22 Short Films About Cheeseburger Brown, #7
Exterior. Urban alley. Night.
The two teenagers exit the car, their skin glistening, their expressions of mixed fear and awe queasily suggestive of orgasm. They reach for the comfort of each other's hands as a pair of headlights cut the fog at the alley's mouth. A vehicle roars toward them.
It is a truck shaped like a cheeseburger -- pickle mudflaps, diced onion grill, soft-top convertible sesame seed roof. The brakes chuff as the cheeseburger comes to a halt. The teenagers step back anxiously.
And then the truck is towering over them, changing, unfolding, reconfiguring; the tires lock with a bark of rubber, and the head and fists sing like unsheathed blades as they emerge from tangles of machinery. It is now in the shape of a man twenty-five feet tall with eyes that glow blue like televisions with no inputs.
"Are you Samual Witwicky, descendant of Archibald Witwicky?"
The girl gasps, her bosom heaving and her nipples straining against the thin fabric of her top as she whispers, "It knows your name!"
The boy looks up into the face of the now erect cheeseburger. He gulps. "Yeah."
"My name is Cheeseburger Prime. I am an autonomous robotic organism from the planet Applecore."
"Can we call you 'Autobots' for short?"
"No," pronounces the cheeseburger gravely. "Hasboro would sue us."
Stepping up on a concrete stair and then to the plot point beyond, the girl unbuttons her shirt and asks, "Why are you here?"
"I am here on a mission to protect the Cube."
"The Rubick's Cube? The Nintendo Game Cube? That Canadian sci-fi movie where all the people trapped in the giant cube went into all these different cube rooms and got killed by cube traps?"
"No. The Cube of which I speak is the Nissan Cube."
The boy scratches his head. "Isn't that some fugly Japanese car marketed to ravers and idiots?"
Cheeseburger clears his throat with a metallic grunt. "Just give me your fucking eBay login or I'll step on you, kid."
This is Your Brain on MacBooks
Last weekend I bricked my MacBook Pro (15" Late 2008 unibody 2.8 GHz).
I discovered that I could trick it into doing a little extra duty by simultaneously rendering two jobs -- one on each core -- by way of creatively misinforming the rendering software about my hardware setup. Due to deadline pressure, I also opted to stuff in a third job from a different animation package. I was pretty impressed with myself!
The machine chugged along for four or five hours. I checked on the CPU temperature and saw that it was through the roof: 91 centrigrade and rising. The chassis was ridiculously hot to the touch. Concerned, I shut off the machine, pointed a table fan at it, and decided to let it cool down overnight. In the morning it was a brick.
An Australian Apple "genius" with a polite demeanor but malodourous breath confirmed for me that the logic board was toasted. Because the machine was built to order, he had no replacements in stock. A fresh logic board would have to be summoned from California. Two to three days.
Day 6: I'm still waiting.
(And shitting deadline bricks.)
22 Short Films About Cheeseburger Brown, #19
On the way to the Yorkdale Apple Store, Cheeseburger Baggins stumbles on the ice and slides down a mountain path. He is caught by the sure hand of Aragorn. As he gets to his large, hairy feet and brushes the snow from his shirt he gasps and looks up sharply. He's lost something!
Further uphill the Australian has picked up the tiny Intel microprocessor, turning it over slowly in his gloved hand. "How is it...that such a small thing...should cause us so much fear and doubt?"
"Give it back to Cheeseburger," barks Aragorn.
The Australian's eyes are fixed on the chip. "I will -- rest assured, ranger." He looks over with a cold, bland smile. "In two to three days."
Cheeseburger Baggins' eyes narrow menacingly. "It is...precious to me."
"Six days at the most, mate."
"My preciousss," hisses Cheeseburger Baggins, a fell shadow enveloping his heart. "Lost!"
Far in the snow-capped distance, the green-screen rustles and the compositing artifacts.
Whispering Sweet Nothings
My boss is a total slut.
I don't know if you've heard, but there's an Unprecented Economic Downturn going around. Like the swine flu, it's largely a psychological construct -- a sort of collective nightmare run amuck -- but has real world effects ranging the full gamut from prudent to panicked to Full Retard.
