Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

Yuletide Essays

My step-sister Kelley is a TA for American River College, where she helps professors grade essays, and my step-brother (and fellow Munchanka) Marc is taking a Logic and Reasoning course where he writes essays. So, I thought it would be run to pick an arguable topic and write opposing essays to be graded and read aloud on Christmas morning. Our topic was Elf Labor Law; Marc was pro-elf unions, I was pro-Santa. Here are the resulting arguments:

 
UNIONS AND SANTA'S WORKSHOP


           Santa Claus is well-known for maintaining a workshop in the North Pole region in which he produces toys for all the children of the world. It is also accepted as fact that Santa maintains a large staff of elves to help produce the gifts required to fulfill the wishes of boys and girls. The massive amount of toys that need to be produced necessitates a strict production schedule. Copious demand will spur production to greater speeds, and due to the difficulties that Elves could potentially face they have formed a union. The following arguments will  defend the need of a union for the elves.

            It is true that Santa is a phenomenal employer, for he takes great care of his elvish employees. The elves have full health coverage, and are given appropriate time off. In fact the elves are completely satisfied with their treatment from Santa. The purpose of the union as it stands now is to serve as a social event organizational body. From this viewpoint it could be argued that the union is useless and should be abolished. The argument here, however, is not what the union can do or the elves today, but what it can do for them in the years to come.   
           The world population today stands at around seven billion individuals. If even a quarter of that population is children then the North Pole workshop has to produce enough toys for one billion seven hundred fifty million kids. The population of the world is expected to increase at a near exponential rate. It is only a matter of time until the demand for toys outstrips the ability of the elves to produce them. It is at this point that the union will provide a layer of protection to the elves.
            History has already seen the consequences of unbridled demand for manufactured goods and the abuses that employees suffered attempting to meet that demand. In America during the Gilded Age, a period that lasted from roughly the early 1880’s to the mid 1890’s, the nation experienced an industrial revolution. Entrepreneurs exercised absolute authority in their pursuit to maximize profits at the detriment to their workers. Employees suffered long hours and dangerous conditions, a situation that was possible due to the lack of government oversight and weak employee relationships with their employers. Everything was directed toward producing as much as possible as fast as possible in order to maximize immediate profits. The situation became so unbearable that the workers in Carnegie’s steel mill went on universal strike. Carnegie hired Pinkertons to “break the line”, and in the resulting chaos several workers were killed. In Santa’s workshop, the motivation for profit is markedly reduced; however, the need to produce at breakneck speeds to meet the demands of all the children could lead to similarly dangerous work conditions. The elf union being in place already will help to head off those potential dangers before they ever come to a head.
            Unions creating a safer workplace have a secondary effect of benefiting the environment. During the 1840s, in England, a time known as the Industrial Revolution, pollution was absolutely deplorable. Manchester England’s rivers and creeks were a thick black and green morasses of filth. A low cloud of pollution hung over the city. With the advent of collective bargaining sanctioned by the government, employees were able to demand cleaner working conditions for their own health. The net effect saw a reduction in pollution around the entire city. The issue of environment is of particular concern to the Santa and the elves since the biosphere of the North Pole is particularly sensitive to ecological changes. The union of the elves prevents irresponsible waste disposal practices for the health of the workers. Disposing of waste in a responsible manner reduces the environmental impact of the North Pole workshop. This, in turn, will ensure that the delicate environment stays in balance. If pollution were to run rampant at the north pole, the ice cap would melt. If the ice cap were to melt, Santa would have to relocate his workshop. This would impose enormous cost on the Jolly old man, so in effect the existence of the union helps to mitigate potential future cost over runs, despite the fact that a union costs more per hour of labor in the immediate accounting reports.
            The value of the elf union may seem to be minimal currently, but the truth is that the union exists to prevent any potential future abuses of the elves as production pressures increase to meet demands. It also exists to provide for the health of the workers, a practice which has a side effect of decreasing human and elf impact on the environment. The labor union is an investment in the well being of the future of the elves and the region of the North Pole. For those reasons the union is invaluable  and should continue to exist.

