John Williams LIVE at the Hollywood Bowl

“I don’t recognize any of the first selections,” Tony said, holding up his program with concern. “Aren’t I supposed to know these songs?”

Will laughed, waving down the bulletin. “You have to understand that the first act isn’t for us – it’s for John Williams. He’ll play everything you’re hoping for after intermission.”

They were lounging comfortably in the center of the Hollywood Bowl, chatting idly while watching the stage for signs of life. Their group represented just seven of the eight thousand people crowded into the facility, all eating and drinking various goodies and suffused with high spirits in the anticipation of something amazing.

Before long, the lighting and the stage flared to life, illuminating the LA Philharmonic as they readied their instruments. Twin spotlights swirled as the roaring crowd rose to their feet.

It’s not often one gets to see an elderly man wearing a white tuxedo get welcomed onto a stage by the thunderous applause of nearly ten thousand admiring fans, but that’s exactly what happened. John Williams smiled nervously, thanking the crowd with hand gestures which soothed and silenced his audience, and turned his attention to the orchestra assembled before him.

The Star Spangled Banner permeated the air before most people realized the concert had started. This transitioned into a fantastic medley featuring bits of memorable music from a dozen famous films. As he eased into the first act, which was dedicated to Westerns, the audience settled into their seats to enjoy the show.

The selection of music was beautiful, with many themes reminiscent of his more famous pieces. If you’ve watched more than one of his films, you already know what John Williams thinks love, regret, betrayal, passion, and danger sound like. Despite having never heard these songs before, the mind still recognized those emotions as if having heard them a hundred times before.

When the time came for the end of the first act, John Williams lifted a microphone to address the crowd.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, smoothing his tidy white beard with a free hand. “You all know I’m a writer of music, and I wanted to talk for a minute about other writers. I love American literature, and perhaps my favorite author is a man who is in the tradition of Mark Twain and others: William Faulkner. His work lends itself well to music, and I’ve set his last story to a something I feel is appropriate.”

He paused here, clearing his throat and motioning vaguely with his free hand toward the stage.

“Now, I can’t very well conduct and read at the same time, so I had to enlist the aid of a friend. Please welcome to stage a talented singer/songwriter in his own right, a true musical master, and my very dear friend, James Taylor.”

No sooner had the man stepped foot on the stage, walking toward John Williams with a larger than life smile, than the crowd sprang to their feet with applause.

“Thank you,” he said into his microphone. “What I’ve got here is The Reivers, the last novel Faulkner ever published. You’ll love it.”

They told the story together, James and John, fusing words with music in a cacophony of sound and emotion. No portion was too overstated, nor any phrase under-emphasized. It was a patently ridiculous tale which painted the picture of a world where cars were rare and blood ran deeper than water, and while much has changed since those days, the problems faced then aren’t too far removed from the problems of today.

As the story ended and the final notes of music faded away, John Williams took the microphone once more and smiled brightly.

“Thank you, James,” he beamed, turning toward him. “Now…I know you weren’t planning to sing today…”

The crowd swelled as James Taylor blushed, raising his own microphone. “It’s probably the only thing I have any business doing, John.”

“Did you bring your guitar?”

James Taylor nodded and headed off to fetch it while John Williams turned back to the crowd, still grinning with boyish glee.

“Y’know, I told him if he should fail to bring a guitar tonight, the LA Philharmonic would be pleased to provide one.”

James Taylor returned and played a single song (Sweet Baby James), much to the delight of the still-stunned audience. Afterward, John Williams and James Taylor both bowed and headed off stage as the intermission began.

A bottle of wine and a bag of pretzels later, the lights dimmed once more for the second half of the show.

John Williams kicked things off by showing a clip of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with the music removed. As the clip progressed, he talked about what feelings ought to be conveyed and how to translate that into music. He played the clip a second time, leading the orchestra to provide the missing music. The transformation was astonishing, perfectly illustrating the impact of including an appropriate accompaniment.

The evening concluded, as all knew it would, with his greatest hits, played one after another in rapid succession. Harry Potter. Jaws. ET. Indiana Jones. Star Wars.

You have not seen enthused until you’ve seen the reaction Star Wars music gets at a John Williams concert. The cheering and shouting as the theme blared into existence was incredible, as was how quickly this transitioned into a respectful silence for the duration of the piece. But the most striking moment of the evening came during the first encore, when he directed The Imperial March.

Even if you don’t know a Star Destroyer from a Tauntaun, you’ve heard this song.

On the very first beat, several thousand lightsabers sprang to life as various members of the crowd produced the weapons and flicked them on. They then proceeded to shake them in time with the beat, slicing through the air in a coordinated motion that left those of us who missed the memo speechless.

“So many Jedi,” Ivan breathed. “I’m so happy.”

Aaron laughed. “Bringing one of your own next time?”

“Nah,” he replied, clapping along with the rest as John Williams took a final bow. “But do you see why we come every year?”

Aaron paused for a moment, gathering the last of the pretzels as the crowd began to file toward the exits. Everyone was humming or whistling scattered fragments of music.

“Yeah,” he replied, grinning at their assembled group. “That was totally worth doing.”

Off the Record

“Does this sound right to you?” John asked, scratching his elbow absently while holding a half of a large set of headphones to his ear. “I think it’s off.”

“Let me see,” said Will, slipping his own set of heavy headphones onto his head. “Run it again, would you?”

Aaron nodded, clicking through a variety of computer screens crawling with sound levels and recording data. “Coming right up!”

The three were crammed into a tiny recording station that was really better suited for a career as a closet. Microphones, amps, and other equipment were strewn around the area, and a labyrinth of cords and wires laced between their scattered instruments to form a twisted web of plastic.

Four minutes of silence followed as they concentrated on the latest version of what was to be the second track of their first album, listening for any errors and generally forming an opinion on the overall feel of the current build.

