Several wonderful things transpired during Friday’s episode that were notable. Amongst them is Seth MacFarlane’s near-perfect Shatner-esque delivery of a speech regarding war, nearly ripped word-for-word from the original Star Trek episode, “A Taste of Armageddon.”

(Thanks to TrekMovie.com for posting an article with the YouTube embed!)

A second item was Seth MacFarlane’s response to Sarah Palin’s fake outrage where she pretends to be a defender for those affected by Down Syndrome. The YouTube embed is disabled, but I shall offer this link. Clicky, clicky. (MacFarlane’s comments are segued by Real Time‘s skit on what various celebrities have written on the palm of their hand, Palin-style.)

Now, I did see the Family Guy episode in question, and I found nothing in it that made fun of anyone with Down Syndrome—including Pailn’s son, Trig. Now, I’m not a heartless bastard, although at times I may come off as one, as I feel sorry for Trig. I feel sorry that Trig received the short straw and ended up not only with Down Syndrome, but with an idiot like Sarah Palin as a mother.

Trig’s just fucked—and it has nothing to do with MacFarlane or his cartoon.

If anything, this whole thing reminds me how fortunate I am to be surrounded by people who actually like me for who I am—in that regard, I am far better off than I was more than a year ago—and that I have my health.

Regardless, this fake outrage is just another attempt by the Alaskan Drama Queen to gain attention to herself and her laughable political ambitions. Sad, really. What’s even sad is that people still talk about Sarah Palin, as if she’s the new face of the Republican party.

So, to my fellow Americans who believe themselves Republicans, I state the following: When the late Republican president Abraham Lincoln spoke of being able to “fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time,” Lincoln did not refer to parading around the imbecile who effectively euthanized McCain’s campaign. (Not that this is the first time that Republicans tried to kill a McCain presidential ticket… during their previous attempt, they trotted out a metal deficient who masqueraded as a Texan and Governor Bush assumed the White House.) However, being the RINOs that the present Republican Party now are, I’ll give them credit for borrowing from former Republicans. It would be embarrassing if they borrowed inspiration from Stalin and the SOP from Gulags.

Then there’s also this, which gave me a laugh, because it will never come to pass.

Obama is a weak-willed, inexperienced pissant who, I believe, will be remembered as the Jimmy Carter of the new millennium. I want to feel sorry for Obama, since he did walk into a pile of shit not of his own making, but he’s simply either impotent or incompetent. He took the job knowing the risks, and ergo I can’t feel any empathy for him, for empathy isn’t going to fix a fucking thing. Decisive action is, even if it is unpopular.

A majority of Obama’s initiatives—like a public option for health care—are now pretty much dead (leading me to question if they ever really had life at all) and, sadly, the economy is only getting weaker… so Obama’s battles have already been lost before they were waged. This being the case, Obama should throw out any of his attempts to be bi-partisan and become a dick. Since Cheney is all but bragging about torturing human beings—lest we forget that, for better or for worse, these people are human—Obama should really piss off the Repugnantcans and string Cheney by his pubes for war crimes. Hey, they did call their actions integral parts of the “war on terror,” after all.  Ergo, it is a war crime!

What is the worst that can happen? Impeachment proceedings? And even impeachment, in and of itself, isn’t going to get Obama jettisoned from the presidency. So… he’s already lost everything, and he should just go down fighting, like any honorable bloke would do.

It’ll never happen of course, but one can always dream. Aside from hope, dreams are the only thing that a majority of Americans really have left at this point.

And on a slightly lighter ancillary subject, the only downfall from Friday’s Real Time program was this: the discussion of the Kevin Smith’s issue with Southwest Airlines by discussing the erroneous story as if it were fact. I’ve never liked Southwest Airlines anyway, as their customer service blows chunks… and Kevin Smith’s issue wasn’t with his weight, but with how he was treated and how Southwest continues to cover up their employees’s errors with piles of steamin’ lies.

So, if Bill wants to apologize for not going with all the facts, he’ll probably do it live next week.

At least, I dream that this is the case.

1. Pasta Dinner Benefit

Ticket to the benefit.

