June 2021 – Back Desk

The Trailers

Escape Room Tournament of Champions — I didn’t even know Escape Room was a franchise film, but apparently there are enough of them to have a tournament of champions? Well, can’t be any better or worse than the Saw chapters.

Old (An M. Knight Shymalanmalan film) — I know I’m gonna see it. And I know I’m gonna be mad at the end. I know this. We all know this, because it’s motherfuckin M. Knight Shastamanana. But I’m gonna see it anyway. And you know what, I’m not even mad at Mr Knight because it’s not his fault that we get so hyped up over his movies. It’s those magical movie trailer editors! They’re like gods of negative film. I bet working on an M. Knight Shyymilimi trailer is akin to winning Best Picture at the Academy Awards. And hot damn, do they deliver every time! Too bad M. Knight Sucksalot can’t do the same.

Top Gun Maverick — Really, Tom? What? Couldn’t find a studio to blow millions of dollars producing another high-octane, high-explosive Mission Impossible film? Are fighter planes even cool anymore? Nobody is dog-fighting in the sky these days. You’re essentially teaching a class of future cargo plane and commercial pilots. Modern war is all guided rockets and cyber-terrorism. This is dumb. Why? Why did we make this movie?

Snake Eyes: GI Joe Origins — Yes! Give me more, Harsbro! Give me all the G.I. Joe flicks you can shake a Roadblock-weapon at! I don’t know why this franchise is having such a hard time getting off the ground. It’s been 12 years and this is only the third film. Fast and Furious was on their 4th film when Rise of Cobra was released. Their lead actor made four more films and then died before this massive toy company with literally nothing better to do could churn out two more scripts based on already-made content?! C’mon, Hasbro. We’re not going for an Oscar nod here. Just give us some steroided, stereotyped, uniformed badasses and blow some shit up. It’s not that complicated!

The fliQ

I’m not a huge fan of the modern day horror genre. That’s not to suggest that I don’t like scary movies; merely expressing a disappointment in what passes for horror since…oh, the 90s. I recognize that part of my bias comes from growing up. I simply don’t scare as easily as I did when I was a child; but as my asshole big brother and sister will attest, I suffered from an overactive dark imagination which was easy prey for horror films. It was a serious liability growing up in a home where every member of the family from the parents on down were Friday-Nightmare junkies. Freddy and Jason haunted my dreams but through sibling shenanigans, Chuckie hunted me while I was awake… I wonder whatever happened to those “My Buddy” dolls? Hasbro had a good idea there trying to make dolls appeal to boys. Then here comes that little demented psychopath plush puppet to fuck everything up. There’s no way that toy franchise could have survived the release of Child’s Play. I know mine didn’t. RIP motherfucker!

Chuckie wasn’t really after that little boy in *Child’s Play*. His real victim was the Gender Neutral Doll Revolution. Sadly, boys will never play with dolls again. Thank God *Toy Story* saved action figures for us or else…no, perish the thought!

So I’m not a huge fan of horror movies, but I like John Krasinski. I mean, who doesn’t? If you ever watched The Office, then you love John Krasinski. So much so that you will support him in any future endeavor, which, honestly, is the only reason I ever watched the first film, A Quiet Place. Needless to say, when he died in the original, I was ready to throw up my hands and throw in the towels on horror movies all over again! WTF, John?! You get me here just to break my heart?! Really? Fuckin rude.

Thankfully, he redeemed himself with a nice, long, bearded cameo in the opening the scene of the first movie which is, get this, Day 1 of…the creature attack that they never specifically labeled in the first film. So we finally get some answers as to where the hell these things came from, and if you’re like me, that question was in the back of your mind the entire feature length of part one. While I thank Mr Krasinski for both this reveal and his adorable daddy cameo, this actually brings me to first gripe about the film. Don’t worry, there are only two gripes, and they are both minor. All in all, I enjoyed the sequel almost on par with the original. Combined, the two make for a good story, except for this one incongruity with the opening scene.

If you’ll remember at the end of the first movie, mother and daughter had just slain the first Slasher. That’s what I’m calling them because, again, I don’t think they were ever labeled in the first one. Well all the raucous from all that slaying somehow managed to call all the slashers in the vicinity to their location, post-haste. The film ended with the badass look of determination on that cherubic young girl’s face as she wielded her sonic amplifier machine and all the slashers were closing quickly on the cameras outside. The assumption being they were either going to be violently ripped apart in seconds or miraculously conquer these hitherto unassailable, yet surprisingly pretty basic creatures.

Well, naturally, when you get a cliffhanger ending like that and the box office is big enough to produce a sequel, one expects to pick up exactly where you left off. OR, at the very least, jump ahead in time so that our assumption of a miraculous victory can be left to our own imaginations… Well, John discovered a third option in story-telling: forget your previous ending entirely, then write a new one after the misdirection of your long-bearded cameo flashback. The film did in fact pick up exactly where the first one left off; it just completely ignored the fact that there were murderous humanoid knife creatures approaching our protagonists. Instead, when they emerged from the basement mere minutes after double-tapping that toothy razor freak–all was calm, clear and quiet. I can forgive the incongruity, but only because you gave me that cameo, you handsome devil!

