Large Movies / Small Titles

Here’s something that’s always confused me. Whenever you see advertisements for the latest movies, they’re always displayed with wild colourful font, showing how exciting and grandiose the presentation's going to be!






































And when you actually go to the theater and the opening credits start, you're faced with a tiny ordinary font on a black background. With none of the imagination of the posters.






Why is this? Did the producers blow so much money on their movie that there was nothing left to spice up the credits a little? Would it hurt them to even use the same title in their advertising? This might be an exaggeration, but a cursory look at a movie title database shows that this kind of thing's been becoming more common.

Barbers Vs. Dentists

I just recently had my bimonthly hair appointment a few days ago, and I’m feeling a little better now. It’s annoying that hair grows faster during the summer, since unlike the majority, I find going to the barber’s more stressful than going to the dentist.

Let me explain. First off, it slightly hurts whenever a single strand of hair is snipped off. They say that hair don’t have any nerve connections, so I shouldn’t feel any pain when it gets cut, but somehow I do. It must be because of how the barber pulls on the hair into his fingers to snip it off. Fortunately, my barber usually starts out with using an electric razor to cut away the excess hair.






















Whenever I get a haircut, I always get irritated because pieces of cut hair keep falling down my shirt, and it winds up being incredibly itchy for the rest of the day. The only way to avoid this is if I clutch my shirt from inside the smock so I’m essentially choking myself throughout the session. If I relax my grip even slightly, more hair will fall through the cracks and ruin my concentration for the rest of the day. Not to mention that the barber is extremely obsessive in getting every tiny piece of out-of-place hair on my head, and will go out of his way to cut off those annoying stray hairs. While I would normally admire his initiative, these attempts always sends chills up my spine, and drives me up the wall.

This still bugs me even though my barber lives within travelling distance, finishes the job at a fast rate and offers reasonable prices, even with the tip included. The only minus is making an appointment, and I always need help for that, since I can’t use a phone on my own, and he doesn’t have internet access.

The major reason I dislike haircuts is because I feel like it interferes with my personal appearance. There’s a reason Manga/Anime heroes with large spiky hairdos are extremely popular - their wild look gives them a feeling of worldly appeal, similar to how European comic characters all have large schnozzes. The bigger the nose, the more accommodating you appear. When my hair’s cut, I feel like less of a person.


































When I was stressed, I would pull out pieces of hair out from my forehead. This became so frequent that my forehead gave the illusion of appearing larger. However, this self-mutilation was tame compared to my sister, who would routinely eat her hair. (Though it never developed into a trichobezoar) I always worry that with the eventual passage of Male Pattern Baldness, that my latest haircut will turn out to be my last, and my proud display of flowing hair will only be a passing memory.

Then again, given that I routinely wear hats to keep my eyes out of the sun, it’s something of a moot point. Lastly, if I’m lucky, I’ll only have to go get my hair cut at least once every two months. In contrast, I only have to go to the dentist twice a year. Every two months versus every six months. Do the math.













While the dentist’s chair is routinely thought of a torture chamber, thanks to the portrayal of the Nazi in Marathon Man, there are ways to make the experience more enjoyable. (Read: less unpleasant) I found that I could combat the glaring light shining down into your mouth - by simply wearing clip-ons. That way, I’m protected from the harsh interrogation, and the dentist can poke and probe inside my mouth all they want. Mostly, the dentist concentrates more on cleaning my mouth and getting rid of the excess plaque that’s built up that wasn’t caught after brushing my teeth. I’m often amazed at how much can be backed up from the interior of my mouth.

Also, on occasion where there was an overhead mirror handy, I could see the dentist’s operation inside my mouth. People may find it invasive to see the interior of their mouths, but I find it perfectly normal. I also don’t understand the irrational fear of seeing loose tooths. Teeth are a perfectly natural part of life - what’s so unnerving about them?









