Patterns

As I stood last night in the cold starkness left behind by the day's scattered rain, leaning against the swollen pine alcove outside my window, I found that small Black Widow spider exactly where she is every night. She's easy to miss... lurking in the shadowy corner, retreating at any sign of danger into an ancient screw hole where some sort of potted plant used to hang. Over the few months I've lived here I feel like I have gained some sort of repore with her. She is rarely scared by me at this point, and since I have resisted my initial urge to simply squish her, I think I might have gained some trust. She seems to put up with my smokey breath well enough, even though she sits a mere arms length from my face, and the orange glow from my smoldering cigarette does much to improve her already sinister position- perched like a gargoyle, gazing down on from above.

I find a strange sort of serenity being so close to such a tiny creature who yet wields such an immense power over me- the power to end my life. It's sort of humbling to realize the balance that her and I share: though we can share this small space so harmoniously each night, I still understand that she could easily kill me, or at least cause me great (and unwanted) pain, while at the same time I could easily just slide my paperback copy of Dashiell Hammett's The Thin Man out of my back pocket and end her life with a flick of my wrist. But instead we both resolve to keep to our own patterns- she hangs and hunts and creeps and kills and eats, same as her ancestors have done for thousands of years, and I lean and sigh and think and smoke and watch like men have done for centuries. Letting the world pass by for a moment. Noticing things we never would as we rush around all day. Blending into the dark for those small, precious moments where we become much like the spiders that we all find ourselves watching at some point or another. Maybe that's why I'm beginning to grow some sort of fondness for her... maybe, in some way, we have something in common, be it ever so small and existing for mere moments each day.

Then again, I can't create silk from nothing, and I prefer to digest my food AFTER I've swallowed it. Oh well.

RCS Cribs

So I'm finally all settled into my new house, which means: more time for RCS! 

I thought we'd start by starting the first of a monthly post- our version of MTV's Cribs: RCS Cribs. 

It's not really anything like Cribs... just awesome, unique, bad-ass, or beautiful places that people live, or have lived. 

Han vs. Mal... who's the better space bastard?

In the spring of 1977, one of the worst directors in history created one of the most popular movies of all time: Star Wars- A New Hope. God only knows how someone so obviously retarded created the most epic space opera ever... but I like to think it had something to do with that year: 

1977 was the ONLY year in history that it has snowed on the beach in Miami, Florida. It was the year that Roy Sullivan was struck by lightning for the SEVENTH time and survived. It was the year of Elvis' death. It was the year that SETI heard the "WOW!" signal from deep in space. It was the year food stamps were invented. It was the year Orlando Bloom was born...but, I digress. 

Putting aside my distaste for George Lucas, the point is that on May 25, 1977, the most bad-ass character in history was born: Han Solo.

He was cocky, arrogant, good looking, and just all-around fucking awesome. He was the first space cowboy... and no, I don't mean that shitty Clint Eastwood movie. 

Han wielded a futuristic blaster that still had its roots in a Colt 45 revolver, and when mixed with his cavalier attitude, he become possibly the most well loved hero of any movie. Ever. 
Especially when compared to how much of a pussy Luke was...


Han Solo's popularity remained pretty much unrivaled... that is, until September, 2002, when writer/ director Joss Whedon released his scifi/ western series: Firefly. As I'm sure anyone who's read this far and is still interested already knows, Firefly was promptly cancelled by Fox, but received one of the biggest cult followings of all time. It is now a staple centerpiece for any nerd's DVD library, and a topic for far too many drunken debates. 
If you haven't seen it, I'm sorry. I'm not going to try and describe it or give you a synopsis... because, frankly, that's what Google is for. Or just go torrent the show... it's only like 10 hours in it's entirety. I'm sure you have nothing better to do. (You're reading this...)

The point is, Joss Whedon had succeeded in finally, after almost 30 years, creating a character who could rival Han Solo: Captain Malcolm Reynolds. 

He fought on the losing side of a galactic civil war. He's mysterious... full of compassion, yet cold-hearted. Tormented by inner issues, he had this way of pulling people in; an intrigue. 
He was the perfect space cowboy: huge revolver, suspenders, leather duster, bad-ass spaceship. He even rides horses in several episodes!

Now, take a look at the two photos above- do you notice the similarities? Almost an identical pose. Han and Mal may have a lot in common, but they are very different. In the end, I think that Han presented a more shallow, likable character. Even his unpredictability was predictable- you knew when he was going to be a cocky jerk... that's just who he was. Mal was deeper... he was plagued with loss and personal issues, and you never knew how he would react. In essence, he was more real.

But all in all, this isn't for me to decide. I don't claim to have an answer, just a question. And an opinion... but my opinion isn't what this is about, so I'll leave it out. 
You decide- who is the better space hero? Who's the most memorable of these two cocky, pistol-toting, arrogant space bastards? 

Comments welcome. 



Writing credit: Steven Dye