Some of today's laziest CFOs have opted to manage the risk of their being held responsible for anything by simply downloading a new level of governance mandates upon the purchasing department. The net effect of this evasion of accountability coupled with the pressing need to really look like they're responding to the crisis, is that purchasing departments end up making executive decisions without any communications infrastructure in place for vetting those decisions.
In other words, hand the reins to the accountants and cross your fingers that they're anal enough not to get you in trouble.
This means that when the event management company of which I'm a part pitches for business, the process is now divided in two: the first (and familiar) trial of winning over the marketing, executive and logistics branches, and now a second trial involving a jury of accountants from purchasing. Drunk with their new powers, these latter trials have become inquisitions.
"Explain this line item for shipping."
"It's an estimate of the shipping costs."
"Shipping what?"
"The staging gear."
"Is it really necessary to ship that?"
"Yes, it is. That's the gear we use to run the show."
"Can you refine this estimate?"
"We can after the show, yes."
"What is the estimate based on now?"
"Our previous experience shipping out shows."
"Would it be possible for you to telephone around to find a more competitive quote?"
"No, not in Canada."
"In the section on crew, we have a line item labelled 'per diem.' What is this?"
"That's a cash allowance for meals and sundries."
"Like ice cream?"
"No, sundries -- like, supplies. Things they may need on the road. Mouthwash. A clean shirt."
"Shouldn't they bring those things from home?"
"It's the unexpected we're concerned with here. Basically, it's for food."
"Why do they need food?"
"Because otherwise their tummies rumble."
"Can't they eat their own food?"
"Not when they live on the other side of the continent, no."
"What about a bagged lunch?"
"You want to tell the crew to bring ten days of bagged lunches?"
"I'm just not convinced this 'per diem' is strictly necessary."
"It is if you want a crew to operate the show."
"I see. And what about these DVD players? Surely the crew doesn't need to watch movies while they're working."
"No, those are the DVD players that we stage the show with."
"What are they used for?"
"Displaying moving video pictures."
"Do you really need so many? Why six?"
"Because there are three screens. Each needs a source and a backup source."
"Can't you just put all that on one DVD and make really sure it works?"
"Um, no."
"We seem to have far more hotel rooms than we need. Look at this -- one room for each member of the crew! Can't they share?"
"In our experience adults who aren't acquainted with one another don't generally go in for sharing beds."
"Well, maybe. But it seems extravagant. This is an Unprecedented Downturn, after all. It'll be like summer camp!"
"Er..."
In one particular important pitch, the process was taking so long to get everyone on the same page, and my boss was so desperate the land the gig, that he decided to just do whatever the purchasing department asked, then worry about the impact later -- once we had the job. Even so, the sailing was not smooth: every time the budget went out it came back with a request to shave it more. In order to meet their demands, large aspects of the show was quietly killed.
So marketing said to purchasing, "Are you guys cool with the budget now?"
Purchasing said to marketing, "Indeed we are!"
Marketing declared, "The job is yours!"
And nobody bothered to tell marketing that what they had bought was now a shadow of what they had been pitched on. Purchasing didn't tell them because nobody told them to, and accountants are very good at doing what they're told and not a stitch less or stitch more. My boss didn't tell them because he didn't want anything to spoil the bliss of having scored the gig.
Meanwhile, so much time had gone by that the date of the planned event was nearly upon us. "Aw, don't worry," said my boss; "We got through the pitch -- that's the real hurdle! Execution is easy."
So, Mr. Slut had danced us and our date right into the bedroom, then he turned the lamp low and pulled the door to. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, you two!" He winked and slipped out.
We stared at the client and the client stared at us.
Client: "So when do we get a preview of the tri-city live Twittering inferface?"
Us: "That was cut."
Client: "How about the realtime SMS video wall?"
Us: "That got cut, too."
Client: "It did? But what's going to be projected over the art gallery installations?"
Us: "Um, actually..."
Client: "It's cut?"
Us: "No, no, no. It's not cut. No. It's...well, it's less of a set of matching art gallery installations now, and sort of more of a...well...a..."
Client: "A what?"
Us: "It's a DVD. We'll play it on the bar's television."
Client: "The art galleries are now a series of DVDs?"
Us: "Well, one DVD. Yes."
Client: "...Can I see it?"
Us: "Who's hungry for lunch? We brought brown bags with peanut butter and jelly and juice boxes!"
