The woman had just left the Harland Township, Michigan, Wal-Mart when a waste of a human soul assaulted her.
Seeing the attack, Wal-Mart employee Kristopher Oswald, 30, thought, no, this isn't going to go down on my watch. He intervened and fought with the argument for post-partum abortion until sheriff's deputies arrived.
After the kerfuffle, Kris walked back into his store. He ascertained right away that something was amiss. His fellow employees would not make eye contact, putting out a "don't bother me; I'm busy" vibe. His boss intercepted him and invited him into his office. My ubiquitous bugbot, in spite of my explicit programming to avoid Michigan at all costs, was taking a shortcut as it returned from another mission and happened to record the conversation.
"Kris, have a seat."
"What's up, boss?"
"Say, that was something out there in the parking lot, huh? I mean, jumping into the middle of an assault like that. That scrub could have been packing. You could have been shot!"
"Tell you the truth, I didn't even think about that. I just saw him manhandling some woman, and instinct, or reflex, or whatever just took over."
"Don't know if I would have had the balls to do what you did."
"I don't think anyone does, until they're in that situation. Hell, I surprised myself! I"m still asking myself how I reacted that way, what was I thinking, now that it's all over with."
"Well, you sure saved her butt. You can be damn proud of yourself, Kris. Damn proud!"
"Thanks, boss. Can I go now? I really should get back to work."
"You don't need to worry about that, Kris."
"What do you mean?"
"You're fired."
"Excuse me?"
"You violated company policy, Kris. Wal-Mart specifically prohibits workplace violence. When you rescued that woman from her assailant, you broke the rules. Sorry, but you've got to go."
"What the hell was I supposed to do, boss? Let him pound her into the pavement? Maybe carjack her? Throw her into her car and rape her?"
"Not your business, is it? Can't go around saving the world, Kris. You just need to worry about saving your job."
"So I should just have let it happen? Just turn my back and walk away?"
"I don't know. Maybe grab a scarf and wrap it around your face? Maybe tie a towel around your neck like a cape? I mean, anything so no one knew it was you. Then I wouldn't know whom, if anyone, to fire, would I?"
"So you're saying it's my fault."
"Well, I can't really fire the perp, now, can I? He doesn't even work here. I think we're done. Congrats on saving the day, and good luck finding a new job!"
Note: Wal-Mart, bowing to crushing public pressure, has since offered Kris back his job. If I were Kris, I'd tell Wal-Mart what they could do with it. He can get a job anywhere, now.
Saturday, October 19, 2013
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Trans-genre Art
By now you've probably read that "Breaking Bad" is being made into an opera. An opera!
Can't you just envision Heisenberg ripping off his filter mask after cooking his meth and bursting into a rousing, basso rendition of "Twilight Zone"? Or Jesse skying to "Life in the Fast Lane"? How 'bout "Better Call Saul" Goodman channeling Billy Flynn by singing "Razzle Dazzle"? Pre-orders for the soundtrack will pour in!
But let's not stop with "Breaking Bad". There are many other great stories out there just wanting for reinterpretation. Here are my pitches:
"Saw, the Musical": Victims regain consciousness to find themselves in straitjackets and locked in padded cells. "Let's play a game," croons the puppet. "You must sing 'MacArthur Park', word for word, within half an hour or you will be forced to listen to Yoko Ono, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger until you die!" This'll be bigger than "Springtime for Hitler"! Boffo box! SRO!
"The Walking Dead on Ice": Hapless couple is skating hand in hand on a forest pond. Suddenly they are beset by zombies! Picture dead bodies in various stages of decay skating with Frankenstein's monster awkwardness! The perfect vehicle for an Ice Capades production!
I called my favorite Hollywood power broker to sell this next flash of sheer genious directly:
"Clint, I've come up with a treatment for turning 'Streetcar Named Desire' into a movie."
"Already been done."
"No, no. Not like this. Are you ready? We film the ballet version!"
"Ballet? Seriously?"
"Why not? Ballet is the hot ticket, now. The Scottish Ballet Troupe is already selling out their take on this all over the country. I'm telling you, Clint, this is smokin'! I see Best Picture Oscar! You know how the Academy loves this kind of flick!"
"I don't know. Where we gonna find a Marlon Brando-type who can squeeze into ballet tights and twirl on his toes?"
"Stay with me on this, Clint. We don't! We go a whole different direction. Picture Johnny Weir as Stanley! Is that brilliant, or what. He's already a figure-skater; who better to bend his wrist, point his toes, and do all those delicate hand and arm gestures?"
"But he's a pouf! No one's gonna believe him married and raping some woman!"
