Day 79: Reflection

              So now that I'm openly posting about this thing I think it's about time for some cool hard reflection! 
              Skipped the job fair again this morning, but there's really no point to that anyway.  I don't want to sell myself to some random hacks, it'd feel like army recruitment.  But really, I overslept and that was the whole deal.  So, oops.
              Muppet movie last night was awesome except for underusing Jack Black.  Also, fact that Selena Gomez was in it at all sucks, even though she was awful and I think that was the point.  I should watch it again for some positivity today.  Going into the home stretch on this one!  Bout to get a story rolling.
              Muppets taught me a couple of things about character that I should have realized a long time ago, yesterday.  First of all, Fozzy working with the knock off imposter band in Reno, that tells you everything about character.  A celebrity who isn't with the original group and does some stage show for ends meat (ends meat is a thing you can get), screaming Ringo Starr.  I don't know how much it will help me with my own writing but it's good as far as character goes to notice instances like that, I'd think.
             Problems with my writing!  Introducing characters that have a strong sense of purpose will be difficult until I have a strong sense of purpose that doesn't involve writing every day.  This is still a little bit of a goof-off thing, although I do feel more confident in it since I started effing proofreading every day.  Proofreading bolsters the wordcount and makes everything more readable at the same time, so that's good.  I remember seeing a snippet from Christopher Paolini (shitty author, I know), where he said there's no way to learn more about your writing than to read your own.  Alright, I get it Mr. Eragon.  Something tells me I never should have graduated college without proofreading, but that's tantamount to my "natural talent", or else the laziness of college professors and everyone's fear of conflict.  I'm a fearsome guy, that's what it really is.
             Oh!  Other great inspiration from the movie was when Kermit tries to call Jimmy Carter, the what-if scenario that plays out there.  First, what would happen if Kermit called the whitehouse?  Well, obviously, he'd get through right away and be directed to a secretary or something.  Then, that secretary tells him Mr. Carter has changed residences, not very surprised someone is calling for him.  That's just a joke being a joke, and being subtle and all that hooey. 
              Writing has become easier since I started thinking of people as random animals that inhabit certain places.  See, I could never explain that where it'd make any sense.  Youtube clips.

             Life's a happy song

            “Some of the problems with fatherhood are that there’s no allomothering involved.”  Jim said without flinching.  Roger wasn’t a fearsome dude, even when his paternal instincts were kicking in.  He stared across the table like an angry rottweiler.  "Where the hell's your wife, anyway?"

            A man wearing a bib spoonfed an angry baby in a highchair in the nonsmoking section. The baby casted formula bottles, sticky dinosaur toys and sippy cups on the floor,  the dad fighting through the projectiles like a snow storm.  He squeezed the bottle of baby food tight in his hand but was unable to break it.

            Roger couldn’t open his mouth without Jim saying something stupid.  Jim waved the waitress down for his fifth cappucino, taking full advantage of the free refill policy.  The Christopher Cross title track from the movie Arthur, “Arthur’s Theme (The Best You Can Do)”, chortled sweetly over the sound system.  Roger stared down at the cross around his neck; he and Miranda had seen that movie together in theaters.

           A business meeting adjourned and men with suits exited into the parking lot.  A robust circle of a man led the pack, using the cliched business phrase “In the interim” twice as he smiled lecherously at the waitstaff. Roger’s lowered eyes following them through the glass windows.  They piled into a black sedan, their meeting continuing on wheels.

            “Hey, you’re the guy who built those robots!”  A man with a braided beard called from the bar.  He was sitting by a glass case full of pies that were spinning on their own axises, a dull yellow light illuminating the counter space around him.  He set down his tabloid and got up to pester Jim. 

            Jim hid sheepishly behind a menu, although he knew he shouldn’t bother hiding.  He’d been spotted, he was going to have to face the music. 

            “It’s you, I know it’s you!”  He sprang up from his seat, his T-shirt barely covering his fat belly.  “I can tell it’s you because of your pony tail, man.”

            He offered a flabby paw to be shaken.  “You’re not looking so good, man.  I hope you haven’t quit.  Some of your bots were genius.”

            “My apathy toward my appearance reflects my dedication to my work.”  Jim said, proud the words came out in a straight line.  “Yeah, I’ve built a few robots in my day, what of it?”  Jim blushed.

