SOME THOUGHTS ON CHUCK

 

What can I say about this amazing show that hasn't been said before? You all know the formula. Nerdy dude develops a superpower (in this case, the Intersect) and becomes a spy and falls for his CIA handler and she falls for him and they become a team of . . . okay, maybe the formula was on when I started this sentence, but it's kind of gotten away from me.

Chuck works for the Nerd Herd at the Burbank Buy More (meaning, Geek Squad at Best Buy). One day a former college friend/enemy, who has become a spy, sends him something called the Intersect. It's a classified database containing all the information any branch of the government has on anything up to that moment. It also allows him access to training, letting him become a deadly weapon just so long as he "flashes" on the information. This guy is played by the loveable Zachary Levi.

He finds himself trapped between Sarah Walker (Yvonne Strahovski), a CIA spy, and John Casey (Adam Baldwin), an NSA spy. The funny thing is, these aren't even their real names. They are also both assassins. They get assigned to Chuck's case and to protecting the Intersect. Sarah's cover is that she's Chuck's girlfriend. Casey's cover is . . . poor bastard . . . a sales associate at Buy More. Straddling both worlds is Morgan, Chuck's best friend since childhood and a fellow Buy More employee.

The supporting cast is made up of their boss, the general, and several coworkers at Buy More: Big Mike, the boss, and two shady perverts by the names of Jeff and Lester. The last two have a delightful band called Jeffster, and I was very pleased to see they have a song in the series finale. There is also Chuck's sister Ellie and her boyfriend Awesome. Er, Devon. Ellie is a doctor and Awesome is a surgeon.

Naturally there is a will-they-won't-they thing going on between Chuck and Sarah. I don't think it's a spoiler to say that it's a will-they situation. To me, that's the most boring part because it's the most predictable. How many times have I seen this? I will admit, though, this part was done well. What I truly enjoyed was the transformation of John Casey. When we first meet him he's a cold blooded assassin, and he's been ordered to kill Chuck if it seems like he's off the beam or he's in danger of falling into enemy hands. Over the course of the first season, Casey comes to actually like Chuck, which is weird for him. He doesn't make many friends outside the Marine Corps. When he's actually ordered to kill Chuck, he hesitates. But he will still do it. He clearly doesn't want to, but his loyalty is to his country. God, country, Marine Corps. In that order. He's even got a rotating target in his apartment! First it's Osama bin Laden, which he promptly shoots, and then there's Ronald Reagan, and he doesn't! He salutes!

Thankfully the kill order is rescinded, and we get to watch him change over five seasons until the point where he actually feels love again.

The show has the best guest stars. From Mark Hamill to Richard Chamberlain to Kevin Daniels to . . . I could go on forever. My favorite might be Bo Derek because she actually gets to play herself.

But there are two things in particular that stand out for me. The first is that Chuck has this brilliant way of using people's words against them in adverse conditions. My favorite is when Brandon Routh's character explains his evil plan and ends it with a stoic "mwuh-ha-ha." Just a throw away comment. Later, when Chuck has Routh's character by the short and curlies, he ends his execution of the plan by offering an equally stoic "Mwuh-ha-ha." I love those moments.

But I love this even more: no matter how small the detail, it will always be important later in the episode. It's the pistol on the mantel times a thousand. But even better than that, there are two instances where the writers played the long game (or, at least, two instances I'm aware of). In the first episode it is established that everyone calls Devon "Awesome." In the very last episode it becomes very important because a character who should know better (who has actually been brainwashed) calls him Devon instead, therefore revealing this person to be the enemy. And in another instance two characters carve their names into the wall of a house they want to own. Fast forward maybe a season or two, and that very carving is used to try to undo the brainwashing I just mentioned.

And then there's the ending. I'd rather not say much about it, as it is definitely a spoiler, but it wasn't happily-ever. Close, but not quite. I can never really trust an entirely happy ending.

In short, if you haven't seen it, watch Chuck. It's fucking incredible.

PS: If you're not going to watch the show, at least enjoy these Jeffster songs. That wedding scene is one of the best put to film ever.