AN ELFLESS ACT
Elves are charming, whimsical creatures full of humor, craftsmanship, and good will toward all men. Or so they would have you believe. History tells us a different tale, painting the picture of an elitist pack of nomadic immortals: undying, yet eternally immature, bent on all matter of mischief and meddling in the lives of men. Everywhere you find them in literature, you find war, black magic, and death. Elves seek to unionize in the North Pole. They would have you believe this is a humanitarian effort and a move for social equality. In truth, organized elves will only serve to threaten Christmas and replace the Season of Giving with one of utter elf-centeredness.
           The elves, or ylfe, as they were named by the Anglo Saxons who first encountered them in 10th century Northern Europe, have shifted between apathy and antagonism in their relations to mankind. In fact, before Santa came along, elves were real little shits. The rare documented occurrences of elves venturing from their secluded forest hovels were quite unpleasant experiences for all human parties involved. The German word for nightmare, Alptrauma, derives from the phrase “elf dream.” The Germans believed that elves would sit on the dreamer’s chest, using their black magic to induce nightmares and indigestion. Some call it mind rape. Other elf-related terms of Olde English include “elf-tangle,” referring to the knots elves love to tie into otherwise long, flowing locks, and “elf stroke,” a rather nasty business wherein a human suffers sudden paralysis due to an elf curse.
            A unionized elf workforce would seem a noble pursuit if one could find any trace of nobility in elf history; but when we look for nobility in popular elven figures, what we find is a shock of sinister deeds. There is Rumpelstiltskin, a child abductor who demanded that children cry out his name during the horrendous acts that will go undescribed in this article. Not exactly the fort of fellow you’d want to see at a shopping mall with a child on his lap. There is also Queen Mab, who would plague ladies’ lips with “blisters” which we now know to be the origin of herpes. Just imagine how she’d stuff your stocking if left to her own devices. Finally we have Loki, who would have the men of his age call him “the god of mischief,” though he was no more than an elf, or alfr as the Nordes later called him. Hardly a replacement for Old Saint Nick.
            Things get even worse when one considers elves in large numbers. Let us examine the great organizations of elf history. First, there are the Keebler elves, baking away in their unsanitary arboreal kitchens, creating subpar snack foods and contributing to the epidemic of childhood obesity. Hardly a legacy. There are also the Sindarin, led by the mighty Elrond. Fine craftsmen, and able warriors--that is, when they care to respond to their allies’ pleas for aid.. Elf warriors failed to lift a finger in the battle of Helm’s Deep, the siege on Minas Tirith, or the Scouring of the Shire. The dwarven warrior Gimli, son of Gloin, had it right, “Never trust an elf.” It should be noted that the goblins, orcs, and uruk hai that murdered the courageous defenders of Rohan and Gondor in said battles were closely related to the elves they loved to slaughter. Much like the domestic pig, which can go feral within months of escape into the wild (growing coarse hair, tusks, and severe aggression), the hair-conditioned elves can become blood-thirsty orcs under the wrong influences.
            Any who still doubt the danger that empowered elves may pose ought look no further than the wicked Krampus, a creature reported in Alpine folklore, who visits the naughty children at the Yuletide Season and carries them off to his lair. Hooved and horned, one might believe the Krampus is closer related to the satyrs of Greek mythology than the sweet tinkering elves that we’ve come to know and love. But a look at line 114 of Beowulf shows elves flow from the same spring as every other fowl bit of cryptozoologic fauna in this world:
“For killing of Abel
the Eternal Lord had extracted a price:
Cain got no good from committing that murder
because the Almighty made him anathema
and out of the curse of his exile there sprang
ogres and elves and evil phantoms
and the giants too who strove with God
time and again until He gave them their reward."
Do elves work long hours? Yes. Are their working conditions perfect? They can probably be improved. But is the world ready for the elves to organize into unions? Certainly not! We ought to place our trust in the man who has earned it through year after year of proven results: Saint Nicholas. Yes, SAINT Nicholas, for he is a saint in word and deed. Only Santa had the vision to see the glimmer of potential in the dark souls of elves. After centuries of toil, Santa has forged a sterling reputation for North Pole workers that no elven group has enjoyed before. Santa has provided elves with career opportunities that simply wouldn’t be there for them in the modern era. He has brought commerce and industry to the North Pole, and he has put a comically small, festively painted tooling hammer in the hand of every able-bodied elf under the Aurora Borealis. Rather than asking what Santa can do for elves, we ought to ask what elves can continue doing for the greater good. The greatest gift we can give the tiny folk this year is the gift of inspiring leadership. Thanks to Santa, elves have become charming, whimsical creatures full of humor, craftsmanship, and good will toward men.
Let’s keep ‘em that way!

Who do you think has the more valid argument? Do you value fairness or Christmas?

O days...Merry Christmas!

