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so the other day i had this idea for a downton abbey/indiana jones crossover fanfic...

chaodai — Fri, 01 Feb 2013 20:29:55 GMT

Indiana Jones and the Peril of the Middle Child
Completely Unauthorized Indiana Jones/Downton Abbey Fanfic
Javier Grillo-Marxuach
1.31.13

Presented with pre-emptive apologies to Julian Fellowes, George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, Herge, Ismail Merchant and James Ivory, David Lean, E.M. Forster, Kazuo Ishiguro, The Mahabharata, Harrison Ford, and Laura Carmichael and anyone who may be offended by a daffy parody of Orientalism in popular culture.

Part One

Even in 1924 - with the world becoming smaller with each passing day thanks to such wonders as the telephone and telegraph, newsreels, and even the British Broadcasting Corporation’s fledgling operations - the journey from a country estate in Yorkshire to the Jewel of the Crown remained a thoroughly exhausting slog: three weeks of trains, ferries and steam ships.

Thankfully, Lady Edith Crawley had three week’s worth of work in her kit. Sent to Bombay on assignment by The Sketch to provide a “balanced woman’s perspective on the inauguration of the Gateway to India monument,” Lady Edith - never one to leave a stone unturned in her pursuit of completion - had packed as many books in her cases as hats and dresses.

The books turned out to be a blessing, as her traveling companions, Miss Adela Quested and her future mother-in-law, Mrs. Moore (the only way her parents would allow and finance her endeavor was by securing for Lady Edith the company of a respectable fellow traveler and her older chaperone), seemed far too concerned with Miss Quested’s impending nuptials and with their somewhat naive expectation of friendship from Her Majesty’s colonial subjects to pay much attention to Lady Edith’s attempts at fellowship. For the balance of three weeks, Lady Edith contented herself with the company of a chaise longue, and T.E. Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom, Hugh Gunn’s The British Empire: A Survey, and a recent translation of The Mahabharata.

By the time Miss Quested and Mrs. Moore parted ways with Lady Edith at the Bombay Harbor - sending their bags ahead with porters and agreeing to meet for dinner at the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel - she was more than relieved to throw caution to the wind and board a rickshaw accompanied only by a massive woven hat, her trusty Bombay Baedeker and the highly-polished, cloisonné-handled cane her grandmama had insisted she take - claiming that it had “served as her guardian on numerous escapades.”

After much linguistic confusion, Lady Edith successfully convinced the muscular young man who was to be her driver to take her to the Siddhivinayak Temple - one of the unmissable sights of the city.

Leaning back on her seat, Lady Edith could do little else than to allow the brobdignangnian heat wash over the soft cotton shift she had chosen to wear, and let the sights, sounds and smells of the city overwhelm her usually preoccupied mind.

Although her thoughts would invariably drift back to Downton Abbey - her sister’s inexhaustible stock of insulting insinuations about her ability to survive a journey such as this one, her mother’s benign lack of affect on all matters regarding her occupation, and even the occasional consideration of what sort of “escapades” a battle-axe like the Dowager Countess could have probably encountered in a life lived in service to the Aristocracy - Bombay soon became all-consuming in its scope and superabundance of sensual stimulation.

The scent of spice and humanity, the vivid colors expressed in every sign, storefront and sari, and the sheer otherness of the architecture all steadily conspired to conquer in Lady Edith’s thoughts any of the anxieties of her life as a middle-child spinster whose sole worth to her family seemed to be as a challenge in husbandry.

Indeed, it took only a moment’s travel through the crowded streets of this alien mecca to dislodge Lady Edith from the bonds of her upbringing…and even her ongoing consideration of how strange it was - as a result of a mere minute’s travel powered by one young man’s feet - to be the only spot of alabaster in a sea of sun-kissed brown.

Nevertheless, all it took was the sound of gunfire and the crack of a bullwhip from an uncertain distance to bring all of her anxieties about being a stranger in a strange land back to the fore.

Though her driver ignored the racket - probably as inured to the sound of violence as he was to the sound of cattle: all part of life in so varied a crowded city as this one - Lady Edith snapped out of her reverie, her large, coffee-colored eyes widening even further as she scanned the endless crowd for the donnybrook…and her hat practically broke the sound barrier as her head turned to face the young man piling into the seat next to her.

“Go! Go! Go! Keep moving like I was always here!” shouted the man at the driver as he dropped the rickety vehicle’s canopy to conceal his and Lady Edith’s face in the shade before turning to address her:

“Hope you don’t mind some company, doll, I need to lay low.”

Of course, Lady Edith’s first instinct was to protest: to shout something along the lines that she found it revolting to share her ride with some uncouth roughneck: much less a sweaty, stubbly American in a dirty, beat-up fedora and smelly leather jacket - a man so unconcerned with appearances that he carried a weapons holster and bullwhip in the open streets of a civilized outpost of Her Majesty’s…

…but that’s not what she said.

What came out of her mouth was a surprised chirp taking the form of a name she thought long forgotten:

“Henry Walton Jones!”

“Junior,” he corrected, before the sheer magnitude of this coincidence caught up with his situational awareness, and he himself spoke out in the register of complete bafflement:

“Lady Edith Crawley?”

For a moment, the two stared at one another, simultaneously flashing back to April of 1912.

In that month, a then-thirteen year-old Henry Jones Junior spent several weeks in London visiting his former tutor - the nouveau riche academe Helen Margaret Seymour. Together, they also attended a colossally tedious dinner at Darlington Hall.

That dinner was also attended by the Crawley family and a then-seventeen year-old Lady Edith. Of course, that was before Papa gave up on Lord Darlington as…well…a “feckless twit,” which - especially given so many of Papa’s judgment calls about his family and the management of his estate in the following years - was a thoroughly damning indictment.

That Henry Walton Jones Junior had been a passenger on the doomed ocean crossing that took the lives of cousins Jamie and Patrick and set off the crisis of succession that would absorb so much of the Crawley family’s time and effort in the years that followed did not come up, nor would it in the adventure that ensued…

…because no sooner had Henry Walton Jones Junior and Lady Edith Crawley come to the realization that they were, in fact and completely - with almost supernatural serendipity - occupying the same rickshaw in a side street of a Bombay market in 1924, that the rickshaw’s canopy was struck by a flaming arrow, setting it ablaze in seconds.

As the rickshaw driver busied himself with procuring a bucket of water with which to douse the threat to the source of his livelihood, Jones leapt from the flaming chassis and lifted Lady Edith from her seat, planting her solidly on the street before turning to face the foursome of assassins - wearing purple turbans held in place by blood-red jewels and wielding bagh nakh, iron tiger claw daggers attached to their hands - leaping from the second story of a nearby building to confront him.

The sound of Jones’s bullwhip POP-POP-POPPING into a defensive cordon around him and Lady Edith was not enough to distract her from the bellowing war-cry of a fifth assassin: rushing toward her from the opposite side of the conflagration, tucking his bow under the same arm as his quiver and deploying his own set of bagh nakh.

“The cane, Lady Edith! Use your cane!”

From the corner of her eye, Lady Edith saw a flash of Jones - bullwhip tangled around the arm of one of his assailants, whom he now used as a shield against the slashing of the other three.

As the fifth assassin continued his surge toward Lady Edith, Jones barely had enough time to toss his human cover at the others like a bowling ball, turn toward her and SNAP open the cloisonné handle of her cane.

The action yielded a long, thin foil - hidden in the highly-polished blackwood lacquered shaft of the walking stick - and a gasp from Lady Edith.

“What? You didn’t know you were carrying a sword cane?” shouted Jones.
 For an infinitesimal fraction of a hair’s breadth of a second, Lady Edith regarded the sword emerging from her grandmama’s cane and thought: “isn’t that bloody typical of the Dowager Countess - handing me a weapon that could save my life in a pinch, but never explaining its function and purpose, in the hopes that I will somehow - in the course of my eventual maturation - discover it on my own.”