“He’s right,” Will sighed as the song ended, tearing off his headphones and hanging them over a microphone stand. “It sounds flat. We need to fix it.”

“It’s not flat,” Aaron argued, pointed at a nearby tuner. “Everything’s in perfect pitch.”

John shook his head. “It’s not ‘absence of sharp’ flat. It’s just…” He trailed off as his normally impressive diction failed him.

“It’s missing something,” Will glanced at John. “Right? It sounds empty.”

“Exactly.”

Aaron furrowed his brow, staring at the computer screen and thinking. “So we either need to add something new or double a few of these parts.”

“Yeah. Maybe both,” John said, disentangling himself from the sound booth’s wiry restraints. “Think about our options – I need to get some air.”

“Me too,” said Will. “We’ve been at this for hours and I need a drink. Let’s take ten.”

Aaron watched as the others left, idly coiling and uncoiling a bit of nearby cable while staring at the screen’s audio levels. Rhythm guitar, lead guitar, drums, lead vocals, harmony vocals…everything seemed to be in order, and yet they were right. It was missing something. What could we add?

Slipping a set of headphones on, he ran the track another time and closed his eyes. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the desk, and suddenly the world of music was interrupted by a garbled cacophony of dissonant noise. Aaron’s eyes flew open as he realized he’d accidentally leaned on the studio’s keyboard.

He grinned and began to toy around with various chords and musical phrases, playing over the recording and changing the keyboard’s sound settings as he looked for something that would fill in the gaps. Electric piano, organ, harp, violins, chimes, woodwinds – nothing sounded right.

Then he found the horns.

The addition of brass changed everything, lending the song the feeling of depth it had been lacking. Aaron laughed, switching on the recording tools to add a track of keyboard to the mix. He bridged the empty gaps between verses, complimented the lead and rhythm guitar parts, and even set aside a small solo near the penultimate chorus which built beautifully into the existing minor-to-major key change.

As a guitarist and singer who played keyboards but rarely practiced with them, he sat amazed as the notes flew from his fingertips like tendrils of magic, enchanting the song and shaping it into something that finally sounded complete.

This never happens! Do people with actual talent feel like this all the time?

John and Will returned about half an hour later to find Aaron balancing sound levels on the computer screen.

“Alright, so let’s just record another take,” John said, picking up his guitar and fumbling for a pick. “Maybe redo the vocals, too. Anything to help.”

“Way ahead of you,” Aaron beamed, holding out a pair of headphones to each in turn. “Slap these on and tell me what you think.”

They looked dubiously at one another, wearing identical expressions of ‘Oh God, what have you done?’, but obediently slipped the gear over their heads.

Infinite seconds ticked by as the song opened into the first verse. Aaron waited patiently, knowing this section was unchanged, and watched their faces for indications of recognition. Midway through the first verse, a look of confusion flashed across Will’s features while John glanced up with a nervous smile.

Thirty seconds later, both were grinning from ear to ear.

As the final notes of the song faded away, the two tore off their headphones and looked at Aaron incredulously.

“Dude,” said Will, pointing at the keyboard, “you’re a WIZARD.”

“Seriously. You pounded that out in what, ten minutes?”

Aaron blushed slightly and shrugged. “I take it you guys liked it?”

“Loved it,” John nodded. “Run it again with just rhythm and vocals. We’ll work around the lead guitar and slap down a final keyboard track.”

Will laughed, heading for his guitar. “Why does it feel like we’re starting over?”

“Because we kind of are,” Aaron replied, cracking his knuckles over the keyboard. “But don’t worry – there’s only six songs to go!”

The group turned their attention toward their instruments, adjusting mics and calming their nerves as the room slowly faded into silence. Will clicked a button on the computer and silently rattled off the count with his fingers.

Three. Two. One. He paused before the final signal. Go!

Word on the Street

*A fundraiser beckons two 30-something guys over*
Fundraiser: “Hey guys! What’s up? Come talk to me!”
Stranger 1: “Sorry, my mother taught me not to talk to strangers.”
Fundraiser: “That’s ok – I’m a cool stranger!”
Stranger 2: “She taught me to especially not talk to those.”

I briefly worked for an international charity as a fundraiser, walking the street corners of Los Angeles in the hopes of collecting donations from perfect strangers who wanted nothing more than to go about their own business. For four days I shook hands, smiled, joked, and waved, but after those 32 hours I had come to one insurmountable conclusion: I’m a really lousy salesman. And that’s not such a bad thing.

We are the walking dead, the dreaded Clipboard People found hovering at busy intersections throughout the United States stopping passers-by and collecting donations. If you’ve ever talked to such a person, you may have noticed the manic gleam in their eyes and the bursts of energy burning in their every phrase and movement.

Do not mistake this for passion; what you’re seeing is the inevitable result of taking a good person who cares about a cause and assigning a number to their work. Fundraisers live and die by quotas and targets, and as the day wears on it becomes increasingly important to secure whatever sales figure has been deemed appropriate to avoid a thankless termination.

It turns out there’s a science to fundraising, and it’s been broken down by marketing experts into three main parts: the Stop, the Pitch, and the Close.

The Stop
I knew from the start that getting random people to talk to me would be easy, and I was right.

See, people respond to commands. Being polite is great with your family, significant other, or friends, but there’s a reason Clipboard People seem so pushy when they approach the general public – it works.

The following phrases never, ever got a person to stop and talk to me (be sure to throw friendly waving and smiles into your visualization of these):

“Excuse me, can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Can you spare a moment?”
“Would you like to help out a great cause?”
“Hi, how are you today?”

These, however, combined with pointing and beckoning, caused people to halt in their tracks:

“You. Stop.”
“You’re going to talk to me.”
“Come here.”
“Check this out.”
“Wanna be a super hero?”

The goal is to run their train of thought so completely off the rails that you can redirect it as you please.