The only part of the dentist I don’t enjoy are the x-rays and flossing. I don’t mind the heavy lead suit, since it’s very relaxing, but standing still while sharp pointed square negatives are placed between my teeth for photographs always activate my gag reflex a great deal. Fortunately, the process gets done quickly, so I don’t have to suffer for too long. Regarding the flossing, the dentist tends to use mint-flavoured floss, the taste of which I can’t stand. Even if it were chocolate flavoured, I still get annoyed, because my teeth all feel out of whack, because they’ve been pulled outwards towards the dentist’s direction. The only way to combat this is if I bring my own floss so my teeth can go back to their natural position.


































Lastly, even if a cavity is found mucking up my molars, I can have it taken care of as soon as next week. There’s no unnecessarily long waiting list to get rid of the infection, and I can get it over with. The only tricky part is waiting for the novocaine to take effect. It usually takes a double dose before I can’t feel anything below the tongue. It’s wise to eat a big meal beforehand so I’m not left starving after the appointment. Afterwards, my mouth feels weird, and I usually wander the mall to take my mind off. Ironically enough, I usually go during the middle of October when there’s plenty of Halloween candy on sale. (I’m so cheap that I’ll wait until November 1st when there’s plenty of leftovers for easy snatching)






















In my own weird way, I don't mind going to the dentist as much as other people. The only reason being is that I find the alternative to be worse. If you compare the two professions, they're very similar. To further explain my dislike of barbers, a mafia gangster put it best, "You're basically exposing your neck to a guy with a sharp razor. Think about it." At least, if the dentist threatens you, you can still bite back, even if they put cotton in your mouth while you're under anesthesia.

Hmm. This was supposed to be a supporting rally for dentists. I seem to have veered away from that topic somehow. Are there other people out there who don't have a rational fear of dentists?

I Like Feeling Lousy

When growing up, I was completely mystified by the presence of contrary characters in children’s TV shows such as Gruffi, Grumpy Bear, Grouchy Smurf and Oscar the Grouch. Their very nature seemed completely at odds with the rest of the naturally happy cast. Especially when there were books that gave helpful hints on how to become antisocial. This was a paradox in itself - how could there be people who chose to be miserable and unhappy? I’d always gone out of my way to make people laugh, so this kind of mindset was anathema to me.






















Much like the executives who didn’t understand Ren’s reluctance to be happy (Ren wants to be miserable), so too did I not understand that that these opposing personalities were supposed to show difference of opinions. It wasn’t until I grew older and hit puberty that the unthinkable happened - I started having more negative thoughts. This was a defense mechanism to the stress of High School, and dealing with personal problems at home. No matter what suggestion anybody gave me for any problem, I would always find something wrong with it.

“I don’t like getting up in the morning. I’m always tired when I get up.”
“You know the solution to that. You need to start going to bed earlier.”
“Are you mad?? I need time to finish my work, and get ready for the next day! Besides, I want to catch my favorite show, and don’t like wasting valuable VHS tape, not to mention the captioning might get wonky, or I’ll miss the end.”
“Well, you could always save preparing your lunch for when you wake up the next morning.”
“That’s even worse! I wouldn’t be able to sleep properly all night long, worrying about getting everything done in time if I oversleep. It would be counterproductive to the very dilemma you’re suggesting. It’s better for me to prepare everything beforehand.”

And so on and so forth. I would invariably point out the logical flaws in their suggestions. The problem was that I simply couldn’t accept any idea that didn’t come out of my head. It had to be something that sounded like something I would think up. Even slightly modifying other people’s ideas into acceptable molds for personal use was completely alien to my way of thinking.