The remainder of that second consisted of the return to her body of the muscle memories from the fencing lessons given - as a concession to impending modernity - as part of her Lady’s education…and the sound of a Smith & Wesson revolver, handily and non-lethally blasting at the limbs of the four men with the lethal iron tiger claws on their hands, and sending them running.

By the time Jones turned from his piece of the melee, Lady Edith was parrying the slashing blows of her attacker and keeping him at bay with expert ease. Having spent his cylinder on his part of the fight, Jones simply reached down for the Lady’s fallen Baedeker and - with a haymaker-like wind-up of the arm - sent the considerable tome flying through the air and into the attacker’s eyes.

Crying out in blinding agony, the purple-turbaned assassin clutched the Baedeker to his face, turned and fled, leaving Henry Walton Jones Junior and Lady Edith Crawley alone in Bombay…with no Baedeker.

Part Two

The front desk attendant at Bombay’s less-than-fashionable and not-entirely-reputable Hotel Hrundi-Bakshi was less-than-impressed by Henry Jones’ attempts to strong-arm him into letting him into the room occupied by Walter Wise (who - as Jones had less-than-successfully tried to explain before resorting to grabbing the attendant’s necktie and reeling back his fist - was a world-renowned archaeologist and dear friend).

Proving herself a useful and helpful person (she had long-ago stopped using the word “spinster” as the logical conclusion to that string of adjectives), Lady Edith simply paid the outstanding balance on Mister Wise’s room and added a healthy tip by way of apology for her rough-hewn companion’s physical threat.

“Now,” began Lady Edith as they climbed the steps to Walter Wise’s room, “will you explain to me why you have insisted that I accompany you to this…” she looked around, trying to figure out the correct combination of nouns and adjectives to describe this unsavory place, but only coming up with the common denominator, “hotel?”

“I was working a dig just outside of Chandrapore when I got a telegram from Walter Wise - he was a few years ahead of me at the University of Chicago; an expert in Indian Mysticism and weapons. All the telegram said was: ‘Narayanastra found. Under Duress. Hotel Hrundi-Bakshi Bombay.’ Those men followed me from the moment I stepped off the train - my guess is they knew Walter had sent me the telegram, but not where I was going.”

“You still have not answered my question.”

“Dammit, lady!”

“Stop calling me that!”

“What? ‘lady’? Isn’t that your title?”

“It is my title, Henry Walton Jones Junior, but you don’t have to say it with such disgust and revulsion - that is NOT how you address a lady…or a Lady.”

“Fine then,” shrugged Jones, “and you call me ‘Indiana.’”

“Wasn’t that the name of your dog?” she asked, legitimately conjuring a hazy memory of that night at Darlington Hall.

Jones stopped, and turned to Lady Edith, pointing his fore finger at her in preparation for a rebuke…then thought better of it in consideration of the pursing lips and flaring nostrils below her furrowing brow.

Jones’ tone softened as he led the way from the staircase to Wise’s door and continued: “the Narayanastra -”

“Was a magical weapon wielded by Lord Vishnu in his human form, it looked like an ordinary bow, but it would simultaneously fire a fusillade consisting of millions of flaming spectral arrows that could decimate any enemy!”

Lady Edith’s satisfied smile filled the hallway with the kind of glow intelligent women always experience when encountering those who underestimate them…a glow very much the equal of Jones’ confusion.

“I’ve read The Mahabharata.” she concluded triumphantly.

Jones grimaced and picked up the thread where he left it: “and the reason you can’t go back to your hotel, is that I used your Baedeker to belt that death-cultist across the face and he ran away with it.”

“So?”

“Would I be wrong in assuming a Lady would have most likely written her name and hotel of temporary residence in the inside cover of her Baedeker while traveling abroad?”

Lady Edith shook her head. She was found out.

“And can I also assume you don’t want to be stalked to your hotel by death cultists?”

“Yes…but…how do you know they are death cultists?”

“Purple turbans, iron tiger claws, the murderous drive to acquire a mystical weapon of unspeakable power at any cost? Or maybe,” Jones concluded, pointing to his head in the place occupied by the turban pins worn by their would-be killers “just that they were wearing shards of the blood jewel of Gaipajama - the sigil of a notorious death cult led by a nefariously evil demagogue known only as Gobinda?”

His logic was unassailable…and the smile he shot her to bring his point home would have registered as unbearably smug had the curl of his thick lower lip, the rise of the scar above his chin and the quiet intelligence glowing behind his intense blue eyes not given his face a delightfully churlish charm: a would-be scoundrel not yet completely aware of his power over the ladies.

The door to Wise’s room gave way to its key, and the contents inside gave truth to Indiana’s suppositions, even as Lady Edith insisted:

“But surely there is no such thing as the Narayanastra.”

Jones shut the door behind her and moved to a campaign desk on the far side of the room, picking up a group of loose pages and newspaper articles as she opened the large bay windows on the far end of the room.

“He hasn’t been here in days,” deduced Indiana Jones, scanning the room and seeing the clothes hanging in the armoire and shaving kit by the basin - his voice registering a scale of descending regret, “probably at the bottom of the Ganges by now - poor old sport.”

Jones’ moment of mourning for his classmate was quickly interrupted by Lady Edith’s own epiphany as she scanned the newspaper clippings on the campaign desk:

“That’s the Gateway of India!” she exclaimed, recognizing the unmistakable carbuncling of architectural styles she had been sent here to document.

“Yeah, and…”

“Let us say you know of a group of death cultists who are after a magical artifact of great power - presumably, they will use it to deal their enemies a devastating blow…perhaps at the opening ceremonies of a monument placed by foreign invaders in the center of the largest city in their homeland…the Viceroy himself will be on hand. I know, I was sent to interview him!”

As Lady Edith’s words sank in, Indiana Jones lifted another image from the campaign desk.

It was a sketch in Walter Wise’s unmistakeable pen strokes: the image of a fearsome, bearded man man in a turban sporting a pin made from a shard of the blood jewel of Gaipajama.

Underneath the sketch, in Walter’s handwriting: GOBINDA - BLOOD MASTER OF GAIPAJAMA.

“Holy shit,” muttered Indiana Jones, just enough under his breath to avoid causing great distress to the noblewoman in his midst, and then, raising his voice, “Walter must have known what they were up to…”

“But this all still leaves one major riddle to solve,” she added, “who has the Narayanastra? The death cultists? Walter?”

“Or -” she then added in a misguided attempt at wit, “some disinterested third party?”

Flummoxed, Indiana Jones took in all the air his lungs could carry and exhaled a frustrated sigh while wiping the sweat pouring from his brow. Wearing leather to these tropical climes only made sense in the way that wearing armor made sense - but as he threw back his head, remove his hat to run a hand through his damp hair…

…he noticed that the ceiling fan overhead featured what appeared to be hastily-constructed fourth spar.

Indiana Jones stepped on the bed and reached for the spar.

It broke off easily in his hand, for it was made of simple wrapping paper, barely matching the other fan blades…

…and as Lady Edith came closer to look as he unwrapped his discovery, both their faces were illuminated by the unearthly lambent glow of a gilded bow.

It was beautiful.

The weapon of a God.

So beautiful, in fact, that it completely distracted Indiana Jones and Lady Edith Crawley from the footfalls of the death cultists making their way down the hallway…and the clicking of the Mauser carbines for which they had traded in their bagh nakh.

Death cultists, after all, may seek to commune with the darkness of the underworld and bring morbidity of the soul to the living, but that does not mean they do not know well enough to find superior firepower after being handily routed the first time.