Tuesday, December 04, 2012

What Really Happened to the Dinosaurs?

Way back in 2009, when folks were looking forward to a new Star Trek movie and Barrack Obama had recently been elected President--things were much different back then--my friend Mike Sundy and I collaborated on a children's book called "What Really Happened to the Dinosaurs." 

The book was about a paleontologist and his son theorizing about where all the dinosaurs had gone; whether they had left in a massive exodus aboard an alien spaceship, or been obliterated by a Cooties epidemic.


Sadly, the book was never produced, but Mike and I had a blast collaborating, and I think we contributed some very valuable ideas to the scientific community.

10 days...

Monday, October 03, 2011

"Persist" on KCRW


My little letter to Willie Downs' Animator Letters Project got some air time this week on KCRW. Check out their website to listen to the whole show, which includes an interview with Sons of Anarchy creator Kurt Sutter (unfortunately not related to my portion of the show).

On a completely unrelated note: Happy Birthday, Mom (she's the one on the left)!


My mom loves Halloween, so my brother made a "Halloween tree" for her a few years ago. I've made it a tradition of getting her a new tree decoration each year on her birthday. If you guys have any good ideas for  this year's Halloween decoration, leave a comment! Grazie!



Tuesday, July 05, 2011

The Animator Letters Project

Back in May, an aspiring animator named Willie Downs sent me an invitation to contribute to his Animator Letters Project (a hand-written snail mail invitation, no less!).  Willie is planning on compiling the letters he receives into a book, and while he's only gotten a few responses (my buddy Aaron was the first to respond), they're all fairly inspiring!

I wasn't going to post the letter until Willie published his book, but Letters of Note put it up on their site, and I've been getting the most awesome and uplifting feedback from people. So here it is for anyone who needs a word of encouragement today.






If you're a professional animator, please consider contributing to The Animator Letters Project. It only takes a few minutes to hand-write a letter, but you never know who you may inspire!

And in case you can't read my chicken-scratch, here's the transcript from Letters of Note:

PIXAR

May 17, 2011

To Whom it May Inspire,

I, like many of you artists out there, constantly shift between two states. The first (and far more preferable of the two) is white-hot, "in the zone" seat-of-the-pants, firing on all cylinders creative mode. This is when you lay your pen down and the ideas pour out like wine from a royal chalice! This happens about 3% of the time.

The other 97% of the time I am in the frustrated, struggling, office-corner-full-of-crumpled-up-paper mode. The important thing is to slog diligently through this quagmire of discouragement and despair. Put on some audio commentary and listen to the stories of professionals who have been making films for decades going through the same slings and arrows of outrageous production problems.

In a word: PERSIST.

PERSIST on telling your story. PERSIST on reaching your audience. PERSIST on staying true to your vision. Remember what Peter Jackson said, "Pain is temporary. Film is forever." And he of all people should know.

So next time you hit writer's block, or your computer crashes and you lose an entire night's work because you didn't hit save (always hit save), just remember: you're never far from that next burst of divine creativity. Work through that 97% of murky abyssmal mediocrity to get to that 3% which everyone will remember you for!

I guarantee you, the art will be well worth the work!

Your friend and mine,

Austin Madison

"ADVENTURE IS OUT THERE!"

Thursday, September 30, 2010

TALES FROM LONDON:
Chapter III: The Nose

Another story started with a sentence from Vi: "Shirley's nose was growing all the time." Nine syllables? Sounds like the start of a limerick to me.

Shirley's nose was growing all the time,
Her need for kleenex caused a life of crime.
The grocers she'd rob,
Would chase her and sob,
"That tissue's no match for your slime!"

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

TALES FROM LONDON
Chapter II: The Eye

This story was written on the London Eye, a massive Ferris Wheel that seats over a dozen people per cart and hoists passengers over 440 feet into the air over London. Vi gave me the opening title, ''James Gurney felt sick.'' And I took off from there. Enjoy.

James Gurney felt sick. The world-renowned author and artist had always been bothered by heights and, standing with his forehead resting against the cool glass pane of his compartment on the London Eye, looking over a hundred meters down to the River Thames below, he was definitely feeling bothered. And yet, the terrible distance to the water below was hardly the source of the knot in his stomach.