The Pitch
Once you have your stranger (or group of strangers) stopped, it’s time to steer the conversation toward what you really want to talk about. The first step is to continue friendly chatter to get a feel for their personality, a process called building rapport. No rapport means no sales, so you can’t skip this part.

After they’re relaxed and talking easily, it’s time to discuss the problem. Energy ebbs here, replaced by statistics and concerned emotion which culminate in an empathy check to determine how amenable they are to the situation (“It’s unfair and unnecessary; I’m sure you agree?”).

If they concur that the problem exists, the excited energy is immediately restored to discuss the solution. Here, everything is phrased with the assumption that they’re on board (“When you help…” or “You’re going to support…”). Hope and joy abound as you share how they’re going to help and why they’re awesome for doing so. This final bit is called the empowerment line, and it’s the last thing they’ll hear before you ask for their wallet.

The Close
Ok, you’ve got them stopped. You’ve chatted them up and built rapport, you’ve discussed the problem, performed an empathy check, detailed the solution, and hit them with the feel-good energy of your empowerment line. It’s time to tell them exactly what you’re looking for and secure that donation.

There’s nothing special here. With steady energy and the confidence that they’re definitely doing this, you tell them how much their donation should be, that it’s 100% tax-deductible, and that you’ll facilitate the transaction right there and then.

Of course, some people have questions at this point, which means you may have to spend some time allaying their fears. No matter the objection, you’ll still work empathy into the discussion (“I totally understand your concern!”) and, after addressing it, use another empowerment line to close them all over again.

Rinse and repeat for 8 hours straight, 5 days a week, on into eternity.

While I remain supportive of the charity’s cause and wish them nothing but the best in the future, the direct engagement philosophy of fundraising and its utterly unforgiving drive for results creates such a stressful work environment that four days were more than enough to decide it was time to move on.

In addition, I hate the idea of manipulating people into supporting a charity. This isn’t an ends-justify-the-means situation; there are plenty of ways the average person can help make the world a better place, and something about twisting people’s arms to support one in particular doesn’t sit right with me.

It’s unfair and unnecessary; I’m sure you agree?

Lost in Translation

The morning sunlight trickling through the enormous windows permeating the airport suffused the building with a satisfying warmth, and Aaron grinned as he rolled his luggage toward his gate.

He couldn’t help but be amused at the spectacle before him. Mothers trying in vain to entertain young children while teenagers tapped away at laptops and smart phones. Men in business suits chatting away into hideous earpieces. A smattering of people gulping down overpriced salads and burgers while staring at suspended television sets, squinting to read CNN’s closed captioning. And, without fail, an empty seat was carefully positioned between each group of related passengers as if by an unspoken agreement.

His good mood took a hit when he glanced at the large screen overlooking the customer service counter.

DESTINATION: LAX – DELAYED
BOARDING TIME: NOT AVAILABLE

Wonderful. Resigned to his fate, Aaron began to parse the crowd for an open seat which conformed with the Universal Personal Space Rule.

After some effort, he managed to find a spot near a girl about his age who was staring at Wolf Blitzer with a glazed look generally reserved for lecture halls. She was the very picture of oblivious comfort, boots kicked off and feet propped up on her suitcase like a recliner.

Is that brilliant or inappropriate? he mused, absently pulling a book from his bags. Probably both.

Finally seated, he began to read while casually sipping at his outrageously priced (yet completely necessary) Icee. As he looked up to check the departure board for updates, he noticed the girl would sometimes smile at him.

Do I know her? he wondered, politely returning the smile and diving back into his reading. She doesn’t look familiar.

An hour later found the assorted passengers lined up, eager to cram themselves into the sold-out airplane. Aaron was blessed with both an early boarding number and the middle seat of a three-chair row. You are not a winner he sighed, sliding a backpack under his seat and scanning the enormous line of passengers filing in behind him.

Will my neighbors be that large man and the screaming baby, or something worse?

A businessman of average size soon took the aisle seat, and Aaron turned his attention toward trying to guess which of the remaining passengers he would be stuck with. As the plane filled up, he noticed the girl from the waiting area walking toward him; she caught his eye and beamed. Moments later she slid into the window seat on his other side, stuffing a large purse into the area normally reserved for one’s legs.

“Sorry about the lobby,” she said as she sat down. “You just looked about as bored as I felt.”

“No worries,” Aaron shrugged. “I was afraid I was supposed to recognize you.”

“Nope! But now you should. I’m Darnell – and no, I’m not a large black man.”

He held back a smile. “I suppose you’re not. I’m Aaron.”

Before long they got to talking about SkyMall and travel with the sort of stop-and-go pattern often associated with conversations between outgoing strangers with nothing better to do.

“I do this all the time, back and forth from Italy,” she said, staring out the window at the passing clouds.

Aaron looked at her. “Really? You live in Italy?”

“Oh yes! My husband was stationed there last year, and we absolutely love it.”

“Parli italiano?” he asked.

She looked at him, taken aback. “Sì, un po. Sto ancora imparando.”

“Perfetto!” Aaron nodded. “My girlfriend’s been there several times, and my family’s from there too. I keep meaning to visit.”

Further conversation was interrupted by a flight attendant, who served Darnell a coffee, Aaron some tonic water, and the sleeping businessman a faint smile.

“I hate coffee,” Darnell stated matter-of-factly, pouring sugar into her Styrofoam cup and stirring the dark liquid vigorously.

Aaron sipped at his tonic water and let out a contented sigh. “Why drink it?”

“Good for my liver, according to friends and the internet. And my liver’s in bad shape, so I do everything I can to help.”

“The first time I tried coffee was three months ago, in Italy,” Darnell continued. “My husband’s buddy told me about the liver thing, and I knew we had a coffee maker somewhere.”

She paused, poking a hole through the rim of her cup with a coffee stirrer.

“It was a tiny thing. You put coffee in it and set it on the stove. I thought it was convenient because it would make enough for one cup; no waste!”

Aaron cocked his head to one side. “But you’re in Italy. Their coffee is like our espresso.”