And so it was that - in spite of Lady Edith Crawley’s brave brandishing of her grandmama’s sword cane - Indiana Jones was forced to hand over the Narayanastra: the manifestation of the power of Vishnu in the realm of the living - to the minions of Gobinda - Blood Master of Gaipajama…

…whom they had not defeated on the streets of Bombay…

…who had followed them to this place…

…and who planned on using this hyper-recondite object of power beyond the imagination to kill thousands of innocents and deal a crippling blow to the British Empire.

The only further victory earned that day, then, was the subsequent Pyrrhic confirmation of Indiana Jones’ considerable physical skill. In backing away from the Mausers pointed at him and the lady, he was still able to grab her by the waist and leap out the open window.

A multitude of saffron awnings broke their five stories high fall and confused the aim of the death cultists as they fired their weapons in their wake.

Though the incident was most certainly a necessary solution to an unfortunate setback, it was also the wildest ride of Lady Edith Crawley’s life.

Part Three

Doctor Kanakaiah Shankar was not only a friend of Indiana Jones’ from his travels in Benares over a decade back; he had risen through the finest schools in the world to become head chemist of the Sharadchandra Corporation - one of the most successful Indian-owned concerns in the sub-continent.

Doctor Kanakaiah was not only a genius on par with Edison, he also possessed a puckish sense of humor…which is why, when Indiana Jones came knocking at the door of his flat in the middle of the night - accompanied by a beautiful, khaki pant-suited girl with the most spectacularly gorgeous aquiline nose he had ever seen - asking if he could concoct a large scale version of a childhood prank they had once played, he could only answer “of course!” and call for a cab to take them to his laboratory across the city.

“This flask,” declared Doctor Kanakaiah - his dark eyes shining with mischievous glee after only a few hours of toil in his lab, “contains a chemical so malodorous that no human will want to be within a quarter mile of it who hasn’t smeared the inside of his - or her - nasal passages with this…”

Dcotor Kanakaiah put down the flask holding the chemical stink bomb he had just cooked up and held up a pair of smaller vials.

“Clove oil,” declared Indiana Jones through gritted teeth.

“The only thing that can chemically neutralize the overwhelmingly Earth-shattering stench I have created for you.”

Doctor Kanakaiah stifled a chuckle at the memory of a time when he and young Indiana Jones had released a much more primitive version of this compound at a tea party held by the insufferable wife of his region’s colonial governor.

“What is in that flask?” asked Lady Edith.

“You DON’T WANT TO KNOW,” answered the men…right before sharing a collective Big Dumb Laugh.

“Then I only have one more question, Indiana, ” began Lady Edith.

“Indiana?” interrupted Doctor Kanakaiah, turning to Jones, a residual smile still on his face, “did you bring your malamute along this time?”

Indiana Jones rolled his eyes, but refrained from any further comment to let the Lady finish:

“Even if we manage to clear the Gateway to India of all people before the death cultists attack, won’t they still be able to use the weapon to destroy the monument?”

“Yes, and I don’t care,” came Jones’ reply - dripping with Yankee swagger and bravado.

Lady Edith’s eyes showed him her concern.

“He can only use the weapon once,” Jones concluded with a shake of his head.

“That’s right…The Mahabharata says so,” exclaimed Lady Edith, her gears turning, “and if Gobinda - Blood Master of Gaipajama - tries to use the weapon a second time, he will be consumed by its power.”

“And frankly,” concluded Indiana Jones, “I don’t much care if you limeys lose a few tons of limestone commemorating your subjugation of this place if I get to save a couple thousand lives.”

“I can’t say that I disagree,” added Doctor Kanakaiah, “only that I wish I could be there to see my creation at work.”

“No offense,” was all Jones had let to offer the Lady.

“None taken,” she replied, showing her ability to mark time with the boys, “I have never needed to eat limes to prevent scurvy - thank you very much - and I have some very particular ideas of my own about the role of the British Empire in the world.”

Part Four

Had he been eleven years old and in the company of his friend, the chemistry prodigy from Benares, Henry Walton Jones Junior would have laughed his rear end off at the sight of thousands of colonialist stuffed-shirts running away from an odor so foul it defied description, comprehension, and - frankly - human decency.

Indeed, Doctor Kanakaiah’s creation - deployed seconds ago at the center of the plaza surrounding the Gateway to India, in plain view and within nostril range of the now running-away Viceroy, Lord Sir Gerald Rufus Isaacs - was an order of magnitude from his childhood experiments. Thanks to Lady Edith Crawley’s press credentials from The Sketch, and her exclusive invitation to the inner circle of the event (the privilege of her nobility) she and Indiana Jones had been extraordinarily close to the Union Jack-buntinged bandstand and podium set up for the event.

Even the military honor guard dropped their rifles and rushed off in absolute shock and horror.

It was truly a thing of beauty (and continued proof that it was extraordinarily fortunate for the human race that Doctor Kanakaiah had chosen to put his intellect in the service of good instead of evil).

The Gateway to India remained above them - hundreds of feet of stone reminding the entire city of who was truly in charge. Neither Indiana Jones nor Lady Edith could say they loved the monument - so gaudy a mixture of Roman, Indian and Muslim triumphalist architecture as it was - but the rapid dispersal of so massive a crowd around so extraordinary a structure was the cause of some awe…and the smell of cloves made for a fragrant sense memory that neither of them would soon forget…

…until a lone figure made asymmetrical the throng of humanity running away by coming toward them.

A man whose dark features Indiana Jones and Lady Edith recognized from Walter Wise’s traumatized sketch.

It was Gobinda - Blood master of the Gaipajama.

Dressed in white robes and a purple turban with a red jewel - his face smeared with streaks of red to match the color of the stone over his forehead - this warlord of death planted his feet ten meters from Indiana Jones and Lady Edith Crawley…chanting incantations as he drew the gleaming cutlass that was the Narayanastra overhead, pulling back the shining thread of shimmering samite that powered this lethal weapon from infinity.

“How can he possibly stand the smell?” demanded Indiana Jones.

Lady Edith threw up her hands in rage and frustration:

“He’s wearing make-up! Clove oil is commonly used in the manufacture of many cosmetics!”

The Narayanastra now faced them - gleaming with cosmic and spiritual energy as if gathering from the very cosmos itself the strength of a million white-hot starfires.

Seeing no other way out, Indiana Jones reached for his gun in the hopes that a bullet might put down this evildoer before the deed was done.

A soft and warm hand stayed his weapon.

“You will only make him more powerful.”

“What?” he shouted, and Edith returned with a cross expression:

“You said you read The Mahabharata!”

“I did -” he dissembled with escalating annoyance, “most of it - it was a very lengthy text!”

“When Ashwathama used the Narayanastra,” explained Lady Edith as quickly as humanly possible, “Vishnu’s avatar told the five Pandava that the only way to stand against so unearthly a weapon was to submit, to surrender: we can only prevail through peace, humility and submission to the will of the divine!”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“You must find the one place in your mind where you know peace and stay there until after he has fired the weapon!”

Gobinda’s incantations grew louder and a mass of bolts - spectral missiles of pure destruction from the heavens - manifested in the air around him…multiplying…trembling… waiting for him to release the onslaught.

“You have a place like that?” snapped Indiana Jones.

“I - well - absolutely, I do -” asserted Lady Edith, her voice gaining strength, “it’s that place that I have relied upon my entire life. A place I know in spite of being belittled since birth by a father who cannot muster the necessary affection to not begin his every sentence with an assertion of disappointment in my not having been a male heir. The same place that nourishes me when my mother’s benign neglect feels like abject cruelty…or my sister Mary’s barbs land with all their disdaining fury…or the memory of sweet, dearly-departed Sybil feels like more of a presence at Downton than my own life. It’s the place I called home when that murder of emotionally abusive crows I call a family sabotaged my opportunity to find love with that kind, sweet Anthony Strallan, or with Michael Gregson. It’s the place that allowed me to soldier on when I learned that my dear Patrick was still alive and they drove him away…it’s the place all middle children go to, the place that allows us to survive when the entire world seems like an organized conspiracy orchestrated to confirm our inadequacy!”