PPS: There has been some talk--not much, I'll grant you--of a Quantum Leap reboot. If it happens, only Levi could play Sam Beckett. Not just because Scott Bakula plays Chuck's dad. Levi and Bakula have the same kind of charisma and an ability to at least look great while doing fight scenes. Plus Chuck had to be different people a lot, just like Sam. It's a perfect match, and it's the only way I'd watch such a reboot.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #337: HOW I WOUND UP IN A CAR WRECK

 The thing that sucked the most about getting into that car wreck? I had no intention of going out that day. I had dedicated myself to staying in and reading and writing instead. But I'd had a great job interview, and I thought I'd go out and celebrate before winter got too bad for reading at forest preserves. That's the part I regret the most. I really should have stayed home, and every fiber of my being said to stay home. But I ignored it and wanted to read outside before the snows came.

I was reluctant to post about this at first because it was a work in progress. The check cleared, though, and I went shopping for a car twice. The first time I failed because I hadn't gotten the payment yet. Despite the fact that I had a generous down payment--in cash--no one wanted to sell to me. I'm unemployed, and I just declared bankruptcy. I was persona non grata everywhere I went. The second time, when I intended to pay the full price right then and there, I didn't realize that it was Sunday. That's what happens when you're unemployed during the plague. You never really know for sure what day it is.

I should have a new car tomorrow, though, so I feel good about telling the story now.

I was headed south on York around Roosevelt, near the hospital. It was 40 mph, and it was about to go to 45, so I started speeding up. And then I did something stupid. I saw a guy running around in the opposite two lanes like a maniac. I thought for sure this guy was going to get hit by a car. I took my eyes from the road for a moment too long. I thought he'd gotten out of the car he had just run behind.

And then I looked forward and saw that he'd done something stupid, too. His car was on my side of the road, parked in the middle. I had enough time to stomp my brakes. I had enough time to look to my right to see if I could swerve out of the way. I couldn't. There were cars over there. I looked forward just in time to realize I was royally fucked.

And then boom. I hit the back of his car. The airbag exploded from my steering wheel and punched me in the face. Make no mistake, the airbag is not pleasant. They make it look easy in movies, but it's not. I haven't been punched in the face for a long time, and it felt exactly like this. I remember thinking in an irrational moment, hey, at least in my old age I know I can still take a wallop to the face. Then I thought, holy shit, are my glasses OK? The way it hit, my glasses should have been broken. Nope. I lucked out. My next thought was, I felt something moving in my mouth. Did this fucking thing knock my teeth out? I felt around, and no. Again, I lucked out. It was a piece of sandwich that had lodged under one of my tooth implants.

And then the horrifying idea hit me. What if this guy had his family in his car? Holy fuck, did I kill someone? Did I hurt someone? It twisted my guts up.

And no. I know what you're thinking. I was not drunk when this happened. It was daytime, and I was sober. My hangover had already ended just before that job interview. I was in my right mind. I just looked away from the road for a moment too long.

I got out of the car and saw the guy looking at the back of his own. I couldn't walk straight because my body shook too much. My hands trembled badly, and I'm pretty sure I was in shock at the time. He started complaining that he'd had the blinkers on, so why didn't I see them? Well, I did. About seven seconds too late. But in the middle of it, I think he realized that he should have parked on the shoulder. I then remembered I didn't have my mask on, so I went back to get it. He also took his own from his pocket.

The reason he'd done what he did was because he discovered that his rear license plate had fallen off into the other lane, so he'd pulled over to get it. He did get it, by the way.

We inquired about each other, and we were both fine. The only damage had been to our cars. I didn't know if we had to call 911 for that, and he didn't, either. I realized that, as I am a middle-aged man, and this dude couldn't possibly be 30 yet, I had to be the adult. I called 911, and they said if our cars still worked, and no one was hurt, we'd have to go to the closest police station to report the incident. Elmhurst was the closest, so I told him to follow me.

Only as we made the U-turn, and I made sure he was in my rearview, I realized that as unpleasant as the airbag had been, it would have been so much more worse without it. Considering the force with which I hit this car, I am certain my head would have broken against the steering wheel. I might not even be writing this right now without that airbag. Honda Civics. I recommend them. Tomorrow I hope to get another one as close to 2012 as possible without paying more than $8K.