The good news is that at the end of last week I finally got the art that's supposed to go on the DVD. Yup, I received fourteen thousand user-submitted artworks with no names or other identifying information from the interactive media company handling the Web end of all this. Each of the 5,000 qualifying entrants had sent multiple examples of their creativity (a surprising share of which, baffling, somehow involved their house cat), of which I had to be certain to "showcase" the "best" works from the 500 finalists.
Jesus Murphy Brown.
It's due Monday.
Ruined
I have a sunburn, because when I went outside I forgot that usually by this time of year I've been outside before. I was too pale. I'm pretty sure I fractured my toe while hunting for my boy when he was AWOL, and while the limping is getting better I still can't manage to put on a pair of shoes. Also, I have plenty of hives. My hands shake while I drive.
I feel like a mess. I am a mess.
I have now racked up a grand total of two days off since last November -- that's Christmas and last Sunday, when my computer melted. I've been working two jobs for so long that the threat of leisure has become disquieting to me, and causes me angst. I'd rather labour than think.
Yeah, we got a new roof. Yeah, we got a new car. And yeah, we're pretty much out of debt. But I'm going to die.
There was supposed to be only one more month like this, but now my computer's fried and my deadline's shot and I don't know what'll happen next. I was focusing so hard on hanging on for just one more month. Where will I possibly find the reserves to push into July like this?
22 Short Films About Cheeseburger Brown, #4
Exterior. Night. Central Park.
A giant iridescent cube sits in the middle of Manhattan, its surface a phatanmagoria of swimming colour that casts fairly believable shafts of CGI volumetric light. Surrounding the cube are dozens of military professionals, their stomachs rumbling as they fondle their brown bagged lunches, fingers twitching.
Suddenly, Neo from The Matrix steps out of the cube. He is shot.
Later, he awakes in a secure hospital with Jennifer Conolly and her breasts at his bedside. He says, "Whoa."
"Why have you come here?"
"I'm only offering you the truth, nothing more."
"The truth?"
"That you were born into a prison you can't smell or taste or touch -- a prison for your mind."
"This can't be..."
"Be what? Be real? What is real? Have you ever had a dream you were so sure was real? How would you tell the real world from the dream world?"
"Because it isn't all green?"
"No, I mean other than that."
"I don't know...no, wait. Maybe I do. Maybe I'm just taking it for granted that I don't. I bet I could just walk right through that wall over there -- because it isn't really a wall, is it? It's a door."
"I can only show you the door. It's up to you to walk through it."
She attempts to walk through the wall, stumbles back, holding her bleeding nose. "Fuck!"
Neo sits up, concerned. "We should get that blouse off of you, quickly!"
"What? Why?"
"To stop the bleeding."
"Huh? Wait a minute -- why don't you just give me a dab of that alien healing ointment you have?"
He looks up at her, expression cold. "How do you know about that?"
"Back when I was a girl, I saw the 1951 version of this movie."
Meanwhile, back in New York, a giant cheeseburger-shaped robot has emerged from the cube, his eye a single light roving a slit in his metal mask. The army opens fire but their primitive bullets bounce harmlessly off his un-primitive hide, falling primitively to the grass.
Cheeseburger Brown: "Gort, gort, gort!"
Rear Admiral Hayworthy: "Hurry -- more bullets! And bring me my ship!"
Yeoman: "We can't break through, sir. There are too many buildings."
Rear Admiral Hayworthy: "Good Lord, man. What does this metal cheeseburger want from us? This cube situation is rapidly becoming trouble squared!"
Yeoman: "Sir, ha ha, sir."
Rear Admiral Hayworthy: "I don't think we have any alternate alternatives left. Prepare to release the Cloverfield monster!"
Cheeseburger Brown: "GORT!"
Suddenly, the processor that was rendering New York melts, leaving everyone standing around in front of a green-screen with ping-pong balls glued to their clothes.
Keanu Reeves catches his agent's eye. "Are we breaking for lunch?"
"I think so."
"What're we having?"
"Juice boxes and crackers from a brown bag."
Jennifer Conolly spits on the floor. "Aw, shit."
No longer needed, Cheeseburger Brown ascends into the sky leaving behind him an arc of rainbow. The gathered actors wave and call, "Farewell! Farewell, sweet Cheeseburger!"
"Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ort!"
Exterior. Urban alley. Night.
The two teenagers exit the car, their skin glistening, their expressions of mixed fear and awe queasily suggestive of orgasm. They reach for the comfort of each other's hands as a pair of headlights cut the fog at the alley's mouth. A vehicle roars toward them.
It is a truck shaped like a cheeseburger -- pickle mudflaps, diced onion grill, soft-top convertible sesame seed roof. The brakes chuff as the cheeseburger comes to a halt. The teenagers step back anxiously.
And then the truck is towering over them, changing, unfolding, reconfiguring; the tires lock with a bark of rubber, and the head and fists sing like unsheathed blades as they emerge from tangles of machinery. It is now in the shape of a man twenty-five feet tall with eyes that glow blue like televisions with no inputs.
"Are you Samual Witwicky, descendant of Archibald Witwicky?"
The girl gasps, her bosom heaving and her nipples straining against the thin fabric of her top as she whispers, "It knows your name!"
The boy looks up into the face of the now erect cheeseburger. He gulps. "Yeah."
"My name is Cheeseburger Prime. I am an autonomous robotic organism from the planet Applecore."
"Can we call you 'Autobots' for short?"
"No," pronounces the cheeseburger gravely. "Hasboro would sue us."
Stepping up on a concrete stair and then to the plot point beyond, the girl unbuttons her shirt and asks, "Why are you here?"
"I am here on a mission to protect the Cube."
"The Rubick's Cube? The Nintendo Game Cube? That Canadian sci-fi movie where all the people trapped in the giant cube went into all these different cube rooms and got killed by cube traps?"
"No. The Cube of which I speak is the Nissan Cube."
The boy scratches his head. "Isn't that some fugly Japanese car marketed to ravers and idiots?"
Cheeseburger clears his throat with a metallic grunt. "Just give me your fucking eBay login or I'll step on you, kid."
This is Your Brain on MacBooks
Last weekend I bricked my MacBook Pro (15" Late 2008 unibody 2.8 GHz).
I discovered that I could trick it into doing a little extra duty by simultaneously rendering two jobs -- one on each core -- by way of creatively misinforming the rendering software about my hardware setup. Due to deadline pressure, I also opted to stuff in a third job from a different animation package. I was pretty impressed with myself!
The machine chugged along for four or five hours. I checked on the CPU temperature and saw that it was through the roof: 91 centrigrade and rising. The chassis was ridiculously hot to the touch. Concerned, I shut off the machine, pointed a table fan at it, and decided to let it cool down overnight. In the morning it was a brick.
An Australian Apple "genius" with a polite demeanor but malodourous breath confirmed for me that the logic board was toasted. Because the machine was built to order, he had no replacements in stock. A fresh logic board would have to be summoned from California. Two to three days.
Day 6: I'm still waiting.
(And shitting deadline bricks.)
22 Short Films About Cheeseburger Brown, #19
On the way to the Yorkdale Apple Store, Cheeseburger Baggins stumbles on the ice and slides down a mountain path. He is caught by the sure hand of Aragorn. As he gets to his large, hairy feet and brushes the snow from his shirt he gasps and looks up sharply. He's lost something!
Further uphill the Australian has picked up the tiny Intel microprocessor, turning it over slowly in his gloved hand. "How is it...that such a small thing...should cause us so much fear and doubt?"
"Give it back to Cheeseburger," barks Aragorn.
The Australian's eyes are fixed on the chip. "I will -- rest assured, ranger." He looks over with a cold, bland smile. "In two to three days."
Cheeseburger Baggins' eyes narrow menacingly. "It is...precious to me."
"Six days at the most, mate."
"My preciousss," hisses Cheeseburger Baggins, a fell shadow enveloping his heart. "Lost!"
Far in the snow-capped distance, the green-screen rustles and the compositing artifacts.
Whispering Sweet Nothings
My boss is a total slut.
I don't know if you've heard, but there's an Unprecented Economic Downturn going around. Like the swine flu, it's largely a psychological construct -- a sort of collective nightmare run amuck -- but has real world effects ranging the full gamut from prudent to panicked to Full Retard.