“I know that now!” she laughed. “But I was a rookie. I made it, poured it into my mug, and dumped sugar into it. Then I plugged my nose and gulped it all down.”

“You drank an entire MUG?”

She nodded. “Yeah. I was jittery for hours afterward. When I told my husband’s friend, he just stared at me and laughed.”

“I’ll bet,” he chuckled. “That’s, what, four shots of espresso?”

“Six or seven,” she shivered. “How was I supposed to know not to use a mug?”

“The tiny, tiny cups Italians use might have been a useful clue.”

Darnell glared playfully at him. “Whatever! I was just trying to take my medicine.”

“And I hope it works,” Aaron said. “But man…that’s quite the initiation to the world of coffee!”

She giggled, nodding, and turned her attention toward the movie playing overhead while riddling her empty cup with more holes.

I know it’s not common knowledge, he thought, retrieving his book with a smile. But that can’t have been good for her liver.

Living the Dream

“Make my way back home when I learn to fly.” – Foo Fighters, “Learn to Fly”

I never appreciated the difficulties associated with finding a job.

In high school, I was able to earn spending money by mowing lawns and reffing youth soccer, which meant I didn’t receive a traditional paycheck or bother with things like resumes, cover letters, or interviews. The world was a simpler place back then, and while the money was great for what it was, it’s not really what one might call “rent money”.

By the time I reached college, I had other expenses. Beyond books and food, there were video games to consume and concerts to attend, and I was rapidly finding out that dating wasn’t exactly light on the wallet. I had no trouble at all securing several jobs around campus, but they were mostly associated with the university and thus again immune to complications like cover letters, resumes, and interviews.

The company I worked for after college actually found me instead of the traditional “apply and get hired” approach most people experience. I was sitting on my couch after spending senior Spring Break deathly ill and feeling depressed about my future when my phone rang. “I represent Human Resources for SmithBucklin,” a cheerful female voice said. “We looked up your information via your university, and we think you’d be perfect for our publications office based in North Carolina. Here’s a number you can call to set up an interview.”

Two interviews later found me working a part-time internship at the company until graduation, at which point I transitioned directly into a full-time position in the publications industry. It was a good job with great coworkers, and I enjoyed a healthy salary with great benefits compared to most of my peers directly out of school. The first business trip was to Hawaii, and I decided to keep the job for the foreseeable future.

Over the next five years, I grew and developed within the company into a knowledgeable medical journalist familiar with the workings of a non-profit societies and the endless combat waged between them and the federal government. I visited dozens of cities, mostly in the United States, and after the first three years I was transferred to the larger office in Washington, DC. It was the same job, but in a more exciting city.

Eventually, I decided that medical journalism was not something I was passionate enough about to turn into a long-term career. I liked the company and loved my coworkers, but without the feeling of satisfaction associated with the right kind of job it just wasn’t sustainable. What I really wanted to do was make games, and I saw no reason I couldn’t do just that. After all, somebody gets paid to do that, and I wanted that person to be me.

I love games – all sorts of games – and I have more than a few ideas I’d like to see implemented on a broad scale. In addition, I thought getting involved in the world of game design by creating entertaining diversions for people would allow me to finally feel like my job sort of mattered while being enjoyable to do. It was a win-win proposition.

I was excited at how easily I secured my first interview. The company called me back a day or two after my application and put me through a series of three phone interviews. Satisfied, they flew me out to their Los Angeles office for an in-person interview which lasted 8 hours. It was grueling, but I loved it. Ultimately that opportunity evaporated for a variety of confusing reasons, but being able to get that kind of response with my devoid-of-related-experience resume really boosted my confidence levels. I was going to do this.

That was in December, 2010, and I quit my D.C. job in May, 2011. Subsequent applications have largely gone unanswered, and at this point the desperation of “I require income, from any source” is beginning to set in. I fear I will ultimately wind up taking another job I’m not hugely passionate about to make ends meet, and that the journey toward game design as a career option will once again take a back seat. It’s sobering and frustrating, but I still submit new applications every day and follow up with existing leads in the hope of finally getting my shot.

It’s not that I’m in a particular hurry, but I do feel the crunch of an invisible deadline unrelated to my financial situation. I know that I will eventually be less mobile and less able to move around on a whim. I hope to one day call a place home and live there for more than five years, and maybe maintain some semblance of a family unit while I’m at it. None of that can happen without stable employment, and sooner is better than later for embarking on your dream career anyway.

I see so many people walking around longing for Friday and the weekend, dreading each Monday, and dragging themselves home each day angry, frustrated, drained, and annoyed. Is any amount of money worth that kind of aggravation? Is that really peace of mind?

I’m willing to admit I may be naive on this point, but I truly think it’s possible to do something you love with your life, not just in your spare time. I believe people far too often simply settle for what they already have, dubbing it “good enough” and consoling themselves with the thought that nobody really likes their job.

The world shouldn’t have to be that way. Here’s hoping I can help prove it.

Delusions of Grandeur

“Look at you! With your grizzled little beard and delightful hunchback hobble. I dub thee Yorik the Gravedigger!” – William Jones to his extremely sick roommate.

He’d spent the last five days fighting a fever, wishing above all else that his overhead fan possessed a “blizzard” setting.

Those few lucid moments afforded him through the use of various fever-reducing agents were spent in the living room, propped against a couch and locked in deadly combat with a glass of water and a bowl of oatmeal. Sometimes he won, though far too often the porridge emerged victorious.

These were not proud days.

Our lab deployed specialized probes to capture a glimpse of the disjointed, delusional existence of this unfortunate man locked in the iron grip of an FUO. The bland daylight hours held no interest to us, but the Aurora Borealis sweeping across his evening dreams was truly a marvel to behold.

Due to the dangerous environment into which our probes were deployed, some of these recordings begin and end abruptly. While no prototype survived its mission intact, we recovered enough evidence to declare the project a smashing success fully worthy of additional federal funding.