I attended a spaghetti dinner last Friday for Noah McClain, a two year old boy who was diagnosed with Guillian Barre Syndrome and Cerebral Palsy. The dinner was held by the American Legion post that my grandmother belongs to, and so I went to the dinner with my parents and grandmother. What makes Noah’s predicament even more harrowing is the fact that his father lost his job (and with it insurance benefits) just a few days after finding out about his son’s condition, and so the McClain family needs help paying for Noah’s medical expenses.

As a member of the Legion—for McClain’s father served in our military—the fine folks at the Legion organized this event. I’m not sure how much they managed to raise, but given the high turnout, I wouldn’t be surprised if they raised a good deal of money to help!

At the dinner, I was also pleased to interface with some members of the community. One of them was a one of my father’s present clients who praised me on the work I did on the virtual tour of their home, so that certainly made my night.

2. Spending Time with Friends

In the vein of spending time with friends, I’ve been participating in weekly trivia events at the local Hurricane’s Bar and Grill. That is until the owner there canceled it for affecting “season business.” Now, I’m not sure what kind of “seasonal business” two hours on a Monday night is affecting, because Monday is typically the lowest turn-out for sports bars. So… I’m not sure what we’re doing on Monday nights, other than hanging with my friends watching Chuck.

I also attended my friend Andrea’s birthday, from which I was called away from just as we were going to eat cake because my brother needed help prior to his trip up to Tallahassee. None-the-less, good times were had.

3. Staying Positive

I’ve been pretty positive and centered so far this month, which is great. I’m honestly getting to spend more time with myself again, which will be a good thing as once I start up school again in the next few months, I doubt I will.

Between that and a few reality checks, I believe that I’m on the right path.

Which reminds me… I have a poem attached to a wall in my room, right next to the door. Somehow, despite the fact that I walk past it on a daily basis, I haven’t gone back and read it until just recently. It’s just… been there.

I was given this poem by one of the adult aides at a community center where I volunteered my time at during my middle school years, and I had it laminated. It’s been with me for the past decade, and I want to share it with all of you, since I take it quite to whatever heart I have remaining.

Read it here.

Good night, and good luck.

I was scouring Youtube the other night and stumbled across a rare interview that Patrick McGoohan (the titular tour de force behind The Prisoner) did in 1977. It is in four parts that run about 40 minutes and the quality is what you’d expect from a VHS recording, but it is an interesting look not only behind-the-series itself but on McGoohan’s views of society in general.

A warning for those of you who haven’t seen The Prisoner: there are spoilers here regarding the series’ finale—actually, finale isn’t the right word to use regarding The Prisoner‘s last episode, so let’s just get that out of the way right now.

Anyway, for your consideration…

I do happen to agree with McGoohan’s assertion that progress, or what passes for progress, is the most dangerous issue that humanity faces. There are many valid points here that are worthy of debate, such as his observation that there has not yet been a weapon created by man that hasn’t been used. We already know about the ciphering of the citizenry—with everyone assigned with a number (or, in today’s world, countless numbers)—and we know of the horror of nuclear and, to a lesser extent, biological weapons. Ergo, we should all be very fearful of what is to come, unless we take care and control of our actions as a species.

You may not agree, but at least watch the above videos, and feel free to discuss as I intend on writing more on these topics in the future.

Be seeing you.

I’ve had a few events in my life that can classify as “near misses.” Fortunately, there are very few, but I’d like to focus on one that happened to me on Wednesday afternoon.

Let me take you to the town of Sebastian and to a property my father listed. The property was priced to move, particularly as the original owner had passed away of natural causes, and it was placed into a trust bequeathed to the surviving relatives. Within a few days of listing, the sellers received a very solid offer and the property is expected to close next month.

Anyway, the surviving son and his wife cleaned up the place before they had to head back to their own home, apparently in another state or somewhere within considerable driving distance. My dad was the first to check it out in the early afternoon, and while there fate had just happened to sneak up on him: one of the wire shelves in the garage was overloaded, so the simple act of opening the door leading from the house to the garage apparently broke the clips. This resulted in cans of paint unceremoniously hitting the garage floor. Some of this splatter went on my father’s slacks and dress shoes. He was pressed for time as it is, because he had another engagement he had to attend, so he was unable to clean it up himself.