Some of today's laziest CFOs have opted to manage the risk of their being held responsible for anything by simply downloading a new level of governance mandates upon the purchasing department. The net effect of this evasion of accountability coupled with the pressing need to really look like they're responding to the crisis, is that purchasing departments end up making executive decisions without any communications infrastructure in place for vetting those decisions.
In other words, hand the reins to the accountants and cross your fingers that they're anal enough not to get you in trouble.
This means that when the event management company of which I'm a part pitches for business, the process is now divided in two: the first (and familiar) trial of winning over the marketing, executive and logistics branches, and now a second trial involving a jury of accountants from purchasing. Drunk with their new powers, these latter trials have become inquisitions.
"Explain this line item for shipping."
"It's an estimate of the shipping costs."
"Shipping what?"
"The staging gear."
"Is it really necessary to ship that?"
"Yes, it is. That's the gear we use to run the show."
"Can you refine this estimate?"
"We can after the show, yes."
"What is the estimate based on now?"
"Our previous experience shipping out shows."
"Would it be possible for you to telephone around to find a more competitive quote?"
"No, not in Canada."
"In the section on crew, we have a line item labelled 'per diem.' What is this?"
"That's a cash allowance for meals and sundries."
"Like ice cream?"
"No, sundries -- like, supplies. Things they may need on the road. Mouthwash. A clean shirt."
"Shouldn't they bring those things from home?"
"It's the unexpected we're concerned with here. Basically, it's for food."
"Why do they need food?"
"Because otherwise their tummies rumble."
"Can't they eat their own food?"
"Not when they live on the other side of the continent, no."
"What about a bagged lunch?"
"You want to tell the crew to bring ten days of bagged lunches?"
"I'm just not convinced this 'per diem' is strictly necessary."
"It is if you want a crew to operate the show."
"I see. And what about these DVD players? Surely the crew doesn't need to watch movies while they're working."
"No, those are the DVD players that we stage the show with."
"What are they used for?"
"Displaying moving video pictures."
"Do you really need so many? Why six?"
"Because there are three screens. Each needs a source and a backup source."
"Can't you just put all that on one DVD and make really sure it works?"
"Um, no."
"We seem to have far more hotel rooms than we need. Look at this -- one room for each member of the crew! Can't they share?"
"In our experience adults who aren't acquainted with one another don't generally go in for sharing beds."
"Well, maybe. But it seems extravagant. This is an Unprecedented Downturn, after all. It'll be like summer camp!"
"Er..."
In one particular important pitch, the process was taking so long to get everyone on the same page, and my boss was so desperate the land the gig, that he decided to just do whatever the purchasing department asked, then worry about the impact later -- once we had the job. Even so, the sailing was not smooth: every time the budget went out it came back with a request to shave it more. In order to meet their demands, large aspects of the show was quietly killed.
So marketing said to purchasing, "Are you guys cool with the budget now?"
Purchasing said to marketing, "Indeed we are!"
Marketing declared, "The job is yours!"
And nobody bothered to tell marketing that what they had bought was now a shadow of what they had been pitched on. Purchasing didn't tell them because nobody told them to, and accountants are very good at doing what they're told and not a stitch less or stitch more. My boss didn't tell them because he didn't want anything to spoil the bliss of having scored the gig.
Meanwhile, so much time had gone by that the date of the planned event was nearly upon us. "Aw, don't worry," said my boss; "We got through the pitch -- that's the real hurdle! Execution is easy."
So, Mr. Slut had danced us and our date right into the bedroom, then he turned the lamp low and pulled the door to. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do, you two!" He winked and slipped out.
We stared at the client and the client stared at us.
Client: "So when do we get a preview of the tri-city live Twittering inferface?"
Us: "That was cut."
Client: "How about the realtime SMS video wall?"
Us: "That got cut, too."
Client: "It did? But what's going to be projected over the art gallery installations?"
Us: "Um, actually..."
Client: "It's cut?"
Us: "No, no, no. It's not cut. No. It's...well, it's less of a set of matching art gallery installations now, and sort of more of a...well...a..."
Client: "A what?"
Us: "It's a DVD. We'll play it on the bar's television."
Client: "The art galleries are now a series of DVDs?"
Us: "Well, one DVD. Yes."
Client: "...Can I see it?"
Us: "Who's hungry for lunch? We brought brown bags with peanut butter and jelly and juice boxes!"