I faithfully followed the Glen Gould method of seeing the world - Every silver lining has a cloud. If something good happens to me, I can’t take solace in that, because sooner or later, something bad will happen to upset the balance (or righten it). I became convinced that the universe was conspiring against me to make me miserable, and decided to save it some time. (It's no great secret that I strongly identified with Marvin the Paranoid Android from the Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy) If I felt happy for too long, karma would notice I’m having a good time, and have some disaster befoul me to punish me for having too much fun. As a result, I can only remember the negative events in my life. This is handy for aversion therapy and avoiding dangers, but it also means that I have no room for positive memories. I can recall with clear accuracy every single bad thing that’s happened to me, but have to struggle to remember any of the good stuff. Even if 99% of the day was great, if just 1% turns out to be bad, I’ll only remember that single 1%. Given the odds of the natural obstacles in a single day, the probability of getting 100% daily falls to zero.

















I also can’t take praise very well, because I know in the back of my mind that sooner or later, the complimenter will eventually segue into a “But...” that will negate their previous compliments. Even if they follow the ritual of starting out with flattery, then moving on to criticism and finishing with a compliment close. Starting and ending a review with compliments may make the intended person feel better about the main body of criticism, but it’s that body I pay the most attention to. I can’t afford to allow myself to bask in praise,because I know sooner or later, that good feeling will soon be replaced with creative criticism. Also, when I bask in praise, I get overconfident in my ability, and fail to pay more attention to my surroundings, which creates a higher risk of making silly mistakes, so I have to remain on constant guard.













The reason for my continued pessimism is that I didn’t like being constantly caught off guard. My rationale was that if I already felt miserable, I couldn’t sink any lower if I encountered a bad situation. Very much like how lying on the floor is a good defense against falling down. You can’t bruise yourself if you’re already on the ground. It's impossible to sink any lower if you’re already there. (Unless the floor collapses) The problem is that you become so accustomed to the comfort of the floor that you become reluctant to stand up again. That’s a surefire recipe for falling down again... unless you’re ready for the worst.








I found that if I mentally prepared myself for the worst possible thing that I could think of, I would be better able to cope with it. However, my imagination kept failing me, because I would encounter things that I’ve never read about or encountered. I was in a state of catatonic worry when my computer fan broke down and had to wait for the ordered parts to come in. In all the computer-related disasters I’d read about, internet scams, e-mail viruses and online hacking, I’d never read anything involving broken cooling fans, so I had no way to cope. Just as people get their jollies from watching hack n’ slash horror movies, I get satisfaction from suspense stories about people dealing with social disasters. They give me all kinds of clues on how to avoid these kinds of situations. Better yet, I learn from their mistakes, and no one gets hurt.

I’m not alone in this viewpoint. There are people who proudly display their pessimism as a way of going against the flow of people who’re blinded by the mantra of always being happy. There’s a socialized peer pressure in always being chipper and friendly. If you’re not being productive, then you’re a danger to society. The inverse is also true - being too happy and being blind to potential dangers is a recipe for disaster.

















The problem with this defense mechanism is that I’ve become unable to see the bright side or feasible options to practically anything in life. Thinking a certain way is like neglecting a muscle or talent. It atrophies if it hasn’t been used in a long time. In order to exercise this again, I’ve had to practice at recalling all the good things that happened to me, rather than focus on just the bad. The point is not just to dwell on the negative aspects that happened, but also to retain the good things that happen too. Even if the bus was late, even if I stub my toe while walking in through the door, I have to recall positive things that happened before coming home. For the most part, I dwelled on uncontrollable aspects such as, “There wasn’t a magnitude 9.9 earthquake” or, “The sun didn’t collapse into a black hole”, which given the state of the world, could still be seen as a bad thing. Eventually, I would move on to more relevant aspects of my day, such as, “My lunch didn’t give me diarrhea”, or “My boss didn’t beat me up today”, then devolve into more realistic boring examples, such as, “It wasn’t too bright today”, and “There were some leftover snacks from the staff meeting.”