Here’s where I come in. My dad comes home and tells me the situation, and so I head there. Before I left, he also asks me to take pictures of the interior, as the relatives were cleaning out the place when it was first listed. I was also told that the relatives headed back home yesterday, and as such I’m not expecting to meet with anyone there. Armed with this information, I break out my old work clothes, seeing as I’d have to be cleaning up paint.

I go there, assess the situation, and start cleaning up. It takes about 15 minutes to clean everything up, and another couple of minutes to wash the paint from my hands. (I should have snagged some latex gloves, but that’s a moot point now.) With everything squared away in the garage, I start prepping the interior so that it can be photographed.

It was maybe 5 minutes into this when I hear a man’s voice. “Hello, anyone here?”

I stop what I’m doing to meet the guy at the front door.

He has a gun pulled out. It’s not aimed at me, but it’s out.

(It is times like these where vulgarity is more than appropriate. Fuck.)

What happens next was a bit of a blur, for I went into autopilot. In my head was a voice wanting to scream. I felt my heart begin to race, in conjunction with all the other little things that go into the flight-or-fight response. I remained calm and introduced myself as working for the listing agent, told him that I was his son and that I was there to take photos.

Oh, and in the confines of my tiny brain, I also asked that I’d not be shot. Or, failing that, if I were shot, that it would be quick.

Fortunately, the gun was holstered and I remain physically unscathed. I proceeded to work as normally as I could from the experience; I informed him and his wife about the shelving issue in the garage, and that I would be back sometime later or tomorrow to fix it. Real simple, as I’d just need to get new plastic clips from Home Depot. I went around to open blinds, make sure things were presentable, and began snapping photos. They left again.

My mind was wanting to race out from my skull at that point. I debated on whether or not I should inform my father of what had happened, or whether or not I should even bring it up at all. Nothing came from it, so I just continued doing what I was sent there to do.

It was as I was wrapping up that I received a phone call from my father.

“So you met the sellers, huh?” he said.

I replied in the affirmative, and in the course of the conversation he revealed that the seller called him and told him about what happened. As you could imagine, my father didn’t react too kindly to having a gun pulled out at his son.  My dad also has the ability to joke about things, and so jokingly told me that he would buy me a new pair of pants. We laughed and that phone conversation soon ended.

Yet my mind still reeled, knowing full well that the situation could have turned out badly. I could see all sides of the event that I’ve described, all the whys and wherefores. That doesn’t really disturb me. What disturbs me is all the unknown factors that could have come into play. I don’t know the guy; the guy didn’t know me.

So I don’t know his mental state, what level of training he has with firearms, or his disposition. For all I knew, he could have been a robber, seeing as I had never met the sellers before. (Normally, I meet with most of my father’s sellers as well during the listing process.)

Now he didn’t know me either, as I’ve already noted. However, my car was out in the driveway, and from it he could have surmised two things: one, my last name was Beaudoin (because the name’s on the vanity plate at the back of the car, spelled semi-phonetically in six letters), and two I was related to a Realtor, since I have a plate at the front of my car that says “Consult a Realtor.”

I’m unsure about what thought process went into the seller pulling out his weapon and entering the house. I’ll never know, so I try not to think about it… However, it crosses my mind from time to time.

Honestly, with all the things that could go wrong, it scares the shit out of me some days. This event certainly jarred me from my complacency. I never really think that something is going to go horribly wrong with me, or that I might involve myself in a bad situation. I don’t think most people act that way, otherwise who would want to wake up from their beds?

Yet this event unsettled me, and it still does. It’s not debilitating but it gives me pause, reminding me to be thankful for all the good things in life—even if life can sometimes kick you in the jewels. Or have a gun brandished about your person.

Most viewers wanted to do this after watching all six hours... Nom nom grenade nom nom—boom!

I’ve wanted to react to the perversion that was AMC’s “remake” of The Prisoner, however I didn’t want to come across as a whinging fuckard who didn’t like it.

But I said to hell with it.

