shot of a toy lighthouse surrounded by toy dinosaurs. You have a picture of a tobacco field. You have a picture of . . . what is that? Poop on the kitchen table? That’s disgusting.

<Heh, yeah. That’s actually rolled up gingerbread dough. I thought it was a funny shot.>

Yeah, I’m sure it’s funny, to someone. And what’s this picture? Your shadow on the ground with . . . what are you holding that looks like you have a . . . never mind, I don’t want to know.

<Oh, that one, yeah, that one’s funny.>

Did you really take and keep these pictures? I mean, really.

<Yeah, I took ’em. They seemed fun and funny at the time.>

Hey, here’s a good one. You, your oldest son, your brother, and your father. It’s a good pic, but you’re all holding guns.

<Calfgrit8 ain’t holding a gun. I do like that picture, but we look like a bunch of rednecks standing in that field.>

Well, it is you and your family.

<Hey! Watch the mouth. We’re good ol’ boys, not rednecks.>

Sure, okay, if you say so.

<Now look, did you just call me to insult me and my family?>

I didn’t call you, you called me.

<Oh, yeah. That’s right. I called to say I don’t have time to write up a post tonight.>

In the time you’ve taken to whine, you could have written a post.

<Alright jerk, I didn’t have to call you. I could have just left the site hanging.>

Well it’s not like you’ve never just phoned in a post before.

<You can . . . wait, what? That’s, like, backwards. Or something.>

Go on to bed, ya wuss. I’ll deal with the post.

<Huh? I’m lost now.>

I’ll post something. Don’t worry about it.

<Um, okay.>

I’m on it. Go to bed.

<Um, alright. Thanks. I’m tired.>

Yeah, I know. *click* Slackass.

Bullgrit

Continuation of Clash of Cultures.

Zee Zee had the demeanor of a hard man. Someone street tough and without humor. He was wiry muscular under his t-shirt, and always wore a white painter’s cap, (more 80s fashion). Although he cooked as much as George or me, or anyone else, in my mind’s eye memory, I mostly only remember him washing dishes and cleaning.

It was only after a long while working together that I saw he wasn’t really as mean as he looked like he would be. In fact, he was a nice guy. He was pretty introverted, and did his job without chit chat. But he wasn’t abrasive or off putting when I dealt with him.

I found out his real name one time when I saw his paycheck envelope, but I don’t remember what it was. He went by Zee Zee and that’s how I knew him. (He said his cousin was called Cee Cee.)

One night in the late summer, (after I had turned 16 and could drive to work on my own), there was an accident in the restaurant. It was after closing and I was cleaning up. Zee Zee was sharpening a knife in the back, and I heard him curse. Zee Zee rarely spoke, and I don’t know that I ever heard him curse before.

I rushed to the back room to see what happened, and I found him holding a cloth on his hand. He told me he had cut his hand. There was a good deal of blood on the table, and the white cloth was reddening up pretty quickly.

I asked if we needed to go to the hospital, but he said, “No, let’s just go to the drug store.”

He was the elder of the two of us, so I did as he said. I drove us in my mom’s car to the nearest drug store.

We both went inside together and I picked up the items he told me to, we checked out, and went back out to the parking lot. I helped him use the alcohol and bandages to clean and wrap up his hand. He had bled a lot, and I was thankful for the dark of the evening — the only light we had was from the parking lot lamps — so I didn’t get a real good look at the cut. It must have been pretty deep. I was surprised at how he didn’t complain or show any sign of being in pain.

Some people walking through the parking lot would look over at us as we handled the bloody cloth, the alcohol, the bandages, etc. Zee Zee commented, “They probably think we’ve been fighting.”

“Well,” I said, “you’re the one who’s bleeding, so I must have won.”

Zee Zee actually chuckled at that. I think that was the only time I ever heard him laugh at anything.

He took a few days off from work to let his hand heal, and my step-dad told me I should have taken him to the emergency room, (for insurance and such). But when Zee Zee came back to work, (after seeing a doctor, at my step-dad’s insistance), it was like nothing unusual had happened.

He was his regular quiet and hard self, and I was back to being intimidated by his quiet and hardness.

* * *

All in all, my several months working at the Chick-a-burger, in the inner city of my small town, was a truly educational experience. I learned something about a lot of stuff that I had only known through the television and movie media and suburban myths. And I learned some little things about myself, as well.

So ends my tale of my clash of cultures.

Bullgrit

Continuation of Clash of Cultures.

Two of my coworkers were neighborhood men in their twenties: Zee Zee and George. (I’m not positive the guy’s name was George, and my mom can’t remember either. So, having no way to check for sure, I’m going to call him George.)

George was a ladies man, suave and debonair. George loved talking to the lady customers, and apparently the lady customers loved talking to him. But when no woman was around to hear him, he’d point to a girl or woman out in the table area or parking lot and give me a reading on them.

“She’s out looking for a man. She’s not even being picky. Look at the way she smiles at every man that looks at her.”

“Uh oh, that one. That one you should stay away from. See how she has her hand on her hip. She’ll cut you.”

He’d often make a date through the service window for a woman to meet him at the local dance club. He always went to the dance club after work.

In fact, a few times, he came to work already dressed for the club. He’d come in wearing a double-breasted, purple suit with a white shirt and a thin black tie, (this was the 80s), and work a full four-hour shift, and then go straight from the restaurant to the club. I never asked, but I always wondered didn’t he smell of hamburgers and fried chicken when he went to see the ladies?

I would never wear my cooking clothes anywhere after work. But it didn’t seem to matter for him. Maybe it worked for him?

One day, a couple of girls, (older than me, younger than George), came to the window and ordered some food. In talking with me and George, they mentioned there was a dance going on out in the parking lot of the restaurant. We could see the crowd gathered in a tight group, but we couldn’t see what was going on other than cheering and laughing.

The girls invited George to come out and dance. George declined, saying he doesn’t break dance, (was the craze of the 80s). The girls said the guys weren’t break dancing; they were doing a new dance called “The White Boy.”

George and I laughed, and he commented that maybe I should go out there and win the competition. I declined saying I don’t know how to do The White Boy. George said neither did he, “So I guess we can’t join this dance party.” Everyone laughed.

(This White Boy dance was mentioned a few times in my months working at the Chick-a-burger, but I never got to see what it looked like. I have no idea other than, judging from the comments on it, it wasn’t a flattering set of moves.)

One time I had one of my Dungeons & Dragons books at the restaurant with me. George saw me reading it and we conversed briefly about the game. Turns out he knew guys who played it when he was in the army, and had watched them play a couple of times. It’s probably ironic that his knowing and understanding what D&D was bumped up his cool level in my eyes.

But that was George: always friendly, always ready to smile.

Now, Zee Zee, was very different, but not in a bad way.

Continued: Clash of Cultures – Friending 2

Bullgrit