We parked at the Elmhurst PD, and we took pictures of our cars. We went in and made the report. And naturally the system was down. We couldn't get official paperwork, which our insurance companies absolutely needed. Instead we got cards with our manually produced case number on it. We went back to our cars, and he was cool about it. Obviously it sucked, but what else could we do? He and I knew we'd both done something stupid, and we were fine with the insurance companies duking it out.

I made my report to my insurance. He was lucky enough to still be able to drive away, but my car stalled when I tried to start it again.

I should mention that the power on my cell phone was running low. And I have no problem with the insurance asking the same question in as many ways as possible before accepting the truth, but it was aggravating because I knew my phone could very well die. I lucked out with the tow. Usually it takes at least an hour for a tow truck to show up. For some reason they always send it from deep in Cook County. This one showed up earlier than expected. It took twenty minutes. Nice.

But the insurance company told me that a car rental would come by and pick me up to get my temporary replacement. Now, they had a location on the north side of Elmhurst that should have taken ten minutes, tops. I figured, maybe it was a busy day. Then, when I approached the forty-five minute mark, I started thinking I'd been abandoned. I called my insurance, and they said that the company has temporarily suspended this policy due to the plague. So no one was picking me up? Nope. And anyway, they'd contacted the company's location in Lisle, where they'd towed my car. The problem? Lisle is maybe forty-five minutes away. I freaked out and demanded some help from the Elmhurst location. No dice. My phone had 3% left.

I went back into the PD. They didn't have a phone I could use, but they lent me a charger and invited me to search around the lobby for a wall outlet. I found one next to the unneeded prescription drop off box, which meant I had to sit on the floor. The charger fit kinda-sorta, so I had to hold it in while I tried to figure out what the fuck to do. Imagine me. A very tall, very big dude with long hair and a huge beard, dressed in a black trench coat, sitting on the floor of the PD lobby while frantically trying to call for help. I'm surprised I wasn't arrested.

I finally got confirmation from my insurance that the rental company in Elmhurst had a car for me. I just had to figure out a way to get there. Thankfully I had the Lyft app on my phone, and I'd gotten enough juice to use it to get a ride. They dropped me off, and just as I got my car, my phone died.

I got home, and only then did I realize that I hadn't escaped the car wreck completely unscathed. I had a small cut on my forehead, and I'd been apparently bleeding the whole time. Not much. Just enough to look weird.

The next day I also discovered that my chest ached pretty badly where the seatbelt had restrained me. I wondered for a bit if I'd broken my sternum or a rib or two. I used Icyhot on it, which helped. Which also implied it wasn't a bone deep hurt. Just skin deep.

When I got the news that my car was completely totaled, it was horrible. I loved that fucking car. It was all paid up, and it was a gorgeous ride. It was the only new car I'd ever bought in my life. I'm going to miss it.

I hope someone has a 2012 Honda Civic that's only eight grand. That would be pretty sweet. And an XM radio would help. I guess I'll find out tomorrow.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #336: A MAN OF MY WORD

 When you make a promise, it's important to keep it as best you can. I consider myself a man of my word. I've mentioned before how important integrity is to me. So I'm going to give you two examples.

One of the biggest rules about dining out is that you don't hit on the servers. You may have read about the Cris Zim adventures. They guy who I based that on constantly hit on servers (and, from what I've been told, strippers). When I was a young man (back when cavemen were still fighting wooly mammoths with spears) I promised myself I would not make a server's life worse by hitting on her.

And then came the time that a bunch of coworkers and I were playing truth or dare at a bar. You can't always choose truth. That's bullshit. So I took the dare from a guy who thought I was spineless. He dared me to ask our waitress for her number. It went against all of my principles, but I had to do it. He grinned like a fucking lunatic because he thought I lacked the social grace to ask someone out. So she came to our table. She handed out our drinks. And then I said, as politely as I could, "Hey, can I have your number?"

Of course she said no. And I accepted that with as much grace as possible, and I tried to make her feel as safe as possible. And that motherfucker had to eat some crow, which made me happy. He admitted that he thought I had no guts, but I'd proved him wrong. This guy? Getting him to admit that he was wrong was like pulling a tooth. From a lion's mouth. When it's wide awake and hungry. AND I GOT HIM TO SAY IT IN FRONT OF WITNESSES.