We invite you to see for yourselves:

Friday’s Dreamscape
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“By GODFRY!” he said, completing a set of bicep curls with a tree limb and reattaching it to its waiting trunk. “I make invincible look GOOD.”

Aaron was standing in the grassy center of a public park, though no signage declared it as such. It was a strange property, surrounded on three sides by the high chain-link fences of tennis courts while the fourth simply stretched into a dark, steamy jungle.

Aaron laughed, wiping bark-stained hands against his gym shorts and walking toward the foliage. It was time to head home.

As he passed through the jungle, his workout raiment shifted into dusty fatigues, pristine Kevlar, and hiking boots which featured an empty sheath. Before long he reached a wall of brambles he could not penetrate, but as he turned to retrace his steps he found the path behind him was similarly sealed.

He frowned at his knife’s sheath, grabbing at it despite its empty appearance. His fumbling fingers found an invisible hilt, and with a jolt he pulled forth an impossibly-large machete which popped into existence in a torrent of smoke and sparks.

“At last, Freedom’s Edge!” he cried, hacking savagely at the plants closing in on every side. Instead of forging a trail through the wilds, however, his motions seemed to draw the perilous jungle ever closer. Vines draped across him, ferns and trees formed a smothering living shroud, and all the while the steamy heat seared the water from his body.

Panting and sweating, he roared with fury and redoubled his efforts, slashing with abandon. Any plant which touched his blade withered, but another always rose to replace it. Sweat blinded Aaron as he worked, streaming from his hair, his hands, his chest, and even the machete, which glistened with sticky syrup from its grim duty.

“I’ll BURN it out of you!” shouted a voice from the wilds. “I WILL have my Jungle Juice!”

With that, the jungle erupted into flames.
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Saturday’s Dreamscape
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“This isn’t good enough,” the businessman sneered, disdainfully shoving a clump of bedding into the young man’s arms. “You must do better. Again.”

“Oh, I will sir!” Aaron said, unable to meet the larger man’s gaze. “Count on it.”

The businessman shrugged, folding his arms silently across his chest.

Aaron clutched the rejected offering tightly, wondering what was wrong with it. It felt like a perfectly fine blanket, warm on the inside yet cool to the touch. He pressed it to his face and shrieked as the coolness instantly flared into unimaginable heat. The man was right; this wasn’t good enough for the President.

Aaron tossed the smoldering bedding aside, adjusted his necktie, and hurried down the narrow hallway. He passed an endless series of wooden doors as he walked, each identical to those before them: tarnished bronze handles, battered mahogany surfaces, and scarred, blackened windows further shrouded by an inner blind.

His dress shoes echoed against the polished marble floors until he stopped at an opening in the hallway – a small nook where a water fountain might belong. In its place was a pull-cord hovering above a plush pillow.

“This’ll be the one for sure,” he whispered.

Glancing over his shoulder in both directions, he yanked on the rope once. Twice. On the third pull, a coil of woven cotton erupted from the pillow, red and shining. Aaron nodded, scooping the offering up and walking to the nearest door. It opened without hesitation into the end of an identical hallway.

As he approached the shadowy businessman leaning against the hallway’s edge, the echoes of his footsteps shouted mocking refrains of “Too hot for the President!” The businessman, for his part, merely extended his hand for the offering.
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Sunday’s Dreamscape
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The beaches of Troy were chaos as soldiers clashed savagely across the battlefield. Though dawn had not yet broken, the field was completely illuminated by the torrents of flame sweeping across the anchored Greek fleet.

“Menelaus!” screamed Aaron, raising a sword toward the battered Spartan king, “you and Agamemnon must DIE!”

“There are no Trojans here!” replied the bearded warrior, glaring at him across the sands. “Only boys who play the games of men.”

“The arrogant must perish,” Aaron countered, charging forward. “The End of Times arrives!”

Menelaus shook his head, laughing, and teleported onto the forward deck of the nearest vessel in a flash of thunder. The fires dimmed as he raised his arms until the smoldering wood merely steamed and hissed. The ruined, twisted planks instantly sprouted thick coats of untarnished wood, and soon it was as if no ship had tasted the kiss of flame.

Aaron sighed in frustration, grabbing for the horn at his belt and blasting a lone note into the wind three times. Menelaus’s maniacal grin transformed into sheer terror as a tremendous volley of flaming arrows cut through the velvet sky, peppering the anchored fleet with blazing tar. Immediately the creaking timbers exploded again into flames, which danced from ship to ship like a swarm of fiery hornets.

Menelaus lept from his perch with a savage curse, pulling his weapon free as Aaron holstered his horn.

The beaches of Troy were chaos as soldiers clashed savagely across the battlefield. Though dawn had not yet broken, the field was completely illuminated by the torrents of flame sweeping across the anchored Greek fleet.

“Menelaus!” screamed Aaron, raising a sword toward the battered Spartan king, “you and Agamemnon must DIE!”

[scene loops endlessly throughout the night]
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Monday’s Dreamscape
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The power of Phoenix is unstoppable. All will burn with unquenchable fire.

Aaron hovered above a shimmering black dome meant to shield its occupants from something. Cosmic energies swirled around the flaming silhouette surrounding his body, obscuring all but his face. Great blasts of flame and heat radiated from his core, warping the surrounding air into colorful mirages. He considered the shield further, putting a finger to his chin and cocking his head to one side. Was it meant to shield them from him?

The notion was preposterous, of course. Phoenix was an inexorable force of nature, immeasurably powerful and fused with limitless endurance. Nothing burned hotter or longer, and in the end no force could withstand the brunt of its advance. Aaron commanded the strength of Phoenix, directed its actions, but he was merely a man. And he needed to know what was beyond that shield.

I shall demolish it, for it cannot suppress my power. I will know.