My second and final gripe came at the end, and it’s really quite minor, but it kinda plays into my disappointment with modern day horror movies. I like a little ham in my scary movies, it lightens the mood a little so you don’t spiral completely into debilitating fear. But there is a difference between “ham” and bad writing/directing/acting. [small spoiler alert]

At the denouement of the film, our adorable deaf heroine (who seems to be considerably less “deaf” in this movie #sideeye #slightjudgment) makes a grandiose, quite-protracted display of incapacitating the creature as it stalks towards her. At the same time, in a parallel sequence, the hitherto whiney, wimpy brother makes a similarly slow stalk towards his now-prey. The girl’s hammy acting was quite adorable, but given the life-or-death circumstances which she found herself in, it was also unrealistic, uncharacteristic, and thus, unbelievable. Furthermore, and this is really the bigger point, it was quite literally the only moment of exaggerated acting in the whole film, which caught me completely off guard and disconnected me from the entire climax.

I suppose that’s a pretty big #fail but again, I can forgive it because of the extended Djimon Hounsou cameo that they gave us just a few scenes prior. You da man, John. You da man. So all in all, A Quite Place Part 2 is definitely worth a look-see if for nothing else than a little closure on a oringal, nuanced tale of horror.

I don’t know the rule behind Father’s Day. I remember it as some Sunday around my sister’s birthday. It held some significance for me while my Old Man was alive, but for the past 17 years, it’s mostly been a day of shame and frustration that I hope to survive unnoticed. Ashamed, because of how I became a father. Frustrated that makes me an unqualified dad. Ashamed, because for years I allowed someone else to dictate the terms of my love and relationship with my daughter because it was easier than doing it myself. Frustrated that I may be emotionally inept. Ashamed, because I chose to be willfully ignorant rather than actively involved in my Kid’s fist decade. Frustrated that history has built a wall around my daughter’s heart and life. Ashamed, because I feel like I am never doing enough to make it right. Frustrated that I can’t find the words or a way to communicate with my Kid. The shame continues to compound on itself, making it nearly inescapable. I must journey to the depths of humility–damn close to insecurity–just to escape it. So if you ever want to talk to Q in his most humble form, just hit me up mid-June. #realtalk

It’s difficult to hide from common courtesy, however, so inevitably someone(s) will wish me a “Happy Father’s Day” on that Sunday around my sister’s birthday. I accept, but each one is like a knife in the heart that’s custom engraved in calligraphic text with the question that haunts my existence: “How can you call yourself a father, Q?”. I honestly don’t know the answer to that question, nor to my follow-up rhetorical of “What is a father?”. And 364 days out of the year, I can whinge over my crisis in relative solitude because, well, quite frankly, no one thinks about men as “fathers first”–and maybe that’s part of the problem–except on that one Sunday around my sister’s birthday…

Fortunately, as many of my friends and loved ones have become parents themselves, the courtesies extended my way have declined over the years. In fact, this year, I only received seven knives which was down significantly compared to the past two years when my Kid lived with me, and the four prior since I moved to Houston. I am thankful for that, preferring to avoid death by a thousand existential cuts; however, the silence reminds me that said day of celebration is also an intimate, immediate-family-affair, and in that, I am both lacking and lonely. On the bright side, although a couple hurt like Tessaiga knives, most of the courtesies were Tenseiga blades offering healing cuts to life. [That’s an Inuyasha reference for any light anime nerds like myself.] So this year my penance was paid in Seven Cuts, and as the Bowery King once said, “Well, sometimes you gotta cut a motherfucker.”

from my best friend-cousin with whom I share all dad woes
from my boss right before he asked me to work a double-shift of 17 long hours, which I happily obliged because it saved me from going home to be alone with my thoughts
from my sister
from the Chief–an old hometown friend who’s also the sweetest, most thoughtful person in the world that literally texts me on EVERY major holiday
from Mama Berr–one of my adopted moms who just loves the shit out of me for no good reason
from the Kid
from the Kid’s mom

Now, the last two are perhaps the only two that are to be expected; however, they are also the only two that I was both surprised and dreading to receive. They felt more like swords than knives, custom engraved in wingding font with ever-changing, unfathomable, unanswerable questions. I don’t understand the courtesy in this act of delivering these three simple words on this arbitrary Sunday; especially considering that discourtesy and avoidance is the norm practically every other day of the year. For all intents and purposes, I am (or I feel) actively rejected as/from the role of father by both parties. Therefore, I don’t understand the point or purpose in acknowledging me simply because of some commercial holiday. Is it out of respect? Is that what I am supposed to feel–respected? Because I don’t. I feel ashamed and deeply hurt that a “happy father’s day” text–ostensibly the bare minimum–is all that I’m worth. Is it out of obligation? That seems absurd. What obliges you to me? Certainly not DNA nor any obvious affection. There are no monies or favors beings exchanged. Our lives are wholly separate and unentwined, by their own design. So why the charade? Questions without answers. But before I spiral into madness, I have to ask myself, how would I feel if I received no text at all? And that question, I can actually answer.

I would feel relieved of hope. If you or a loved one has ever received a terminal diagnosis, then perhaps you can understand what that feeling is like. Hope is powerful. Hope is uplifting. Hope is fragile. Hope is dangerous. It raises a veil between expectations and reality, preventing true acceptance of a circumstance or situation. Acceptance is only obtainable after being relieved of hope. I cannot accept this distance, strain and separation between my daughter and me because I still have hope that she loves me. To lose that hope would be an irreparable heartbreak, but it would also open the path to closure–a path that I do not have the strength to trek. So every year I hide my shame, wallow in worry and hold onto the hope that I am still–ostensibly–worth the bare minimum.

My next Father’s Day is on some random Sunday in mid-September. I hope to feel the Winds of Change by then instead of a Windscar, but if it’s gonna be the latter, I hope she slays the thousand demons I carry with me like Naraku… That’s another Inuyasha reference. #sitboy