Fast forward a few years. My word was under doubt. I bet a guy that I worked with at my previous job, and I won't say what because he also worked at the job before that job with me, and that narrows it down a lot. Suffice it to say, I lost this bet. He won with flying colors, and I thought it was because he had inside knowledge.

So it was his last day at the job I worked. It was nearing his quitting time, and I'd been giving him, more or less, the silent treatment because I thought he'd cheated. So as his shift came to a close he came by my desk. "Bruni," he said, "I'm shocked. I never thought you'd shirk a bet."

I didn't. I had his prize in my locker. We'd bet a bottle of Jack Daniel's on this. I despise Jack Daniel's because they lowered their proof from 86 to 80 quietly, and when they got called on it, they said, "Fuck you guys. What do you know about whiskey?"

Fuck you. We're your customers. I swore to never buy a bottle of JD ever again. But I felt so firmly in my belief that I was willing to bet on it.

And I lost. Even when I bought that bottle, my usual booze merchant said, "Are you sure about this?" I said, yeah, I lost a bet.

So when my coworker/friend accused me of shirking my bet, I got a little angry. But I played it cool, I think. I turned to my locker drawer and unlocked it. I took the fifth out, and I held it out to him. For a moment. Then I dragged it back. "I shouldn't give this to you," I said. "I think you lied or cheated or had previous knowledge." Which I am certain of, to this day. But I lost. So . . . "But here." I gave him the bottle of Jack Daniel's.

I have to give him credit. He never rubbed my face in it. He very well could have, but he didn't. And he shared. By the time he left the office, we'd all had more than our share.

Don't even bring up Crank 2: High Voltage with me. That's another bet I lost. To be fair, it didn't hurt as much, at least when I saw that Lloyd Kaufman was involved.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #335: HONESTY IN POLITICS

 So I just finished Gore Vidal's 1876, and it is yet another reminder that our political system has been fucked since day one. I have done some preliminary research, and so far as I can tell he is being his usual dedicated self to American history. I haven't dug deep yet. I suspect I will soon. But tonight isn't really about that.

Tonight is about honesty in politics.

Some of you may remember George Carlin's bit about how full of shit our system is. So much so that if you were to remove that shit, the system would fall apart. I wholeheartedly agree with this assessment.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Anyone who wants to be a federal politician can't be trusted. The job is shit. There is very little pay for a shit-ton of responsibility. The only perk is power and, as a result, graft. These people are not to be trusted. And there is no solution because humanity isn't altruistic. Ever.

Cynical? You bet. If Paul wasn't my middle name, I'd wager it would be "cynicism." But cynics aren't just assholes. Well, I am. I can't speak for others. But I know this much: if I wasn't paying attention, I probably wouldn't be so cynical.

So tonight will be a personal lesson passed on to anyone who cares to read this. Granted, I didn't learn this lesson under the best of circumstances. It was during a US Government class in high school. The teacher, who had a very unfortunate name that I won't repeat here, was also a girls swim instructor. Aaaaaand he got busted fucking one of his students. Aaaaaand she got pregnant. But hey, he still had his job. It's like, I don't know, no one cared? Regardless, this is what I learned from his lesson.

He decided to hold a fake election. He broke up the class into three groups and said each group had to pick one of us to run for president. The other groups swiftly made their decision. I don't remember what my group did, but since I've always been a volunteer, I suspect that after some back and forth I suggested myself and no one objected. Here's the thing, though. I demanded that we run an honest election. I wanted to be the guy who won without lying. Even then I despised bullshit politicians.

I won't go into what my opponents did. They weren't even close to honest. They lied, cheated and stole, quite literally. There is no hyperbole involved in this. I liked them as people, but as soon as they turned into "politicians," they played so dirty that if I were their parents I would have grounded them.

I believe in integrity. I may be an asshole and a dipshit and a fuckface, but I believe in being truthful and honest, warts and all. I made campaign promises that, if it were an actual election, I would have fought to fulfill. If you have no integrity, there is no reason for people to trust and love you. At least, in theory.

I got my ass handed to me. When voting happened, I came up dead last. Because Carlin is right. No one wants honesty in politics. Ask Samuel Tilden from 1876. He fought for honesty in politics, and while he may have won the popular vote, he got fucked during the electoral process. BECAUSE THERE IS NO HONESTY IN POLITICS.