The mass of flaming arrows from another dimension beyond science and reality now formed a wall before Lady Edith and Indiana Jones.

She clasped his callused hand and asked a final question:

“What about you?”

“I’m just gonna think about my mom.”

With a great and echoing scream, Gobinda - Blood Master of Gaipajama - released a million flaming missiles of destruction in the path of two heroes whose sole defense was to hold hands and think of home…

…and with a calming drone reminiscent of the infinite OM which heralded the birth of the known universe, the missiles simply disappeared mere inches before reaching Henry Walton Jones Junior and Lady Edith Crawley…

…confirming once and for all, the simple power of serenity in a world of chaos and dischord.

Epilogue

At the end of one of the most intense manhunts in colonial history, the Gurkhas caught up with Gobinda - Blood Master of Gaipajama - in the arid caves of Marabar. He was but a shell of a man by then - a desiccated husk convinced that no power on Earth or beyond would ever deign to end the British rule of his land.

Attempting to turn the Narayanastra on his attackers (he had apparently not finished The Mahabharata, lengthy text that it is) Gobinda - Blood master of Gaipajama - was consumed in a blast of heavenly fire.

The gilded and lambent bow was never found, presumed taken with its erstwhile master to worlds unknown…perhaps only to return at a time when humanity demonstrated an ability to use so powerful a boon.

The Home Office promptly - and generously - compensated Indiana Jones for his service and courage, and put him on a train back to his dig before he could ask any further questions…or even meet Lady Edith for a quiet meal in celebration of their friendship and triumph.

Sitting on the hard wooden bench of a dusty second-class train car bound for Chandrapore, Indiana Jones could not help but think of the intelligent, wise, and unconventionally beautiful young woman who had helped him find the last discovery of Walter Wise…

…for many years to come he would wonder about her, and - on his many trips to London - pick up The Sketch and read her work, never quite working up the courage to board a train to Yorkshire and ask after her at that gargantuan country estate. A lifetime of adventures had left him with little taste for the aristocracy and their stifling customs…but he never quite shook the feeling that she was different, and would have been worth the effort.

Eager to quash any indication of the efficacy of Indian mysticism and archaeological relics as a tool to fight the British Dominion of the sub-continent, the Viceroy simply declared that a terrible clerical error had been made. The crowd had simply gathered on the wrong day…during which an unfortunate sewage explosion caused a malodorous conflagration.

Lady Edith Crawley’s eternal silence on the matter was traded for a lengthy interview in which the Viceroy promised to answer every one of her incisive questions. After several hours of her trenchant scrutiny, he commended her not just for saving the Gateway to India, but also her journalistic acuity. In the unending commotion of this vast city - where so many lives were consumed with struggles of their own - the incident was soon forgotten as the party line took hold and the official story became the received truth.

The whirlwind of events had left Lady Edith so stunned that she almost forgot the sting of Indiana Jones’ hasty departure from Bombay. Almost.

While Lady Edith’s life eventually encompassed a level of accomplishment and personal fulfillment that gainsaid every utterance ever spoken - and so many unspoken - about her by her parents and siblings, she often thought back to this trip to India as a kind of turning point…

…and on more than one occasion - as she drifted off into invariably hard-earned slumber - Lady Edith Crawley saw the stubbled face of a rough young American, and felt the touch of his hand on hers…the hand of a archaeologist and a soldier…a warrior in whose grasp she had finally known peace.

the right to not bear arms

chaodai — Sat, 26 Jan 2013 19:25:39 GMT

my death is not only inevitable - it is also, imminent.

no, i have neither been diagnosed with a lethal ailment and given minutes to live, nor am i contemplating suicide once i am done putting this down. i merely mean that my life is a mere flash in the two million or so years in which humanity has walked the earth.

seen in the perspective of that time frame, the end of my life is, in fact, coming very soon - whenever in my life it may choose to arrive. i might as well accept it.

i think about that whenever the topic of gun control comes up…especially when a czar of american letters like david mamet picks up the quill to write a barn-burning opinion piece (like that on the cover of this week’s newsweek) in which he insists that the right to bear arms is an essential component to society; both in that it insures protection against the corrupt depredations of an increasingly intrusive government, as well as in that it is an essential prophylactic against incivility. in mamet’s philosophy, no one dares to be an aggressor in an society in which every man, woman and child is given the inalienable right to carry guns.

in short: mutually assured destruction is the best insurance for our right to life. in the macro: should the government overstep, an armed populace will rise to pull it down. in the micro: if you kill, you will be killed.

mamet’s argument is lucid, reasoned, and takes its cues from his - and many other intelligent people’s - interpretation of the frame of reference and aims of the founding fathers. it does not surprise me that many whom i consider to be level-headed intellects feel as mamet does: that an individual is the best and only person to decide how to defend themselves, and that, in this world, an individual can only properly accomplish that goal in possession of a firearm.

still…reading mamet’s piece, i could not help but be struck by the preening, hypermasculine worship of conflict implicit in his every sentence. the bedrock conviction that the natural state of humanity is ideological crisis which will erupt into violence at any moment is implicit in his thesis, as well as his beliefs about the role of government, and the individual, in society.

i suppose this should not come as a surprise from mamet. his work, from the sacred “glengarry glen ross” to the profane - his martial arts film “redbelt” and his television series “the unit” - range from what is essentially a valentine to the poetry of emotional abuse to sustained explorations of the ability to enforce one’s mark in combat against aggressors in a world that is viciously opposed to mutual understanding.

to live in the world expressed by mamet - and, to some degree, to live in the world of most who believe in the socially-sanctioned ability to take a life when necessary - is to live in (to borrow and recontextualize a phrase from carl sagan) a demon-haunted world. it is a prison - a maze in which predators lurk behind every corner and meanness of the soul is the prime motivator.

the founding fathers must have believed in this world, being as they flagged the right to bear arms in a language as carefully considered as the right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness…and, again, it makes situational sense: they had been oppressed by a totalitarian monarchy and were surrounded by natives who were - understandably - hostile to their genocidal designs on their ancestral homeland.

all of which raises the more important question: when does humanity evolve from the right to bear arms to the right not to?

the study of violence in television - a topic concomitant with issues relating to guns - has yielded a phrase which has bounced in my head since i first encountered it: “mean world syndrome.” the concept is simple: the depiction of violence in popular culture may or may not incite actual violence, but it almost certainly creates the indelible - and vastly exaggerated - impression in viewers that the world is a nasty, brutish place in which violence is not only an acceptable means by which to resolve conflict, but also a complete inevitability.

the belief in a mean world may be profitable for gun manufacturers, but i believe it is a cancer of the soul and an impediment to evolution.

evolution is a difficult proposition, just as “thou shalt not kill” is a difficult admonition to follow - especially when others want what you have and have no moral barriers to its acquisition. it is harder to reason than to kill, it is harder to compromise than to kill, it is harder to exercise empathy than to kill, it is harder to persuade, to forgive, to make a fearless moral inventory of our own wrongs, and to leave others to do the same and see the error of their own ways, than to kill.

it is, admittedly, harder to accomplish pretty much anything without the threat of a reckoning than it is to swing a big stick; and yet, over and over, since the evolution of consciousness, the prohibition of murder continues to be the central tenet of human spiritual and ethical growth. i believe this to be an evolutionary adaptation - a call across the eons telling us that the next step in our development as a species is collaboration and nonviolence.