Aaron directed Phoenix toward the strange dome at his feet, concentrating solar rays infused with cosmic energies into various points at once. The shield shimmered, rippling in a liquid fashion from each impact point; no matter how long he sustained them the strange construct held firm.

Enraged, he changed tactics, now focusing all his efforts upon a single point. Gritting his teeth, he rained blow after staggering blow against his chosen area with pinpoint precision, rapidly hammering with rays of searing light like a jackhammer. The shield rippled like before at first, then slowly the ripples grew more agitated until eventually the black coloring splashed aside entirely to reveal the crystal-clear dome it once covered.

Aaron flew closer, straining to see what lay beneath this new layer, but all he could detect was a simple wooden table upon which stood a tall glass of ice-cold water.

All that effort for a glass of water? he muttered with disappointment. Still, looks refreshing.

He could not figure out how to get inside. There were no hatches, doors, or windows of any kind, so he unleashed further torment upon the structure in the hope of creating one. To his amazement, his savage fires splashed harmlessly against the clear surface while any solar beams passing through the dome’s threshold instantly transformed into harmless rainbows.

He worked for hours, but nothing seemed to matter. Flames scattered, beams refracted, and physical force was withstood. Soon he was demoralized, out of breath, and thoroughly confused, but Phoenix was not ready to give up.

More flames. More power, a voice nudged at his mind. Set loose your anchors.

Energy surged through him, coursing through his veins and filling him with a terrible – no, a wonderful – burning sensation. Bolt after bolt rebounded from the dome as Aaron/Phoenix channeled their full fury against it.

It cannot resist forever, sent the alien mind, sounding pleased.

Aaron laughed in triumph, urging more power into every attack, until he felt a twinge of searing pain race across his back.

I…I’m on fire?

His eyes darted wildly as he watched his clothes explode into flames. He didn’t feel the excruciating agony of burning, but he could feel the warning pulses of warmth which meant he was nearing the limits of his immunity.

We are eternal. We are ever-reborn. We are the Flamebringer.

Wisps of smoke escaped from his hair, and Aaron ended his assault to land frantically next to the dome. It’s too much! I really am burning!

We CANNOT burn!

We have limits! Aaron returned, putting his burning palm upon the dome’s side and gazing longingly at the water within. And needs.

You didn’t need that before you knew it was there, the voice reprimanded.

I knew we needed what lay within, whatever it was, Aaron retorted, a pillar of living flame sheathed by the silhouette of a primal being whose powers he commanded, both uncomfortably aware that they would no sooner have access to that glass than learn to conjure one themselves.

The power of Phoenix is unstoppable. We cannot die from dehydration.

Wonderful, he sighed, watching the flames lick uncomfortably across his skin and moving his dry tongue to taste the dusty pockets of his cheeks. Thus our thirst will never end.
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Tuesday’s Dreamscape
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NULL TRANSMISSION
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It wasn’t until Wednesday morning that things started to feel better; if the cure was in the mysterious dream of Tuesday evening, we may sadly never learn of it.

Aaron, of course, is grateful for his recovery regardless its source and hopes his scattered dreams proved somewhat entertaining.

Crabnarok

Most of my closest friends from college worked for BoUNCe, our campus satire magazine. If you’d expect this venture to yield articulate, well-spoken, eloquent friends, you are either woefully unfamiliar with the genre or horribly misguided; while it’s true we were graphic designers, writers, and comedians, as a collective group we were also gamers, athletes, tricksters, and party people.

Despite our best efforts, many of us found local jobs after school and thus continued hanging out after graduation. The remnant dubbed themselves “The Fiefdom” and took to hosting social activities as if nothing had changed. Instead of classes during the day, we went to work; afterward, the group would reconvene somewhere to eat, drink, and play together.

It was a good life, and I’ll always wonder why the world isn’t designed in a way that allows such things to last forever.

Those days have faded now as esteemed colleagues moved on one by one to pursue better career opportunities, get married, and otherwise dissolve into the world of functional adulthood. Despite these obstacles, each year the Fiefdom reassembles for a week at the beach punctuated with games, drinks, food, and stories. During Beach Week, at least, the gulf of miles separating the Fiefdom’s members is far less vast, and we go above and beyond the call of duty to make the best of the limited time we still have together.

It was decided that this year’s Beach Week would include a crab bake. Andrew volunteered to bring the necessary equipment (“a turkey steamer and gallons of Old Bay”) and worked with Gannon to collect enough blue crabs to feed over a dozen people. The rest of us were content to leave these proceedings in their capable claws until a fateful conversation changed everything.

“Just to clarify,” said Andrew, terminating a call on his cell phone. “We’re going to have almost a hundred crabs. BUSHELS. It’s going to be glorious.”

A polite applause met these words as the group stood on the back porch of the beach house, directly overlooking the ocean, enjoying the breeze and applying sunscreen before heading out for our daily round of competitive Ball.

“They’re going to be alive, right?” Aaron asked, glancing at him.

Andrew nodded. “Of course! The meat isn’t as tasty otherwise.”

“Can we play with them while they wait to be cooked?” said Doug mischievously. “I mean, we’re going to eat them anyway.”

“What would you recommend?”

“CRAB RACES!” interrupted Will, raising a fist into the air. “They will compete for our amusement, and then they will die!”

“That would make them more delicious,” Doug conceded.

Will shook his head, disappointed. “We can do better. There has to be a purpose!”

“Survival of the fittest,” Aaron grinned. “We make the races a tournament…”

“…and we release the winner into the wild!?” exclaimed Will. “YES!”

“That sounds a bit mean, playing with our food like that,” said Sarah.

“Nonsense!” said Will. “It is the right of each creature to compete for its own survival.”

“We’re providing a service, really,” Doug chimed in.

“We’ll divide them into heats,” pondered Chris, running with the idea. “And set the winner of each round aside.”

“And the losers go directly into the pot,” Andrew nodded, laughing along with the rest and steepling his fingers villainously. “Oh yes. This will indeed be glorious.”