He had come up to relax, get a view of the city, and perhaps do a bit of drawing, but the scene unfolding on the river beneath him was nothing short of horrifying. The cries of the people scrambling across the deck of the ferry could scarcely be heard from inside the ferris wheel's enclosed capsule, but the artist's eye could pick out the flailing arms and manic gestures that were characteristic of a crowd in panic. One woman, who looked quite like a silver and lavender ant, had swung a leg over the side railing, thought better of it, and was now straddling the side of the ferry, unsure of whether to stay on the ill-fated vessel, or take her chances in the grey waters below. And yet, as terrified as the people seemed to be, James could hardly say that their plight was the source of his nausea, either.

What would have spun any man's stomach was the massive, leathery black creature that had thrust itself onto the ship's deck. Most laymen would describe the crane-necked leviathon as the creature from the Lock Ness. In fact, one towheaded boy of nine was pounding on the glass beside James crying, ''Nessy! Nessy! Look, mum, it's Nessy!''

But James was no layman. He was an artist, one who specialized in prehistoric art, as a matter of fact. He was quite well-read on all things dinosaur-related and had been commissioned several times by National Geographic and the Smithsonian. To him, this was no monster attacking innocent people, it was a wondrous creature of a bygone era defending itself against the modern age.

And yet, the sight of the seemingly impossible creature didn't bother James either. What really made James feel sick was his pocket. His empty, empty pocket. The pocket where his sketchpad and pen should have been. Of all of the days for a real, living dinosaur to show up, THIS was the one day James had no way to draw it.

James gave a sigh, fogging the glass, and the creature disappeared completely.


Monday, September 27, 2010

TALES FROM LONDON
Chapter I: The Trenches

Like I said in my last post, I'm tromping through London this week. The friends I'm with (Vi and Amalia) are fellow writers and filmmakers. We took a screenwriting course together at CalArts, and ever since, we've held eachother accountable to continue writing. So, on this vacation, I've made it a goal to write a short story every day, based on my experiences of the day. Today, we visited the Imperial War Museum. This story is based on the "in the trenches" exhibit, which simulated what life might have been like in the trenches of World War II.

Pender felt cold wetness seep into his britches and onto the back of his legs. The night air bit at his eyes and ears, but his sweat-stained scarf kept his nose and cheeks warm. He wasn't sure what was worse--the smell of the breath collected against his scarf (Pender couldn't remember the last time he brushed his teeth), or the stench of the urine and war that permeated the trench around him.

Pender was his nation's man, and their last hope, he reminded himself. This was no time to rest, the men were looking to him. Using one hand against the stack of munitions, he rose to his feet. His knees ached from crouching, it felt like the sting of cowardice infecting his joints.

The chill winter air was silent. Only moments ago, it was filled with the sounds of war, of rounds whizzing inches overhead. Miller had been hit. A shot to the left cheek. The red had spread across his cheek almost immediately, a stark violent contrast to the snow he writhed on top of.

is screams had long-since died away. He had gone home He was with his mother again. They would all be reunited with their loved ones soon enough.

Pender stood, but crouched, his head just under the battlements. He surveyed his weary warriors. Tully ("Bully Tully") was glowering up at the steel grey sky though the softly falling flakes of snow. Campbell was anxiously cracking his knuckles, though the sound was muffled by dyed-wool mittens. And Monroe...his trusted leftenant...whose eyes glistened with unfallen tears, looked up at Pender. It was a bitter glare, full of fear, anger, and accusation.

A shout broke the stillness. A shout from the enemy lines.

"Oi!" cried the voice, in broken english, "Oi! You 'ad enough yet?"

Pender locked eyes with Monroe. A desperate, uncomfortable moment passed. Blood-numbingly cold as it was, Pender has to whipe the sweat from his brow.

"I said: you! 'Ad! Enough?!"

Campbell shook his head and whispered with a voice thick with tears, "We ain't ever surrendered yet, mate. We can't give in now!"

"Yeah," Bully Tully replied--a little too loud, "Life ends eventually, might as well end it on yer feet!"

Pender looked to Monroe, "What do you say?"

At once, the resentment melted away and his old friend looked back at him, "They fight like girls anyway."

Pender smiled and thrust his hand into the wall of snow that formed the trench. He pulled out a wad of snow and used both hands to pack it hard. With his snowball complete, he looked to his men. Each had their arms full, cradling frosty ammunition. He smiled and cried, "Kill the girls!!"

"Kill the girls!" Monroe screamed.

"Kill the girls!!" joined Campbell and Bully Tully. And with that, the four eight year-olds ran out of their trench and charged across the fresh-fallen snow toward the girls' fort, hurling their snowballs into the crisp December air.