in spiritual terms, the hard simplicity of the statement “thou shalt not kill” makes its challenge frighteningly clear. it does not say “thou shalt not kill save for cases of home invasion” or “thou shalt not kill except for when your way of life is being threatened by a formerly democratic government that has really gotten way too autocratic for its britches” and it sure as shekels doesn’t say “thou shalt not kill save for in the case of an organized state militia.”

for all the embellishments that human beings put in their spiritual traditions - usually designed to tell others how to live their lives in stultifying, homogeneous obedience and keep out undesirables - it is surprising how often the prohibition of murder shows up. the seeds of virtue are programmed to survive the death of the individual: “thou shalt not kill” - in all of its forms, across secular and spiritual thought - keeps outliving people, democracies and dictatorships. that is evolution at work.

evolution is hard and inconvenient to expediency. however, as i have been blessed with the luxury of living in what is - arguably - a democracy in which my participation is still allowed - of the opportunity to make a living in my chosen field, of a surfeit of creature comforts and technological expediency, of a preponderance of like-minded individuals who share my faith in god and my reliance on a number of societal systems designed to further my way of life - usually at the expense of others - i believe that i have a duty to make my life difficult in, at the very least, some minuscule but relevant way.

chris hedges famously titled one of his books “war is a force that gives us meaning.” his argument is that both the perception and reality of never-ending battle instills in human beings a sense of purpose. as long as there is someone or something to oppose, the soul is filled with the comforting tonic of simplicity: don’t worry about empathy, reason, the truth that all humans are genetically identical, or the underlying unity of world religion and ethics, shoot to kill, indulge your need for violent conquest and all the fuss and muss of your worldly life becomes a distant memory. there’s an addictive satisfaction and perverse joy in that.

the bearing of arms, and the perception of it as a right is - to me - a vestige of a primal addiction to violence, and the anodyne ease of a life led in manichean opposition: an expression of the spirit-destroying contradiction that to be alive and free is to be on constant alert for coming war. to be armed is to never lose sight of the possibility that at any time we may be called upon to reassert our triumphant masculinity through the application of lethal force.

i believe that finding a way of life that does not automatically see in strangers the threat of extinction - that takes kindness, tolerance and collaboration as the first assumption of human coexistence - is both a christian and darwinian ideal: a natural continuation of the rise of consciousness. i refuse to be a walking deterrent - just as i refuse to be a talking inciter - of violence.

i believe that there is an evolutionary imperative - expressed across a majority of spiritual and secular traditions - for the prohibition of murder under any circumstance. i aspire to live in a society where fear of the other is not understood as the baseline, and feel duty-bound to that aspiration because the accident of my birth in the wealthiest and freest nation in the planet affords me the privilege to strive for that ideal.

i believe that the responsibility that accompanies the largely unearned rewards of my privilege - and that of almost every other american - is the exploration of a way of life in which that bounty is no longer earned through violence or exploitation.

i have made peace with the inevitability of my own death. statistically, the greatest likelihood is that the end of my life will come as a result of heart disease brought about by the excessive consumption of processed foods. even in our gun-loving, violence-obsessed, perpetually-in-defcon-1 united states of america, the possibility of my dying as a result of a violent incident involving firearms - even one involving terrorists carrying firearms - is lower than an automobile accident, plane crash or lightning strike…so i will not carry a gun in expectation of the one-man war that my very way of life has already conspired to prevent.

so i will use my freedom to employ words, actions and ideas to convince others that to strap on a cold reminder of the ability to take life is not a freeing act, but a bondage to a way of life that must be stopped…

…and if i’m shot by a terrorist, or a jackbooted footsoldier of a totalitarian regime - or even a common criminal? forgive them. or don’t. i won’t care. i’ll be dead…and the life of my killers, and whatever they stood for that was so important that it required my extinction, will end just as quickly, cosmically speaking, as mine.

i refuse my right to bear arms because i prefer to advocate for my right not to.

i refuse my right to bear arms because i believe that to be the truest expression of the privilege for which so many have killed and died.

i refuse my right to bear arms because i believe that gandhi, einstein, sagan, jesus, buddha - and even ayn rand, whose words i’ll quote as a credibility-destroying concession to a young adulthood misspent re-reading “atlas shrugged” - agreed on one thing: “force and mind are opposites; morality ends where a gun begins.”

three thoughts on "quantum of solace"

chaodai — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 09:02:12 GMT

1. there's this kind of shot called "a master," it's the one that tells the audience where people/objects are located in space. paul greengrass knows how to use them. no really, he does.

2. i was staying up late at night burning with uncertainty as to whether james bond could kick the ass of the guy from "the diving bell and the butterfly." thank god, our long national nightmare is over.

3. i will be quitting my regular career to build a high-end resort in the middle of the bolivian desert. the selling point will be that the entire outer architecture of the building will consist of highly flammable fuel cells. who wants to invest?

and if you think that keith olbermann is just another liberal media fat cat...

chaodai — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 07:21:33 GMT

...here is ed bacon, rector of all saints pasadena episcopal church - a man of the cloth - giving a simple christian interpretation of the injustice of proposition 8...

since i can't say it this well, i'll let keith olbermann say it for me

chaodai — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 07:16:30 GMT

the boy in this picture...

chaodai — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 12:27:55 GMT

...is voting for barack obama.

growing up in puerto rico in the early seventies, this child was taught about the united states of america: not the usa of nixon, kissinger, cambodia, and chile, but an idea of equality and democracy - a nation of tolerance, freedom and opportunity.

the wounded and somewhat jaded adult knows damn well that our political system is far from democratic - that it takes money and compromise to become president and that it is quite possible that the next occupant of the oval office will be just another in a long line of party apparatchiks toeing the line of big business, realpolitik and the increasingly shameless pursuit of power for its own sake.

the child understands intuitively that to vote into office a biracial man named "barack hussein obama" - a man who has taken "the audacity of hope" as his slogan, appeals to the better angels of his constituency's reason and honor as opposed to their primal fears, and advocates that we revisit the decisions of the past administration not with a renewed appetite for conflict, but with a commitment to diplomacy and discussion - is to bring closer to reality the idea of the united states with which he grew up.

in case my views on the bush administration or the fate of this country are in question, i am reprinting below the complete text of a two-part blog i posted in 2005 - nothing has changed since...

what constitutes a turning point?

one of the most significant ones in my life came during my freshman year of college.

my two most important friends in at the time were my roommate jon and his friend jonathan. they were “the jons” as it were, and i - being a year behind and significantly less worldly and socially adjusted - made for a good mascot/little brother/whipping boy.

jon was a complicated, mercurial sort - prone to wild fits of inspiration and energy, an audacious firebrand who leapt face first where angels fear to tread. jonathan was a silver-tongued charmer with enough native charisma to power a city.

the day i met jonathan, he was sitting at our dining nook with jon: they were having a chili pepper-eating contest, and chasing down the burn with vodka. somewhere in the form and substance of that particularly masochistic competition is a metaphor for the common ground that formed the axis of their friendship: and the way they lived their lives.

more often than not, i would stumble home from what i thought to have been a downright scandalous late night of movie viewing and hanging out at the campus coffeehouse only to have the jons storm the apartment and order me to pack a suit and tie.

soon - whether i wanted or not - i would be on the road to atlantic city, lying about my age to enter a casino, smoking cigars, drinking brandy from a snifter and looking fabulous.

however - as one might imagine would be the case with such diametrically opposed personalities - they fought on more than one occasion.

and so, one mid-afternoon, as i entered the one-room, L-shaped university apartment i shared with jon and hit the answering machine (something i did frequently, even when i had been in the room all day without hearing a ring) i found a turning point.

there was one message on the machine. from jonathan to jon -

“i don’t like it when we fight like this, please give me a call so we can talk about it.”

so how does eavesdropping on a private message constitute a turning point?