The good news is that at the end of last week I finally got the art that's supposed to go on the DVD. Yup, I received fourteen thousand user-submitted artworks with no names or other identifying information from the interactive media company handling the Web end of all this. Each of the 5,000 qualifying entrants had sent multiple examples of their creativity (a surprising share of which, baffling, somehow involved their house cat), of which I had to be certain to "showcase" the "best" works from the 500 finalists.
Jesus Murphy Brown.
It's due Monday.
Ruined
I have a sunburn, because when I went outside I forgot that usually by this time of year I've been outside before. I was too pale. I'm pretty sure I fractured my toe while hunting for my boy when he was AWOL, and while the limping is getting better I still can't manage to put on a pair of shoes. Also, I have plenty of hives. My hands shake while I drive.
I feel like a mess. I am a mess.
I have now racked up a grand total of two days off since last November -- that's Christmas and last Sunday, when my computer melted. I've been working two jobs for so long that the threat of leisure has become disquieting to me, and causes me angst. I'd rather labour than think.
Yeah, we got a new roof. Yeah, we got a new car. And yeah, we're pretty much out of debt. But I'm going to die.
There was supposed to be only one more month like this, but now my computer's fried and my deadline's shot and I don't know what'll happen next. I was focusing so hard on hanging on for just one more month. Where will I possibly find the reserves to push into July like this?
22 Short Films About Cheeseburger Brown, #4
Exterior. Night. Central Park.
A giant iridescent cube sits in the middle of Manhattan, its surface a phatanmagoria of swimming colour that casts fairly believable shafts of CGI volumetric light. Surrounding the cube are dozens of military professionals, their stomachs rumbling as they fondle their brown bagged lunches, fingers twitching.
Suddenly, Neo from The Matrix steps out of the cube. He is shot.
Later, he awakes in a secure hospital with Jennifer Conolly and her breasts at his bedside. He says, "Whoa."
"Why have you come here?"
"I'm only offering you the truth, nothing more."
"The truth?"
"That you were born into a prison you can't smell or taste or touch -- a prison for your mind."
"This can't be..."
"Be what? Be real? What is real? Have you ever had a dream you were so sure was real? How would you tell the real world from the dream world?"
"Because it isn't all green?"
"No, I mean other than that."
"I don't know...no, wait. Maybe I do. Maybe I'm just taking it for granted that I don't. I bet I could just walk right through that wall over there -- because it isn't really a wall, is it? It's a door."
"I can only show you the door. It's up to you to walk through it."
She attempts to walk through the wall, stumbles back, holding her bleeding nose. "Fuck!"
Neo sits up, concerned. "We should get that blouse off of you, quickly!"
"What? Why?"
"To stop the bleeding."
"Huh? Wait a minute -- why don't you just give me a dab of that alien healing ointment you have?"
He looks up at her, expression cold. "How do you know about that?"
"Back when I was a girl, I saw the 1951 version of this movie."
Meanwhile, back in New York, a giant cheeseburger-shaped robot has emerged from the cube, his eye a single light roving a slit in his metal mask. The army opens fire but their primitive bullets bounce harmlessly off his un-primitive hide, falling primitively to the grass.
Cheeseburger Brown: "Gort, gort, gort!"
Rear Admiral Hayworthy: "Hurry -- more bullets! And bring me my ship!"
Yeoman: "We can't break through, sir. There are too many buildings."
Rear Admiral Hayworthy: "Good Lord, man. What does this metal cheeseburger want from us? This cube situation is rapidly becoming trouble squared!"
Yeoman: "Sir, ha ha, sir."
Rear Admiral Hayworthy: "I don't think we have any alternate alternatives left. Prepare to release the Cloverfield monster!"
Cheeseburger Brown: "GORT!"
Suddenly, the processor that was rendering New York melts, leaving everyone standing around in front of a green-screen with ping-pong balls glued to their clothes.
Keanu Reeves catches his agent's eye. "Are we breaking for lunch?"
"I think so."
"What're we having?"
"Juice boxes and crackers from a brown bag."
Jennifer Conolly spits on the floor. "Aw, shit."
No longer needed, Cheeseburger Brown ascends into the sky leaving behind him an arc of rainbow. The gathered actors wave and call, "Farewell! Farewell, sweet Cheeseburger!"
"Go-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ort!"
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