"I know, right? But get this--we do Stella and Blanche in drag! I see Ross Matthews as Stella and Ru Paul as Blanche. Do you see it? Does it 'make your day?'"
"So what you're proposing is a movie about a gay who's married to one transvestite and banging another? And all this is going on in tights, tutus and toe shoes?"
"Works for me. Does it work for you? I'm so sure about this I'm making my reservations for Cannes right now!"
"Swell. I know in this biz you have to improvise, adapt and overcome. But you also have to know your limitations. Call me when you learn yours."
(Click)
Can't you just envision Heisenberg ripping off his filter mask after cooking his meth and bursting into a rousing, basso rendition of "Twilight Zone"? Or Jesse skying to "Life in the Fast Lane"? How 'bout "Better Call Saul" Goodman channeling Billy Flynn by singing "Razzle Dazzle"? Pre-orders for the soundtrack will pour in!
But let's not stop with "Breaking Bad". There are many other great stories out there just wanting for reinterpretation. Here are my pitches:
"Saw, the Musical": Victims regain consciousness to find themselves in straitjackets and locked in padded cells. "Let's play a game," croons the puppet. "You must sing 'MacArthur Park', word for word, within half an hour or you will be forced to listen to Yoko Ono, Joan Baez and Pete Seeger until you die!" This'll be bigger than "Springtime for Hitler"! Boffo box! SRO!
"The Walking Dead on Ice": Hapless couple is skating hand in hand on a forest pond. Suddenly they are beset by zombies! Picture dead bodies in various stages of decay skating with Frankenstein's monster awkwardness! The perfect vehicle for an Ice Capades production!
I called my favorite Hollywood power broker to sell this next flash of sheer genious directly:
"Clint, I've come up with a treatment for turning 'Streetcar Named Desire' into a movie."
"Already been done."
"No, no. Not like this. Are you ready? We film the ballet version!"
"Ballet? Seriously?"
"Why not? Ballet is the hot ticket, now. The Scottish Ballet Troupe is already selling out their take on this all over the country. I'm telling you, Clint, this is smokin'! I see Best Picture Oscar! You know how the Academy loves this kind of flick!"
"I don't know. Where we gonna find a Marlon Brando-type who can squeeze into ballet tights and twirl on his toes?"
"Stay with me on this, Clint. We don't! We go a whole different direction. Picture Johnny Weir as Stanley! Is that brilliant, or what. He's already a figure-skater; who better to bend his wrist, point his toes, and do all those delicate hand and arm gestures?"
"But he's a pouf! No one's gonna believe him married and raping some woman!"
"I know, right? But get this--we do Stella and Blanche in drag! I see Ross Matthews as Stella and Ru Paul as Blanche. Do you see it? Does it 'make your day?'"
"So what you're proposing is a movie about a gay who's married to one transvestite and banging another? And all this is going on in tights, tutus and toe shoes?"
"Works for me. Does it work for you? I'm so sure about this I'm making my reservations for Cannes right now!"
"Swell. I know in this biz you have to improvise, adapt and overcome. But you also have to know your limitations. Call me when you learn yours."
(Click)
Saturday, October 5, 2013
When Accidents Aren't
The word "accident" and its derivatives have, over the years, become synonymous for "mistake," "careless," "irresponsible," and "negligent," among others. All of these have negative connotations. "Accident" implies excusable, blamelessness, no-fault, all helpful when rationalizing miscues.
Even dictionaries seem to allow for wiggle room when defining "accident." My jiffy Oxford American Dictionary defines the word thusly: "an unexpected or undesirable event, especially one causing injury or damage." I can just see "Better Call Saul" Goodman salivating like a Rottweiler over a raw New York strip steak at the prospect of invoking this definition in defense of Heisenberg:
"Gee, your honor. It wasn't my client's fault that fumes escaped from his cook house and sent half the neighborhood skying. It was an accident!"
I prefer my definition. As you can see, it removes the wiggle room: "An accident is the unpredictable result of an action or behavior." In other words, if you do something that has a predictable result, and that result occurs, the result, then, cannot be called an accident. For example: If you speed through a school zone, there is a reasonable probability that you may run over one or more kids. If you do hit a kid, you cannot therefore claim it was an accident.
On the other hand, if you are window-shopping on Chicago's Michigan Avenue and a chunk of ice falls off an eave and hits you in the head, that may be legitimately called an accident. Why? Because there was no predictability that such an occurrence would happen.
It's easier to rationalize a total screw-up by claiming that what happened was an accident than to admit that you, well, screwed up. That's human nature. My favorite example for the misuse of the word "accident" is when someone uses it to explain an unwanted, unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancy is NEVER an accident. It may be unplanned, the result of a spur of the moment act of lust or a contraceptive of one sort or another having failed or not been used properly, but it is never an accident.