Finding positive things in even the most direst of situations is extremely difficult when they’re personal. When my mother first found out that I was deaf, she was stricken with a case of self-loathing and despair. Like so many parents of handicapped children, she felt that she was in a quagmire that she couldn’t dig herself out of. All she could see was years of service without any proof that all her work might be for naught. Then my Bubby called her with what she considered happy news. “The bubble boy just died!” she said in a chipper voice. The bubble boy was a child with immune deficiency syndrome who’d been living behind a sheet of plastic all his life. My mother was naturally appalled at Bubby’s take on the news. “How can you be so happy? A human life was just snuffed away!” Bubby just calmly replied, “He’s no longer suffering.” That little conversation snapped my mother out of the funk she was in. There were plenty of people suffering worldwide. Compared to my deafness, she’d gotten off easy.

My view of the world is one of absolute bleakness that goes so far around the corner that it becomes funny again. (Though not on a Funky Winkerbean level) I like to think of myself of a negative optimistic nihilist. I know that terrible things will happen, but live secure with the knowledge that no matter how bad things get, there's always a joke lurking somewhere to make it even worse.



















It’s the difference between a spoiled brat seeing a room full of presents, and only seeing what’s not there, and a happy kid seeing a room full of manure, and thinking there must be a pony in there somewhere.

The Outcome of Mr. MacLeod's Gratitude by Ogden Nash

When Thanksgiving came twice, who walked so proud
As that grateful optimist, Mr. MacLeod?
Things you and I would deeply deplore
MacLeod found ways to be grateful for,
And this was his conscientious attitude:
Double Thanksgiving, double gratitude.
Whatever happened, no matter how hateful,
MacLeod found excuses for being grateful.
To be grateful, he really strained his wits.
Had he hiccups?
He was grateful it wasn't fits.
Had he hives?
He was grateful it wasn't measles.
Had he mice?
He was grateful it wasn't weasels.
Had he roaches?
He was glad it wasn't tarantulas.
Did his wife go to San Francisco?
He was glad it wasn't Los Angeles.
Mrs. MacLeod, on the other hand,
Was always complaining to beat the band.
If she had the mumps she found it no tonic
To be told to be grateful it wasn't bubonic.
If the cook walked out she would scream like a mink
Instead of being grateful she still had a sink.
So she tired of her husband's cheery note
And she stuffed a tea tray down his throat.
He remarked from the floor where they found him reclining,
"I'm just a MacLeod with a silver lining."

22 Manga Panels That Always Work

Inspired by Wally Wood’s iconic 22 panels. (I really wish I could find the guy who used those 22 panels to create a single comic story)

In the meantime, here's some common elements I've noticed keep popping up in Shonen series. I'm sure there's a bunch of widely reused panels that I've missed, but I chose the ones that would best tell a story, even if the protagonists keep changing every panel. I might do a Shojo equivalent in the future, unless someone else beats me to it first.

#1. Establishing shot















#2. Scene of normalcy










#3. An announcement from outside














#4. Running past a surprised person








#5. Walking feet











#6. Falling down
















#7. Gang of three













#8. Defiantly looking up












#9. Scornfully looking down



















#10 - 11. Two opponents staring at each other











#12. Presenting something from behind





























#13. Slump of despair


































#14. Extended palm / index finger


















#15. Heroic sacrifice






























#16. Cradling a dying body












#17. Manly crying
















#18. A scream that dislocates the jaw


















#19. Punch to the solar plexus





















#20. Coughing up blood



















#21. Waving goodbye from behind




















#22. Hero’s face superimposed against the sunset (very rare nowadays)

A Few Birds in Stone

I just had what could be considered a Rarebit Dream last night. It was a typical dream that started out with relative normalcy, that eventually ballooned to horrofic proportions. But first, a little explaination about the setting should be in order.

In the bathroom, there were small tiles on the floor with cracked plaster. These were the results of years of gradual erosion combined with spilled water between the cracks. Some of these tiles became so loose that they were only held to the ground by gravity. The cracked plaster didn't just occur to the surface, but also to the foundation undernath. There were chunks so large that they produced deep holes on the bathroom floor. Every day, I would dislodge another piece of loose plaster using wet toilet paper and an unwound paper clip. This wasn't an archeological dig, but I tried to be as careful as possible. One wrong move, and a piece could fall between the cracks and be impossible to take out. I wanted these pieces removed to make sure it would have a better foundation.