            “Some of those ideas were brilliant man, they really were.”  He showed Jim his T-shirt, which was from a robotics convention in the summer of ’98.  “Years really fly, Jimbo, years really fly.”

            Roger was asleep on the table, or sobbing silently into it.  The old people stared over like they knew Jim was famous.  They talked amongst themselves; Jim assumed it was about him.

            “Pardon me, young sir, what have you invented?  You’re an inventor, he says?”

            The fan sat down in the booth next to Jim, forcibly moving him toward the window.  Jim scooted, without much of a choice.  He felt like a artist who was still working diligently on creating new songs, but still all anyone wanted to do was talk about the old ones.

            “I’m a scientist, not a celebrity.”  He assured them, sipping his cappucino.

            “I remember…”  The fan started.  “Back in 75 when you had that Alan Moore hair and beard.  You had an air about you man, a real je ne sais quoi.  On that panel, you were like a man amongst boys, man.  Charlie Hytzer, Paul Vinderbiln, those guys looked at you with disgust, a real renegade, yeah.”

            “Those guys are still working for Mr. Grey,”  Jim nudged Roger, who raised his head off the table for a second and then pried himself upright with his palms, like he was pulling himself off of fly paper.  His eyes were red and he rubbed them with the napkin on the table. 

            Roger recommitted himself to the table, falling into an instant sleep.  He dreamed of Jim’s creations locking him in a small room with a dangling light and a brassy mildew stink, and interrogating him with robot voices.

            “You should never have moved here.”  One that looked like an ostrich with reversable joint legs said.  A robot wearing a Zoro mask repeatedly thrashed him with a coat hanger, and down the hall he could hear the heavy crackling of a fireplace.  The door opened a crack and a robotic version of Jim squeezed through, putting a spiked choke collar around Roger’s neck.  Roger shook like a wet dog, and Jimbot slapped him across the face and tugged at the metal chain connected to the collar.

            “Friend of yours?”  The fan asked Jim as Roger lay there asleep.

            “He’s… uh… renting my house.  His wife is the one with the dough.”

            Robot Jim walked fast, and Roger slipped his hands in between the collar and his neck to keep from being choked.  He stumbled onto the cobwebby dungeon floor and scampered on his hands, passing cages of colorful birds with skull masks and shrunken headed fellows with taxidermied bodies.  An assembly line carried them along faster finally, and he relaxed, laying on his back with the leash taught.  Robot Jim pulled him back up to his feet, waving a pneumatic finger wildly in the air.

            “That time you created that water out of thin air, how’d you do that again?”  Asked the fan.  Their cute blonde waitress came over, chewing gum and eavesdropping from the comfortable distance of the next booth.  “Naw, you don’t have to tell me, magician can’t give up his secrets.  Hey, I’ll be right back.”

            “Pretty big deal, huh?”  The waitress asked, inching in.  Jim couldn’t tell if she just wanted a bigger tip.  He had no idea what to say around women, his experience was that he’d start talking about tinkering and they’d find out he had no free time or independence. 

            Out in the parking lot, the fan dug through a shitty Red Volkswagon Beetle filled with fastfood wrappers, used-up air fresheners and multidinous cupholders.  He came running back in with a tightly wound piece of parchments, unrolling it in front of Jim to reveal a large treaded robot with arms that were cannons in an action shot on an aircraft carrier deck.  There were lightning bolts and flame decals bordering the centered picture, with the caption written in rock n roll typefont:  “The birth of AI.”

            “First succesful artificial intelligence, in a robot that shoots fireworks out of its hands!”  The nerd said, pointing at the poster and turning toward the audience, a group of apathetic diner patrons.  When he took his hand off the poster to point at it, it rolled up on one side.  “You gotta feel a little guilty about the deaths, though.”  He whispered behind his hand to Jim.

            “I swear the arms were callibrated correctly, that’s the problem with artificial intelligence.  Wasn’t my fault it just started shooting bottle rockets at anything within a half a mile.”

            The robot was conjured into Roger’s dream through inception.  He actively tried to make himself wakeup, the thing turning its evil hands toward him as he shoveled coal into a furnace with his bonded hands.