The deck was quickly partitioned into a racing area, with plastic wrap being used to cordon off anything bigger than the width of a blue crab. Twin coolers were set aside, one to collect the winner of each race and another to whisk the losers to their fate.

The races themselves were somewhat of a disappointment, as most of the crabs failed to understand the gravity of their situation. Still, winners were declared and eventually a championship was earned in the name of all crabkind. A small ceremony was held for the victor, and with much fanfare it was released into the swirling tides of the ocean to seek its fortune as it chose fit.

“I think that went rather well,” Will said over dinner, cracking into his seventh crab.

Andrew nodded, wiping his hands in futility on a napkin saturated in Old Bay. “The ones who wanted to race were a lot faster than I thought they’d be.”

“All of them had sharper claws than I expected,” said Chris, rubbing at his fingers absently. “Playing with crabs is less safe than I was led to believe.”

“What do you suppose will happen to our champion?” asked Sarah.

“I’m sure it will sire a legion of the world’s finest crabs,” Will said with a faraway look in his eyes. “And one day, when man’s time draws to a close, it will be the very descendants of this noble warrior who will rise up and take to the land as the new ruling race of this planet.”

The conversation lulled for a moment as the voracious group fought to retrieve edible meat from the crabs.

“Perhaps,” said Aaron, crossing his arms over his chest. “Y’know, if he wasn’t immediately eaten by a shark or something.”

“Fickle and fleeting,” Andrew shook his head slowly, “so much for glory.”

The group laughed again before turning to focus upon their endless task. A mound of defeated crabs lay before them, perfectly cooked and expertly seasoned, and as dinner progressed into the late hours of the evening each head turned at least once to glance at the roaring tide behind them and briefly wonder about the one that got away.

Paintball Wizard

The day began, as any other, with the intentional aggravation of his phone’s alarms. Aaron sighed, groping for the piece of plastic currently rattling, bouncing and buzzing across his nightstand.

Must it be morning already?

He silenced the device, switching the screen to a more useful display as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Sunday. 9:30. he read, furrowing his brow. Why did I set that alarm?

He was still sitting there five minutes later, separating dreams from reality and stretching, when a commotion in the room across the hall jogged his memory.

Right! The surprise!

Unbeknownst to Will, his girlfriend had been plotting behind his back for his birthday. This was not to be a basic food and booze sort of surprise party, but rather an elaborate setup which would culminate forty miles from home in the dusty deserts of southern California. His friends had been summoned, and they heeded her siren song en masse. Today was to be the Day of Reckoning.

Today, they were to play paintball.

The plan was elegant in its simplicity: Meg would spend Saturday night at the house with Will, and in the morning she would ask him to drive her home and have breakfast at her place. While he was gone, the other three roomies would rush to the paintball course to organize the rest of the group into something resembling a welcoming party. Meg would then drive Will to an undisclosed location for a “special surprise”, a journey which would culminate with a rousing chorus of shouts, a shocked and delighted William Jones, and, eventually, paint-infused slaughter and destruction.

Phase 1 of the plan went off without a hitch, with the roomies assembling for battle within minutes of Meg ushering a still-oblivious Will from the house. Most of the others had already arrived by the time Ivan, Annie, and Aaron slipped into the paintball center’s parking lot, the bulk of whom were applying sunscreen in their ongoing (if futile) war against the unforgiving intensity of the sun.

Tony was the first to notice their approach, raising a hand in greeting and pointing to the rest of the group.

“We’re ready!” he said with a wide smile, tying a blue bandanna over his head. “What happens next?”

“We’re supposed to group up at the entrance to surprise him,” Aaron said, looking around the dusty parking lot for anything resembling a headquarters building.

Ivan followed his gaze, confused. “There isn’t really an entrance to this place. Just a bunch of fields and courses.”

“What about the turn into the parking lot?” Tony suggested. “It’s big enough for all of us.”

Other ideas were tossed out, but as none were better than Tony’s the group headed toward the entrance seeking a good place to hide until Meg’s car passed by. The view of the road was partially obscured by the facility’s signage, which provided ample cover for most, while the handful who remained hid behind the blocky bulk of an Element parked against the side of the street.

Presently the outline of a silver Accord shimmered into sight, and a tense hush fell over the normally-talkative group. Tony motioned with his fingers from his crouched position behind the Element’s bumper, silently counting down the seconds. 3. 2. 1.

“SURPRISE!”

The look on Meg’s face as she realized the dozen-odd people jumping at her slowing vehicle were actually “part of the plan” was surpassed only by the absolute shock etched across Will’s entire countenance. This confusion was short-lived, and the visage of joy which spread across Will’s face as he realized not only that paintball was about to happen, but that it would involve 15 of his closest friends, is the very definition of happiness.

As Will got out the car to embrace his sudden companions, Aaron jumped into the passenger seat to accompany Meg to their area of the parking lot.

“So, did that go as well as I think it did?” she asked, glancing at her mirrors to watch her boyfriend dissolve in a sea of high fives and hugs.

“Yeah, Meg,” Aaron laughed, pointing toward the group behind them. “I think it’s safe to say you got him.”

“Great!” she said, miming a gun with her hand. “And soon I can get him again!”

She winked, parking the car, and the two walked back toward the group eager for the day’s coming chaos.

The Playbook

The gentle sunlight streaming through the open blinds played across his face, awakening him with the warmth of its caress.

Wha…where am I? Aaron thought, glancing around the studiously tidy living room in which he found himself.

The furniture was sleek and modern, with muted colors meshed with glass and brushed steel. The room itself featured a television on its stand, proudly boasting a bright red Wii underneath it, along with a coffee table, a small bookshelf, and a large couch. An enormous clock on the far side of the wall showed 10:30, several hours later than his projected departure.

He sighed, stretching slightly and rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he balanced on the cushioned air mattress which served as his bed last night. There was no point in rushing now.