Finally, a second layer of cement was placed on top of these crumbling tiles. When the job was finished, I wasn't satisfied with the results, because it didn't feel natural under my feet. There were none of the comforting grooves between the cracks anymore. I was reassured that these would fade away with time, but I wasn't confident.

Sure enough, despite my greatest fears, the plaster coating gradually wore down and started feeling like what I was more used to. However, this meant that for a long time, the bathroom was full of tiny pieces of pebbles that were forever breaking off and bothering me underfoot. As someone who suffers from "Princess & the Pea" sensitivity, this can be very annoying. I started wetting the floor with cloth rags and wiping it constantly so these flecks would stop bothering me all the time. Though I suspect that I might've wiped too hard, because small similar cracks between the tiles have started showing up again. None of the tiles have broken loose, but it's probably just a matter of time.

With that setup out of the way, let's continue onto my dream.

There was a bunch of earlier stuff involving surrealistic desks in the basement, and a VHS library video I bought that I didn't know was pornographic (which made showing it around rather embarassing). Feeling a little flustered, I decided to take refuge into my personal sanctum - the bathroom. I sat down and started reading as normal. (I'm a little unusual in that I can't use the faculties properly unless I have something to read) I can't remember what I was reading, but I noticed that the hole on the floor was a little larger than usual. I leaned down from my position, and started brushing aside the loose concrete when my hand brushed something that seemed to be alive. I was surprised when it turned out to be a tiny hummingbird no bigger than my fingernail. I had no idea where this had come from. Had it been living in the concrete all this time? (Apparently, my subconsious wasn't able to handle living bugs, so it revealed itself as a bird instead)

However, I paid the miniture bird no need, and proceeded to sit on the toilet and do my business. As I continued to read and causually pick at the floor, I noticed that there were more hummingbirds than I thought. They were crawling about in the dirt making high-pitched sounds (I think they were making noise. I wasn't wearing my hearing aids, so I have no idea)

Eventually, in addition to the hummingbirds, larger birds started to appear. There were robins and doves, all of whom could fit in the palm of my hand. I tried to focus on my book, but the number of birds below me was becoming very distracting.

Soon, the hole on the bathroom floor began to develop crater-like dimensions and started to resemble a minature construction site. There were dozens of large birds flopping around in the dirt now. The number of birds increased the bigger the hole became. And some of these birds were also larger than they had every right to be. There were now birds bigger than my arm, and their snapping motion near my feet started to alarm me.

By the time I crushed a puffin's neck underneath my foot, I hightailed it out of there. After slamming the bathroom door shut, I considered putting up a sign up saying "Beware of Birds!", but was worried it might be laughed at. I envisioned a scene similar to what happened to Melanie Daniels at the climax of The Birds. I didn't want any victims to be caught up in a scene of escalation, and had no idea what might happen behind closed doors. I went downstairs to see if anybody was still up, not expecting to see anybody at this late hour. Fortunately, I found my parents watching TV.

My mom turned away from the news report and was surprised to see me. She saw the expression on my face, and asked what was wrong. I started to tell her... and that's when I woke up. The prospect of telling my mother what happened was scarier than what I'd just gone through. I was worried about what her reaction would be, and whether touching the plaster too much would be considered my fault.

This is why I prefer to solve problems on my own.

Makeup of a Smurfette

While browsing around, I recently came across an earlier translation of The Smurfette. There are notable differences from the Papercutz version, such as bluer Smurfs, lopsided text that's not always centered, and handwritten sound effects. (This was before computers made it easier to recreate fonts) Even so, it’s interesting to note what both got right, and what they got wrong.

For starters, both had a rather boring cover, despite the original being written in cursive. Maybe they thought audiences wouldn’t be able to read the fancy writing?