That was a hard lesson to learn. I spent a good long time thinking about that one. That, I think, was the moment I realized that there was no hope for American politics. We won't have an idealist that will save the day. No saving grace. Nothing.

Most Americans are like Ellsworth in Deadwood: "Goddammit, Swearengen. I don't trust you as far as I could throw you. But I enjoy the way you lie."

I enjoyed the idea of PREZ from DC when I was younger. The best depiction is actually from Ed Brubaker, who probably doesn't even remember his touch on the character. Prez is an 18-year-old who gets elected president during the hippie era. He is just such a savior idealist that I wanted to see in American politics. And like my wish, he's a fictional character.

A while back I suggested that maybe we needed a new Constitution. That's probably not going to happen. But maybe if it did . . . no. Politicians have one goal and one goal only: graft. Gimme gimme gimme NOW. And I'll let you have what you need. In all likelihood.

And people wonder why my opinion of the human race is so low.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #334: ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS

 The association of ideas. John Locke came up with that. It's not what I'm talking about tonight. Tonight is another exploration of writing. If that doesn't interest you, or if you don't want to know how the hot dogs are made, maybe skip this one.

The easiest (and, unsurprisingly, my favorite) part of writing is coming up with the idea. I'm not entirely sure how it works. Some writers thank the muses. Others blame--hey!--John Locke's association of ideas when they're on the train or driving to work or whatever. Sometimes I wonder if it's like Athena bursting from Zeus's head full formed. But fucked if I know. All I know for certain is that an idea will pop up into my head, and I'll write it down. I used to work at the library, so I'd take a notepad from them and scribble it down between serving patrons. Now I have a Moleskine notebook for such things.

By the way, as awesome as those notebooks are, Moleskine makes the shittiest fucking pens of all time. They're fucking square! Literally! I have calluses on my fingers from writing shit down for nearly forty years, and somehow these square pens cut through and destroy my ability to hold things.

But you write down the ideas. And they don't coalesce right away. They have to simmer on the backburner sometimes. Maybe for years. Maybe for decades.

But if you're really lucky, you write down a few ideas, and you realize that they can actually be combined to make one great story or novel. That's when the gears really start turning. Yet you're still trying to figure out what the story is. And that can be tough sometimes.

So I'm going to give you an example. I came up with this idea for a character a long time ago. I'm talking maybe 12-15 years ago. And then I came up with a story maybe 10 years ago. I thought I could combine the two at some point, but I had no idea how. Fast forward to about a half-year ago, when I picked up The Expanse RPG.

With any RPG, you have to create a test character to see how the dynamics work. I did this, and I suddenly realized how I could fit all of these moving pieces together into one machine. The tough part is stripping the scenario of everything from The Expanse world so I could make it my own. So much depended on the creation of James SA Corey's world that it took a lot of work and maybe some reverse engineering.

That's one of the projects I'm working on now. And it's going really fucking good. It's also heavily influenced by Richard Matheson, and I've been struggling to cut out a lot of that, too, just to make it my own. It's rough because I love Matheson (and Corey, for that matter), but I can't use them as a crutch. Maybe leg braces? (And I can say that. I have one leg brace that I need to get around with.)

So I saw recently there was some bullshit going around on Twitter, etc., about writing hot takes. First of all, fuck the phrase "hot take." It's meaningless and garbage, and anyone who uses it is begging for your attention like a child who keeps saying the same joke over and over again to get the same laugh the kid got the first two or three times. If someone has a hot take for you, and they are serious about it, stop listening to them.

Here is (swallowing pride) my "hot take" on writing. YOU DO YOU. There is no set of guidelines. There is only one rule, and that is to actually write. Aside from that, nothing else matters. I offer what I said above as to how my own approach works. And it works. For me. Other things might work for you. Probably do.

I appreciate books on writing from authors I respect. Laymon, Keene, Piccirilli, Morrell, King, etc. I enjoy seeing how their process works, and I also recognize what would never work for me. I do take these lessons very seriously, but I pick and choose because I know who I am. (Apologies to Mickey Rourke.) The best thing you can do is know who you are. And don't take that for granted. Explore yourself. Reflect on your life. Figure yourself out.

But don't let some asshole throw their hot take in your face like a cup of scalding coffee. Fuck that shit.