Draped gracelessly across the couch, half concealed by a sagging comforter valiantly struggling against gravity’s iron grip, lay Will. Though his eyes were closed, his slumber did not seem deep. He would soon awaken, and at that point it would be time to continue their journey.

The two were currently crashing in Atlanta, their first stop on their way across the country, at an old college friend of Aaron’s named KT. What began as a normal night had become an evening characterized by beers, exploration, and inebriated chess, and the three hadn’t returned to her home to sleep until well past 4am.

A good night Aaron smiled to himself. He gave the bookshelf a cursory glance as he folded his sheets and stopped short, for one of the titles had caught his eye.

The Fabulous Girl’s Guide to Decorum

Unable to resist at least a glance at the secrets which lay within, Aaron carefully pulled the book from its place and flipped it open to a random page.

When is it appropriate to sleep with your boss?

Aaron paused, eyes widening slightly. There’s a whole chapter on this?!

Further research found similar chapters throughout the book, including important topics such as:

• When to sleep with a new hire?
• What’s an appropriate level of sexual tension?
• How do you let a guy you work with down easy?
• When do you let a guy you work with down hard?
• How do you ask for a raise or a promotion?
• What do you wear, and when, and why?

The book’s advice seemed accurate enough, at least from Aaron’s unique vantage point of being in no way the intended audience, but the subject matter varied so widely that it was hard to get a good bead on things. It also wasn’t clear if the book was recommending a certain course of action or merely explaining how a Fabulous Girl would handle the situation.

“What’ve you got there?”

The quiet voice penetrated the morning silence like a jackhammer. Aaron, startled, whirled to find Will sitting up on the couch, squinting at the book in his hands.

“Dude,” he said, folding it closed. “It’s a book advising professional women on how to behave.”

“Really?” Will asked. “That sounds boring.”

“You’d think that, but you’d be wrong. It’s got tips on when to sleep with your boss…”

“Gimme. Now.”

Will’s outstretched hand snaked out, and Aaron relinquished the book with a shrug. A few moments ticked by as he skimmed, a smile creeping across his features after each turn of the page.

“You know what you found?” he asked, handing it back.

“An interesting read?” Aaron ventured, shelving the book in its original location.

Will shook his head. “You’re thinking too small.”

“Oh?” Aaron chuckled softly. “What would you call it?”

Will smiled and spread his hands apart. “I’d call it was it is. The playbook.”

Carmageddon 2011

Last weekend, the Los Angeles area braced itself for what was to be a traffic problem of unimaginable proportions.

The situation was this: the 405, a major highway and the lifeline of the region, was to be shut down across all lanes for the duration of the weekend. Judging by the reaction, you’d think the government had imposed martial law across the area (local opinion ventured that such a thing may even be preferable).

The closest comparison I can make for those on the east coast would be to think about what closing 95, 395, 495, and 66 would do to the DC area. You’d expect Arlington Blvd, Lee Hwy, and US 1 to be slammed even more than usual during such a time, and the same is true of their parallels here in LA as people fled the city in droves fearing the inevitable surge of traffic clogging already-impassible minor streets.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Will said sternly the night before the world was to end. “We will not be leaving this house. Buy all the food you’ll need for the weekend now, because we’re going into lockdown mode.”

Our third housemate reiterated this point, saying only a hero or a fool would dare venture onto the city streets after the roads closed Friday night, and the fourth housemate went so far as to flee to San Diego until conditions improved.

Truly, this was serious business.

I awoke the morning of Carmageddon at a reasonable hour, sleepily checking my phone for missed messages before stumbling into the living room. After a poorly constructed breakfast parfait, I decided it might be fun to check out how the streets were faring. Steeling myself for the worst, I ventured into the bright morning sunlight and headed toward the driveway, just a stone’s throw from the usually busy Sunset Blvd.

The first thing I noticed was the absence of any vehicles in our driveway save mine. Ivan’s car was gone, as was expected since he had gone to San Diego, but Will’s car was missing too, as were Annie’s and Josh’s. So much for lockdown mode.

I shrugged and walked to the end of the driveway. If my roomies wanted to spend their day stuck in the traffic quagmire this weekend, that was their business.

I had barely finished the thought before noticing another oddity: there were no cars parked on our street. While our road is by no means generally crowded, it’s certainly never empty either. Except for today.

Where are all the cars? I thought, frowning and looking at my dusty Focus sitting patiently in the driveway. Did I miss something?

Resolving to worry about it later, I finally got a look at Sunset Blvd and stopped short. It was deserted.

Now, Sunset Blvd runs parallel to Hollywood and Santa Monica and several other well-known routes, and intersects important crossroads like La Brea and the various highways lacing the region. It’s generally a crowded place even during times you’d expect people to be asleep or at work, and during rush hour it can get truly unpleasant. To see no cars on this road at 10am on a weekend was akin to seeing no cars on 95 during Independence Day.

I was amazed.

I walked back inside wondering whether my roomies had been playing a joke on me, but Google quickly confirmed the widespread belief that this weekend would drown our part of the world with cars. Puzzled, I went about the weekend as normal, driving freely. With no cars on the road, I made record time and had no trouble at all finding parking. No horns blared impatiently at pedestrians or bicycles, and I always had the light. This is how driving ought to be.

On Sunday, with everyone reconvened, we had a short house meeting about how the weekend had gone and what Carmageddon had been like. Everyone had the same experiences, and we concluded that Carmageddon had been a truly pleasant event.

“Half the city left town,” Will said around a mouthful of hummus. “It was amazing.”

“It seemed like it,” I replied. “Maybe half the city should just stay gone.”

Annie nodded. “We can all take turns, one week on, one week off.”

We were quiet for a moment, contemplating such a system amid the ambient crunching of celery sticks and naan.

“It’s too bad that’d be impossible to implement,” I said, reaching for a carrot. “It might actually work.”