i had little experience with apologies. it wasn’t an activity that seemed natural. most teenage boys simply grunt their way through the inarticulate rituals of their lives without any thought. sensitive and artistic as i may have been as a young man, i was as much a product of the environment as the next guy.

but not jonathan. conciliation was in his bones. not weakness, mind you, but a natural ease with himself that, among other things, made it possible for him to casually extend a declaration of friendship and affection without that crippling, rapid-onset brainlock most men do not overcome until much later in life.

so that answering machine message was a revelation. here was a young man who was everything a man any age would like to be - charming, sophisticated, intelligent, smooth - and at the root of all those qualities was an emotional wisdom that - in what seemed completely counter-intuitive to a naive young mind raised on tv shows and action films - translated into strength of character.

this wasn’t an isolated event. the longer i got to know jonathan, the more stunned i was by his often flagrant displays of decency and humanity. had he not been such a likeable person, one might have accused him of being a show-off.

that’s not to say the man never made mistakes - he had the same capacity for it as the rest of us - but there was seldom a time when jonathan’s willingness and ability to take responsibility for his actions and broker a peace were not greater than any injury he might have caused.

and he was a good and giving friend.

we spent a huge amount of time driving around the country in his decrepit buick riviera. one time during my freshman year, we made a thirty-six hour round-trip trek to my hometown in the thick of a winter snowstorm because i felt homesick and, for some reason, the sum and substance of my mental health depended on my watching a musical at my old high school and atttending the cast party afterward.

as you might expect, all the parties involved did a lot of eventful growing up in the years that followed. we all stayed friends, fell out, made up, and created lives for ourselves.

jonathan cut a particularly impressive trajectory through life. it wasn’t just that by the time he was a junior in college he had been asked by financial giant to spend a semester working (among grown-ups no less!) in anticipation of an eventual permanent position - or that by the time he was thirty-two, he was named managing director of a world-leading venture capital company - a lot of people achieve massive material success at a young age...

...and many of them do it by being total bastards.

not jonathan. he rarely lost his temper or gave in to depression, despair or aggression - even in the face of the painful growth everyone endures as they transition into adulthood.

in addition to his meteoric professional career, jonathan sucked the marrow out of life and made the most of every moment - he met and married a wonderful woman every bit his equal, had two beautiful children, fronted an affable cover band that played clubs in his hometown, painted (quite a feat for someone color-blind), and hosted amazing parties full of friendship and warmth - most of which would end with his picking up a guitar and leading the last of the guests in song.

and unlike most of the people who pick up a guitar in a party (let’s face it, there’s a reason the funniest part of “animal house” involves john belushi smashing someone’s guitar at a party), he came across as an unassuming host breaking out yet another diversion.

the song i remember him most frequently playing was pink floyd’s “wish you were here.”

i remember jonathan as a prince of the city. the kind of guy who could stride into peter luger’s steakhouse and receive hugs from the grumpy, inscrutable, pot-bellied old-timers who wait tables in that venerable new york establishment. being jonathan’s friend was like taking a ride in a duesenberg with the rat pack - only instead of nelson riddle, you would hear james taylor playing on the radio...

...and as i write these lines, i ask myself: why is it so important for the living to canonize the dead?

i can’t shake the feeling that we do it because it elevates us. surely, if angels and heroes saw fit to seek out our company, then there must be something angelic and heroic about ourselves to make us worthy.

i should be so mercenary. it would make the loss that much more bearable.

on the last week of august, 2001, jonathan phoned me. we had not seen each other in about six months, and hadn’t talked in three or four. even the best friendships suffer such lapses - jonathan had a globe-trotting, world-leading job and two children, and i had been steadily working in television and was a producer on a series - but when the line connected, we were back in college -

“javi! baby! we’re brothers!”

jonathan had a strange penchant for mixing rat pack lingo with his favorite sean connery line from “highlander.”

we talked for a good thirty minutes. jonathan had bought a porsche after years of commuting to the city by train and felt the need to let me know - in a very sheepish tone of voice, before anyone else told me - so i could make all the requisite “early-onset mid-life crisis” jokes with a minimum of obstruction.

Jonathan also gave me his office number yet again (i have a bad habit of never keeping anyone’s number for too long), which i wrote on a sticky-note and posted it on my document stand. we then made plans for a trip to las vegas with jon and a few other friends from college, and agreed to talk again in september to finalize the deetails of the trip.

jonathan was murdered on september 11.

i won’t get into the details of where i was when i heard about the attacks or the like. the world is awash with such stories.

like everybody else, i spent the day on the phone and in front of the television. by the time night fell in los angeles, i was so worn that i popped a dvd of “koyaanisqatsi” into the player and let is repeat for the rest of the night. i craved abstraction after an entire day of watching the american media straining to put a narrative thrust on the incomprehensible.

not once did it occur to me that my friend - whom i had been reminded less than two weeks before worked in the hundred-and-fifth floor of the world trade center - was involved.

why?

maybe i had forgotten jonathan’s specific place of work. it’s not unusual for me. i can quote verbatim from a toy commercial i saw when i was two, but, as of this writing, i’ve left my car keys in my office and had to walk back from the parking strucutre to get them for seven days straight.

more importantly, the very idea of jonathan dying was beyond the scope of my comprehension.

seriously. i don’t clutch my head in disbelief at the unthinkable, even though i can’t understand it - the world can be a cruel place, and while i do my best to be an optimist, the human capacity for destruction seldom catches me by surprise...

...but no way jonathan could be rubbed out. absolutely not.

surely he was out there in his brand-new porsche, flying through the freeways on some ill-advised road trip, blaring a sinatra song with a big smile on his face.

jonathan was larger than life - there was no way i could fathom him being soiled by so terrible a display of the ugly side of the human soul.

and so i went through 9/11 experiencing many of the same emotions everybody did but not once thinking about jonathan. the next day i went to my office, sat at my desk, and saw his office number scrawled on a sticky note on my document stand.

and it was an alfred hitchcock-vertigo-dolly-counterzoom moment. i was no longer a spectator, the tragedy had just shown up at my door.

stupidly, i dialed jonathan’s office number. i’ve always been that big a dolt. how someone as cool as jonathan ever chose to befriend me is beyond my understanding.

then i called his home. his father answered the phone. and i knew. why else would jonathan’s father be at his house at noon on a weekday?

six days later i flew to new york for jonathan’s funeral. over five hundred people attended. one of them sat next to me after the eulogies were said, and wearily mentioned he had thirty other funerals to attend that day.

i flew back to los angeles as soon as humanly possible.

in spite of it being jonathan’s base of operations, i have never liked new york city, and even before 9/11 i was always immune to its cosmopolitan charms. i never could shake my dread of that particular metropolis - and believe me, coming from someone who suffers los angeles’s many drawbacks because it is a geographical career necessity, that is a hell of an indictment.

on the night before jonathan's funeral, i had dinner at the home of a mutual friend across the river from the world trade center. the ashes, dust and smoke still hung in the air, backlit by the city, forming a nimbus that loomed over everything like a ghost - a massive funeral pyre.

i have only been back to new york once since then and refused to visit ground zero. i found it morbid - no, ghoulish - that anybody would want to “visit” ground zero - and stranger still was the bizarre sense of envy i often got from people who had no personal connection to the tragedy.

i want to feign shock and claim that i don’t understand the psychology behind that kind of thinking - but, as a professional producer of televised narrative, i would be disingenuous. i understand it all to well.