Without a shred of doubt, it has placed itself on my personal list as one of the worst remakes I have ever seen since Lost in Space. Lost in Space had Gary Oldman. The Prisoner had Sir Ian McKellen. Proving yet again that good actors can be cast in shit.

Indeed, the whole six hour miniseries was a waste of time; time that I shall never be able to reclaim. For that feat alone, and for this piece of “art” to so brazenly defecate on its “source material” (and I use these terms very loosely, ergo the quotation marks), it should earn a Razzie, a faux Academy Award purchased from Spencer’s Gifts, and a burning pile of fecal matter in a brown paper lunch baggie.

I’m not going to make detailed comparisons between this abomination and Patrick McGoohan’s libertarian, counterculture masterpiece. I’ve thought about that approach and summarily dismissed it, as I haven’t the will to do it. The commitment to actually go and do a figurative venn diagram for either myself or all two of you is nonexistent.

The reason for this, you see, stems from the abhorrent fact that this new Prisoner is an exercise in blatant stupidity. It is from someone who apparently likes the series (or the general idea), but never grokked it. It’s an exercise from writers who apparently have written horrendous fiction, are interested in twists and turns with no true substance (see Lost), and haven’t plotted out the story. Hence the fairly languid pace, the actors desperately trying to polish the turd script-cum-toilet-paper, and the mishmash of topics and subjects that are supposed to push our “social” buttons (a homophobic father, drugged members of society, the pervasiveness of electronic surveillance, terrorism, et al). Sadly, in pushing those buttons, they failed to realize that buttons need to be pressed in a certain sequence to form compositions. Whether you are manipulating the keys of a keyboard to compose sentences, or the keys to a piano to play music, there is a discipline and order that needs to be understood. Otherwise, you are performing an act that has this technical term.

Today’s kids call it “keysmash.”

This abomination would have gone either unnoticed… or unfilmed… if it weren’t for its use of “nods” and themes to and from The Prisoner. Number Two. Number Six. The Village. Rover. Escape. The question of why Six resigned.

I believe this abomination is the result of the same thought process that went into the creation of New Coke. We all know how that went.

Beyond the use of names, general plot premises, and various bits of dialogue—”Local destinations only,” “Be seeing you,” etc.—this show needn’t have used The Prisoner. It’s not even the same thing. It’s basically trying to sell a car that looks like a Ferrari, but doesn’t have the mechanical aspects of it. The soul of the car isn’t there. It’s just branding a jalopy in the hopes of getting some sucker to buy it.

This interpretation—and I loathe to refer to it as thus—fails on its own merits and will be forgotten in the sands of time, since it ultimately doesn’t make you think. And, failing that, it’s not even entertaining. Mel Gibson’s Jesus Christ couldn’t carry the show as he bumbles around trying to find his character (as a glorified amnesiac, you’d think it’d be easy), and Sir Ian McKellen seems to have just said “fuck this” and go with the flow of the wacky nature of the story. Indeed, the only good parts to this “television event” were McKellen’s appearances as Number Two.

So here’s where I do the whole comparison thing. Out of necessity. I can’t avoid it, seeing as this abomination now shares the name of a perfectly good story!

McGoohan was able to act. He was able to create a character, the Prisoner, that was so strong and intelligent that he was a force to be reckoned with. He fenced with great adversarial Number Twos throughout the course of his imprisonment, played by various strong actors and actresses. Brilliant story telling. Brilliant dialogue. McGoohan tapped into the counterculture of the time, into the cultural zeitgeist like Trek was fabled to do in the sixties.

The point of The Prisoner is that it is a parable telling of an individual’s struggle against society, a society that attempts to force total conversion of a person so that they are socially acceptable. It does what any good science fiction has done since its inception: hold a mirror up to society and, in that crucible, force us to address some aspect of humanity that has otherwise gone unchallenged or unquestioned.

The other brave thing that the original Prisoner did was “Fall Out,” which resulted in McGoohan going into hiding due to the demands of all those members of society who declared that he must give them an answer to their question. However, I’ll cover that more in depth in the future; I don’t care to muddle the point amidst my utter hatred for this New Coke… ahem, Prisoner.