Which brings us to the case of one Alan Osterhoudt, Jr, of Spring Hill, Florida.
Alan called 911. "I just shot my wife," he told the operator.
"Why did you shot your wife?" asked the operator.
"We had an argument, and.... I'll be outside. I'm not going to resist or anything."
The shooting and the phone call occurred on the night of February 25, 2012. Between then and September 25, 2013, when he finally took the stand at his murder trial, his story evolved from a straight-out shooting, complete with motive, to an accidental discharge of a firearm.
In his latest version of events, Alan was asleep when he heard the dog barking and then a thump in the attached bathroom. He grabbed his gun and went to investigate. "I got startled," he testified. "The weapon discharged and I realized it was my wife."
Ah, those pesky weapons. They do tend to discharge, don't they? Especially when you PULL THE TRIGGER!
Alan is 63. I mention that only to provide you a frame of reference. I would think that he is too old to act out of the thoughtlessness and carelessness of youth, and not so old that he is a man in his dotage who was rousted confused from his sleep and scared witless to the point where he turned to his firearm for solace.
The jury bought Alan's revisionist version, sort of. When he aime a gun at the back of his wife's head and pulled the trigger, there was a predictability of result that she would end up dead. But in the jurors' minds, this did not necessarily constitute murder. On September 26 the convicted him of manslaughter.
"My life is over," Alan had told police when he was arrested. No, Alan. Even if you receive the max of 30 years, you could be out in ten. You'll still be only 73. So your life isn't over. Only life as you knew it.
However, your wife's? Hers is most definitely over. But, hey--c'est la vie, huh?
Even dictionaries seem to allow for wiggle room when defining "accident." My jiffy Oxford American Dictionary defines the word thusly: "an unexpected or undesirable event, especially one causing injury or damage." I can just see "Better Call Saul" Goodman salivating like a Rottweiler over a raw New York strip steak at the prospect of invoking this definition in defense of Heisenberg:
"Gee, your honor. It wasn't my client's fault that fumes escaped from his cook house and sent half the neighborhood skying. It was an accident!"
I prefer my definition. As you can see, it removes the wiggle room: "An accident is the unpredictable result of an action or behavior." In other words, if you do something that has a predictable result, and that result occurs, the result, then, cannot be called an accident. For example: If you speed through a school zone, there is a reasonable probability that you may run over one or more kids. If you do hit a kid, you cannot therefore claim it was an accident.
On the other hand, if you are window-shopping on Chicago's Michigan Avenue and a chunk of ice falls off an eave and hits you in the head, that may be legitimately called an accident. Why? Because there was no predictability that such an occurrence would happen.
It's easier to rationalize a total screw-up by claiming that what happened was an accident than to admit that you, well, screwed up. That's human nature. My favorite example for the misuse of the word "accident" is when someone uses it to explain an unwanted, unexpected pregnancy. Pregnancy is NEVER an accident. It may be unplanned, the result of a spur of the moment act of lust or a contraceptive of one sort or another having failed or not been used properly, but it is never an accident.
Which brings us to the case of one Alan Osterhoudt, Jr, of Spring Hill, Florida.
Alan called 911. "I just shot my wife," he told the operator.
"Why did you shot your wife?" asked the operator.
"We had an argument, and.... I'll be outside. I'm not going to resist or anything."
The shooting and the phone call occurred on the night of February 25, 2012. Between then and September 25, 2013, when he finally took the stand at his murder trial, his story evolved from a straight-out shooting, complete with motive, to an accidental discharge of a firearm.
In his latest version of events, Alan was asleep when he heard the dog barking and then a thump in the attached bathroom. He grabbed his gun and went to investigate. "I got startled," he testified. "The weapon discharged and I realized it was my wife."
Ah, those pesky weapons. They do tend to discharge, don't they? Especially when you PULL THE TRIGGER!
Alan is 63. I mention that only to provide you a frame of reference. I would think that he is too old to act out of the thoughtlessness and carelessness of youth, and not so old that he is a man in his dotage who was rousted confused from his sleep and scared witless to the point where he turned to his firearm for solace.
The jury bought Alan's revisionist version, sort of. When he aime a gun at the back of his wife's head and pulled the trigger, there was a predictability of result that she would end up dead. But in the jurors' minds, this did not necessarily constitute murder. On September 26 the convicted him of manslaughter.
"My life is over," Alan had told police when he was arrested. No, Alan. Even if you receive the max of 30 years, you could be out in ten. You'll still be only 73. So your life isn't over. Only life as you knew it.
However, your wife's? Hers is most definitely over. But, hey--c'est la vie, huh?
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