9/11 was a televised spectacular - and a lot of people would have killed to have a story to tell - to have a part of the great tragic and heroic american narrative woven by the television networks with all of their mythmaking prowess.

i do not want to imagine what a nightmare the next few months must have been for jonathan’s family. his wife was widowed, his two children - his daughter still a babe in arms - were orphaned, and his parents had to bury a son - and in spite of everyone’s effort to move on, almost a year went by before Jonathan’s remains were found and identified.

on my end... i grieve to this day.

that doesn’t mean i haven’t come to terms with the blunt-force brutality that led to jonathan’s death. life goes on in spite of the awful truth that this beautiful man simply does not exist anymore - we are forced to continue whether we like it or not - and at the very least i have the memory and example of how jonathan lived his life to ameliorate the pain of how that life was ended.

but there is something else that gnaws at me.

jonathan left a legacy - everyone who knew him was deeply affected by the joy with which he lived. he taught me one of the most valuable life lessons i have ever learned. his work on this planet may not have been done, but no doubt he earned his way into heaven.

which demands that i continually ask myself the question that is at the root of my current malaise: how are we, as americans, going to be remembered after september 11?

because i don’t see us as a nation earning our way into heaven any time soon.

to those of you whom i told i did not like to use my live journal as a bully pulpit, my apologies. i have made no secret of the fact that i have been working under a cloud these past few weeks and i want to get this out. so bear with me.

the thing i can’t shake is a looming dread over the path our country has taken - a pervasive sense of depression and rage that is visited upon me with every foreign policy announcement and every news report of the motion of the american war machine.

before you roll your eyes and say “oh dear lord, here’s another overeducated, overfed, overpaid, privileged hollywood liberal lecturing us about the evil ways of our republican government”...

...let me make one thing clear. this is not intended as a partisan screed. anybody who reads this journal knows where i stand politically, but – make no mistake – i would be writing these same words were a democrat in the oval office.

this is not about political alignment - it’s about morality and ethics.

after september 11th, the president sought to answer the question “why do they hate us?”

frankly, i don’t know how why he sought to answer this question. nor do i know if many people over the age of ten actually asked themselves the question. the president - who clearly sees himself as a father figure to the country – must see all of us as infants, because that is the way he chose to frame the popular discourse in the time following 9/11.

i have an answer to which i subscribe. “they” hate us for decades of selfish, short-sighted and destructive foreign policy - foisted by republicans and democrats alike - designed to keep us in cheap foreign oil.

don’t believe that one? try this one: they hate us for cozying up to oppressive regimes led by the likes of saddam hussein, mohammed reza pahlevi, augusto pinochet, anastasio somoza, ferdinand marcos, the taliban and the house of saud because - while we advertise ourselves exporters of democracy – some animals are just more equal than others.

don’t like that one? here’s another one: they hate us because they hate freedom.

i like it...

...apparently so do a lot of other people, because “they hate freedom” is the reason our armies are spread so thin and taking casualties around the world as we speak.

“they hate freedom” is the reason we described the so-called axis of evil and rattle our saber for more conflict even though our troops are currently bolting refrigerator doors to the sides of their humvees because the people in charge of defense logistics never imagined that we would engage in so widespread and long-lasting a conflict.

“they hate freedom” is the reason we have taken it upon ourselves go at it alone and disarm the bad guys.

as a professional writer - someone who struggles daily to harness the power of words to make people believe in a reality of my own making – i envy the author of “they hate freedom.”

it is the most elegantly succinct piece of fiction i have ever known. simple to the point of art. easily grasped by anyone who reads it, “they hate freedom” demands no understanding of history or politics to make itself understood. it tells the word that we are on the side of good and anyone who opposes us is in the side of evil. “they hate freedom” - not us - they - and “they” could be anybody who isn’t us.

just keep repeating it to yourself. it feels great. better than any food, drug or medicine i have ever ingested. it is the ultimate justification. a warm blanket of comfort deafening the cries of the world outside.

and if you don’t believe it, maybe you hate freedom too. and what could be sicker - more warped, more demented and inhuman - than hating freedom?

here’s another statement that is also very much in vogue in our popular culture - “what would jesus do?”

i like this statement because i am a christian. i love god and subscribe, without shame or fear or guilt, to the truth of jesus christ as god made flesh – sent to earth to provide a vivid, concrete and lasting example of the values to which we humans should aspire.

that much said, i am not a particularly good christian. i have a lot of difficulty attending mass on a regular basis, and while i pray consistently and try to live according to a christian ideology, i do not know scripture to the extent that i should, and often find myself in willing exile from the episcopal church i attend.

the reasons why are complex - and i won’t try to sell you (as i did myself for a long time) on the idea that “i practice my faith in private,” because i am of the belief that one needs to be in the company of others more spiritually advanced than one’s self in order to truly grow and learn. every athlete needs a coach, the same applies to the spiritual realm.

bottom line: i am writing this with a copy of “the bible for dummies” in one hand, and openly defying jesus’ own admonition against those “who practice their righteousness before others in order to be noticed by them.”

the great thing about jesus christ is that he left very little up for interpretation. turn the other cheek, blessed are the peacemakers and do unto others as you would have them do unto you are statements of adamantine simplicity. could one find shading and nuance? sure, but at their core, these statements are as simple and easily understood as “they hate freedom,” and they have the added benefit of constituting a system of ethics as opposed to a rationalization for any behavior we see fit.

of course, you could ask me why i don’t believe in the death penalty, and i could give you two answers. one of them is the flawed, human one that betrays a dark soul that doesn’t entirely frown on the idea of vengeance - lifetime imprisonment in a life-crushing hellhole where the prisoner is in constant danger of being anally raped is a fate worse than death. the other is infinitely simpler: “which part of ‘thou shall not kill’ didn’t you get?”

the point: i am a hypocrite - which, according to “the bible for dummies” comes from an archaic term for actors in a play - doing it for spectacle instead of for internal reasons of truth-seeking or spiritual growth.

our president, however, is a veteran of one of the most vigorous christian fellowships in our country - the midland community bible study in texas - and he claims jesus christ as the most important and influential person in his life. in so many words - in issues of both foreign and domestic policy - he has made christianity one of the pillars of his agenda and ideological design for his stewardship of the united states.

which raises the inevitable question - why is the united states of america behaving in such an unchristian way?

the week after september eleventh i sat alone in a hotel room in new york city following jonathan’s funeral. it was freezing in the room - i always turn the ac on full blast when i stay in a hotel (what can i say? i like cold, dry environments) and i was weighing whether or not to numb the pain of the last week with scotch and spectravision.

that was the night that our president gave the “axis of evil” speech.

it was in the course of that speech that i first felt the hard, darkening dread that fills me to this day. the culmination of my every orwellian nightmare. the moment the united states crossed through the looking glass.

before that day, our president had been a joke to me - a slam-dunk one-termer to be endured with a stiff upper lip... hopefully soon to be consigned to the dustbin of history as a “caretaker” president.

after that day he became a nightmare.

that night, the president took it upon himself to declare his office as judge, jury and executioner by naming other nations as evil and threatening quasi-divine retribution.

now, last i checked, that was god’s job. but let’s humor the guy – he is, after all, the president.

my impression is that taking it upon one’s self to make the judgment call of who is good and evil and mete out punishment implies moral superiority. so where has our moral superiority taken us in the past four years?

to me, 9/11 was the ultimate opportunity for the united states to take the high road - to prove itself the most evolved and sophisticated nation in the world. how might we have accomplished that?

we could have truly declared war on the aggressors, rallied the nations of the world into a cohesive alliance based on the sharing of intelligence and military assets and made the world a truly inhospitable place for terrorists. remember - this was a time when le monde, arguably france’s newspaper of record, printed the statement “we are all americans.”

the world was ready to be led into a historical coalition now that its last remaining superpower had fallen victim to something almost every other nation had already experienced on some scale. together, we could have brought osama bin laden to justice. together we could have sent a strong clear message to the aggressors - that the rest of the world had embraced an evolutionary unity adverse to the use of terror for political ends.

and while i am describing what is clearly a crackpot, bleeding-heart liberal dream, let me make another suggestion...