If anything can be salvaged from this horrendous remake, it is this: it helps introduce The Prisoner to a new generation, in another millennium, that never grew up with it. Even with this 21st century rotting turd masquerading as The Prisoner, it undoubtedly helped the series’ release in blu-ray, which itself is part of the testament to the legacy left behind by McGoohan, who passed in 2009. (Another reason why 2009 was a shitty year.) This brilliant bloke and visionary, who exposes Gene Roddenberry as the reincarnation of Antonio Salieri, is the inspiration for many writers and storytellers out there, including Ron Moore, creator of the re-imagined Battlestar Galactica.

Oh, and for all those future generations: If you’re going to remake The Prisoner, make sure the people at The Simpsons do it. Here’s why.

Upon returning to Florida in the spring, I visited the Indian River Mall to find that the Starbucks—itself having been, in a previous life, a Barnie’s Coffee and Tea—near the food court was closed down. The signs on the outside had been removed, and you could tell it had been a Starbuck’s by the configuration of the holes and subtle lines that the signs left behind. Even through the dark windows, you could see the empty room and the naked counter. That was a bit sad, although there was a Starbuck’s right on the road in front of the Indian River Plaza, which was a good 10 minute or so walk from the mall. Not a total loss. Not as much as the next store I noticed.

In December (and into January), I saw these depressing signs that were inside the Vero Beach Waldenbooks:

Sunuvabitch...

This does hurt me a bit on a personal level because of my love of the printed word. I grew up on having a Waldenbooks in the mall I could go to.

While it wasn’t this specific one, I grew up with the one in my hometown of Manchester, Connecticut. I went there a few times a month as a tyke, brought there by my mother and grandmother. I would always walk into that store with some of my chore money (my father paid me a “wage” of $1/hr), pick up a science fiction book I wanted to add to my collection (either Star Trek, Star Wars or a comic) and walk out with a small, plastic white bag with “Waldenbooks” on each side.

I also met a few authors at my Manchester Waldenbooks—yes, I used that possessive adjective, deal with it. I remember getting my copy of Robert Greenberger‘s book, The Romulan Strategem, signed by Mr. Greenberger all those years ago.

It’s not that I’m not able to get my books elsewhere. I can. There’s a Books-A-Million in the small plaza to the east of the Indian River Plaza, next to the Publix. It has a bigger selection of books. It has its own little Joe’s Coffee shop. (Yes, it’s named Joe’s Coffee. Clearly, no relation.)

I could also go to the library, which I have thus far neglected doing since my return to Florida, but there’s something about owning a good book and having it on your bookshelf that is immensely satisfying. More than some trophy or worthless paper award to be placed on some wall.

And if I wanted to go the online route, I can go to Amazon and buy it there without paying sales taxes. But there’s something to be said about seeing a book on the shelf with portals to all those worlds. Worlds that groups of people took the time and energy under the exacting toll of immeasurable frustration to create and get published. There’s a process there that most people don’t realize. I’m all too familiar with getting something published, as I’ve been responsible for the creation of two books. All that pain and suffering that went into it, all the long hours of writing and revising… Most people give up.

However, I’m flying off on another tangent there, so let me regain some semblance of control.

You can buy your stuff online, and I’ve done that with DVD and CDs, as well as the occasional book. With books, I find that I enjoy the tactile sensation, to feel the weight of the book, to feel the edges of the pages as I flip through them. Then there’s the rich aroma of the paper that wafts from the pages and fills your nostrils, if you let it. It’s a wonderful smell and while the new books have that “book aroma,” I find that older books that are well kept have a richer smell… like aged wine tastes versus newer vintages.

There’s also the fact that you get to physically meet people in a bookstore and, perhaps, strike up a conversation with them. We can say that we have message boards, blogs, and other “social media” outlets, but there’s nothing that can replace our need for physical contact, even if it is a chat. You can’t mirror truthful facial expressions in emoticons, or hear someone’s laugh, or hear someone sigh over troubling content in a book… You just can’t.