In addition to the Gothic text for the recipe, there’s also a different amount of ingredients used in creating a Rule 63 Smurf. I suppose it determines on which handbook you’re reading. For example, one element asks for “A dash of lying tissue, transparent of course...” while the other book has “Half a pack of lies, white of course...” Makes a big difference doesn’t it?














What’s also amusing is that while the latter was criticized as being too harsh on women, the former has a footnote for the authors not claiming responsibility for the text, under the MCPW (Male Chauvinist Pig Wizards) Inc.














Once Smurfette 1.0 gets accepted into the village, she goes around, snooping everywhere and generally annoying everybody with her presence. One early example is when she finds (and continues to find) a Smurf sleeping on the job. Only, the first discovery is different depending on which version you’re reading. In the first, she sounds more mildly shocked, but in the second, it sounds more like she’s had her preconceptions ruined. She was expecting to find tools, but only found a lazy runabout.






















Later, when the Smurfs have had enough of Smurfette’s running around and spoiling their fun with her “girly” stuff, they decide to go to Jokey Smurf for advice. For as annoying as Jokey is with his repetitive pranks, he’s certainly the master of psychological warfare when it counts. Then again, given that everybody keeps forgetting that he hands out explosive gifts on a regular basis, the competitive intellectual level isn’t very high.

So wherever Smurfette goes around, she hears the residents making veiled comments about how fat she’s getting. For the most part, most of what is said is pretty much the same, though there are two minor differences. Can you guess which ones I prefer?



















When Smurfette goes to check out the rigged scales, there are different amounts of weight, depending on which measurement unit you’re familiar with. Half an ounce sounds like a lot to me, but as someone raised on metric, I laughed more at the second one.











After being mercilessly teased by everyone, Papa Smurf finds Smurfette crying in bed with suicidal thoughts, and he feels that the best way to boost her self-esteem is to give her plastic surgery. The process isn’t shown, though the ordeal takes three days. By the time Smurfette exits the laboratory, it’s akin to a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, and suddenly, every Smurf who found her annoying suddenly finds her every action charming, even though she hasn’t changed at all.

While the Smurfs are on their way to work, they do some heart carving on trees and picking daisies. The scene passes by so quickly that unless you’re paying attention, you’re likely to miss it. The Papercutz version simplifies the text while explaining nothing, while the earlier version makes it clearer what’s going on.













I don’t know about you, but I prefer Grouchy Smurf’s use of double-negatives.





















You might’ve noticed at this point that even the songs are changed. When Smurfette starts singing with her screechy voice, her lyrics are different in each. Here’s one short example where I prefer Papercutz’s version, even if the poetic lyrics are oddly slanted with parenthesis.









When Smurfette sweet-talks Poet Smurf into intentionally open the floodgates just to see the gushing water, Papa Smurf goes to all lengths to stop it from flooding the village. Continuing on even after suffering from near drowning, and being harnessed towards the open spigot to physically close it when no one else would dare come close (badass), he asks for further assistance by asking for a hammer to wrench it tight.




















After Papa Smurf surveys the damage done to the village and determining that Smurfette was responsible, she decides she’s had enough of their attitude and proclaims she’s going home to Gargamel’s. At this piece of news, all the Smurfs in the village are shocked, and have her locked up so she can be put on trial, even though most everybody is willing to proclaim her innocent simply because she’s so beautiful. This is another example of being too faithful to the French text. Unless you’re a fungi expert, you’d have to go online to find any reference to it.













Despite all the subtle differences, the end result is still the same. Even after being given a not Guilty verdict, Smurfette still feels responsible for casting the village into disorder over her very presence, and decides to leave of her own accord (not going back to Gargamel’s), until the village isn’t driven so crazy over her. Just how she manages to survive on her own is something that’s never touched on. Meanwhile, Gargamel slinks off, muttering vows of revenge over his persistent garden gnomes.