And so I find myself melancholy at the prospect of a bookstore closing down, even if it is part of a chain. It saddens me because it reflects the economic woes of our times, as well as the inevitable change where more and more people flock to the internet for whatever tickles their fancy. It is yet another reminder that our technology and our lust for better/faster/stronger change has outpaced our hearts and the potential worthwhile abilities of the human race.

Watch these clips, then ask yourself… Well, ask yourself the question that Dana Gould asked at the end of the second segment. Because I need an answer to that question.

For those reading this as a Facebook note, the Youtube links are:

• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LBGusPcNzxw
• http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ht_W5_Ogh0U

For those reading this as a blog on my website, JoeBeaudoinDOTnet, I’ve embedded these clips below:

Before you balk at that statement, just watch the video.

“[M]y fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.”

Yesterday seemed to be a very down day. People dying and all that. You may have heard it blasted ad absurdum on the news. Or what makes for news networks in this FUBARed country.

Well, I hate to break it to a lot of ya, but there are people who die every day and do not have the luxury of having their lives looked back upon on some Gods-forskaen 24 hour news network.

What disgusts me more than anything else is how the sensationalist media harps on Michael Jackson, yet ignores the larger issues this world faces: nuclear weapons proliferation, life-changing bills being passed by Congress, various crises over seas, and a government that seems more out of control than it was under the George W. Bush Dick Cheney administration. And while the rest of us go out and stimulate the economy by buying Michael Jackson’s CDs or mp3s from iTunes, we should mourn the dead later and pay attention to what’s happening in the world.

And I know why this is… because we let it happen. We need to hold the media accountable for their actions. Support independent media that actually cares to report the news that affects us. The death of a pop star is worth reporting on an entertainment channel, and worth a brief mention on the news, but not the incessant attention that it is given.

So change the channel. Boycott advertisers. Do what you feel is right.

But most of all, pay attention, take care, and control.

This is NOT the appearance of the Big Brother you should worry about.

Big Brother (or Big Sister, or even Big Sibling if we want to get P.C. about it) is a damning concept that has permeated our culture since the introduction of George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four. Before the Internet numerous SF fans, conspiracy theorists, the counter-culture and cyberpunkoids have toyed with Big Brother as being the control mechanism of a totalitarian government or a large corporation.

That was the 20th century.

Here in the 21st century, we are faced with a more damning fact: anyone can assume the mantle of Big Brother in our lives. Living in the age of connectedness that we share today, thanks to cellular telephones and the Internet, we find ourselves gobsmacked by the possibility that we were too narrow-minded in the concept of an all-seeing, all-knowing force in our lives. I am not referring to a deity or deities here, however technology has made damned sure that they are capable of achieving feats of that stature.

If you mix the de-centralized nature of the Internet with entrepreneurial spirit, capitalism and someone with a few basic facts on you, someone—your neighbor, a mentally deranged person you’ve pissed off online, your ex, your boss(es), family, friends, nerdlingers—can find out most anything they want on you. Googling people you know is only the first step. There are now sites out there that can dig deeper than you had likely thought impossible. Lifehacker has a list of sites whose sole aim is to allow people to find out anything on anyone, regardless on how careful you believe you have been in guarding your personal information, even if you use those privacy controls in your social networking sites, such as Facebook.

Short of reading your mind and extracting genetic samplings from your body, these systems will pull up anything that been electronically entered: posts on old bulletin boards, newspaper clippings that have been digitized, public records (divorce filings, speeding tickets, etc.)Â and information from social networking sites. I am astonished that these public systems have yet to link into medical records, internal files kept on you by your employer, and the Social Security Administration, but that’s only a matter of time. Such systems already exist and are used by the government, and the private sector has access to these things as well, which makes you pause.

It’s scary, but inevitable and damning. The technology we employ in our daily lives has outpaced our hearts, our ethics, and any anachronistic concepts we have of privacy. You can’t stop information on you from getting out there, but there are ways to control the types and what information can be pulled up by these systems.

My friend Amy has a few suggestions on this front, and there are numerous resources available online to help control what information can be indexed on you. The aforementioned Lifehacker is a good stepping stone, as is the Electronic Frontier Foundation.

You can be scared, but don’t let it paralyze you. Take this as a lesson in paying attention and being proactive in your privacy and connected life.