...we could have taken what recovering alcoholics refer to as “a fearless moral inventory.” we could have evaluated the historical faults of our foreign policy in the middle east and embarked on a new course of diplomatic action based on conciliation and understanding. we could have made a true effort to understand “why do they hate us?” and followed it with an aggressive initiative to win the support of the very same people who are now plotting to murder us.

in short, we could have turned the other cheek on an unprecedented global scale.

for those of you who still think the expression means “let them hit you again and again until you die” here’s some news: it means “shame the aggressor into complicity.”

would it have been difficult? you bet. nigh-impossible and maybe even doomed to failure. it would have been a task whose complexity would have been equal to the space race, the manhattan projact, and the cuban missile crisis rolled into one. worth trying? more than anything else – and, in failure, the result might have still been significantly better than the world in which we find presently ourselves.

i don’t have to tell you how we actually responded. we will be reaping the fruits of it for generations to come in terms of social paranoia, decimation of civil rights, and, most importantly, the loss of our political and economic capital with the rest of the world.

the list of people who “hate freedom” just keeps growing - even though i can’t think - not even for a moment - of what it might just be that makes hating freedom so atttractive.

then again, i may hate freedom myself. why else would i even dare to suggest that our post 9/11 foreign policy and subsequent adventures in iraq have been - to use a highly technical military term - a mongolian clusterfuck?

the bible - our president’s self-proclaimed handbook for personal ethics - says “thou shalt not bear false witness,” and yet we know that the theoretical foundation for our war on iraq was flawed, misrepresented and, ultimately, fraudulent. we know that very high level people in our government were fully aware of the torture and abuses going on in our military prisons and shunted off their responsibility to the lower ranks. we know many things - and they all point out to the kind of outrage that led jesus to kick the moneychangers out of the temple.

jesus said “blessed are the peacemakers” and yet we wage aggressive war on trumped-up charges against an opponent that had no connection to the 9/11 attacks. in doing so, we have helped create an insurgency that will eventually find its way to our homes, schools and places of business and recreation. we have made the world a more dangerous, more hateful, more paranoid place.

jesus told the parable of the good samaritan specifically because samaritans were reviled at the time as weirdos with an unpalatable culture and religion. they were the great, frightening unwashed that could just not be trusted. with this parable, jesus made a simple point against racial prejudice... and yet our government persists in pursuing a foreign policy that has done little more than foment hatred and social injustice against muslims here and abroad.

jesus said “blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy,” but our god-fearing president’s foreign policy bears a greater resemblance to the slightly better-known axiom “don’t mess with texas.”

as far as i can see, our government seems concerned with creating a fertile ground for only one of jesus’s teachings: “blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

but let’s say you just aren’t into all of this jesus mumbo-jumbo. hey - i can respect that - let’s go to someone who ought to know what he is talking about...

...robert mcnamara - chief architect of the vietnam war - a war characterized by lyndon johnson (in what should be very familiar language) as a struggle “against tyranny and aggression.”

to this day, mcnamara is reviled by many as a warmonger and demagogue, he is a man whose very name makes most of the baby-boomer liberals in my acquaintance snarl with anger and contempt... but during the interviews that made up errol morris’s film “the fog of war” mcnamara makes the statement that -

“we are the most powerful nation in the world - economically, politically, and militarily - and we are likely to remain so for decades ahead. but we are not omniscient. if we cannot persuade other nations with similar interests and similar values of the merits of our proposed use of that power, we should not proceed unilaterally.”

some argue that, to this day, the ruthless application of military force has solved more problems worldwide than any other manifestation of diplomacy. it’s probably true.

but it doesn’t mean there isn’t a better way.

if we have the power to rain destruction on any nation of our choosing, then doesn’t the man most directly responsible for wielding that power owe it to the world - especially when he invokes jesus christ as his lord, savior and role model - to use that power wisely (and if the required wisdom is just not present, to at least try to apply the values taught by jesus christ)?

and let’s face it, jesus christ - being the human manifestation of the almighty - could have blinked and turned us all into hermit crabs. however, to the extent that one can impose values of human morality on an omniscient, infinitely powerful being, he did not - because jesus christ’s mission on earth was not – as many believe – to drug the downtrodden into acceptance of their sad lot in this life with promises of a better world to come – it was to serve warning to the powerful that the existence of their power did not constitute a blank check for cruelty.

jesus christ was a revolutionary who spoke to power the truth that there is an evolutionary way to wield the political and military weapons of man with humility, tolerance and dignity.

i keep hearing that our president’s rival lost the election because he failed to articulate a coherent alternate vision of america.

while i believe that america should be a secular state, i also believe that, since our president used jesus christ to set the table, his adversaries should have been ready to meet him in that arena - ironically, the place where his footing is weakest – and point out the ways, which are legion, in which the president has failed to honor his own stated commitment to the christian ethic. that might have been the beginning of a vision of an america willing to take responsibility for its actions and confront its mistakes with honesty and strength of character.

and frankly, there are worse things – whether you are a religious person or not – than to advocate a foreign policy based on the hard work of coalition-building, conciliation, peace seeking, and tolerance – none of which – by the way – cancel out the necessity or possibility of bringing the aggressors to justice or providing for our own internal security. we should not be above kicking the moneychangers out of the temple on occasion.

our present government is a profoundly hypocritical concern pursuing – in the name of morality and christian values – a destructive, soul-poisoning set of foreign and domestic policy goals that point to an increasingly bleak future.

our government excels at performing the intellectual contortions necessary to interpret a passage from leviticus as an indictment of gay marriage, or pushing a so-called “decency bill” that would punish someone for saying “fuck” on the air with the kind of severity reserved for those who illegally test pesticides on human subjects, but cannot bring itself to bring to translate the simplest of beatitudes delivered by jesus on the mount into a practical modern political reality.

i take our government’s offenses personally – not only because of my religious convictions – but because the friend i lost on 9/11 was one of the greatest conciliators i ever knew. he wasn’t a christian, and i have no idea about his political slant – but he was, to me, an example of a life lived with a surfeit of common human decency.

and although the united states is full of individuals who exhibit nothing but common human decency, our government has turned our country – in the eyes of many who live here and abroad – into a faceless war machine bent on stomping out dissent no matter what the cost.

is this our legacy?

i don’t know. unlike our president, i don’t have a direct line to god.

dress like javi day!

chaodai — Mon, 03 Nov 2008 02:15:52 GMT

a few years ago, i realized that i could take the guesswork out of life - and save myself precious seconds out of every day - by wearing the same outfit* - black t-shirt, doc martens or tredairs (the ones with "good" and "evil" embroidered on the toes) and blue jeans - as often as possible.

in recognition of my time-saving ways, the crew of "the middleman" declared "dress like javi day" during the filming of our last episode...even my shoes were replicated with varying degrees of success!

* no, not the EXACT same outfit - i have many black t-shirts and jeans. time saving is one thing, smelling up the place is quite another.

go cho!

chaodai — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 19:38:51 GMT

chaodai — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 20:06:13 GMT

for some eight months, my commute home was punctuated by a large billboard over the freeway exit to my neighborhood.

the sign featured an iconic image of thomas alva edison, posing with his light bulb, and, in homage to his legendary tireless work ethic, text which read “ON THE 10,000TH TRY THERE WAS LIGHT: OPTIMISM, PASS IT ON.”

recently, the “optimism” billboard was replaced by a slighly less artistic billboard bearing the words “TALK THERAPY HELPS” in large, friendly letters over an unthreatening yellow background.

i can only wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.

the middleman - we don't just follow rules...we make them!

chaodai — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 23:22:32 GMT

my friends - sometimes the culture gods reward you even when the ratings gods will not...today on NPR's "all things considered," the middleman was not only cited as one of the few shows on television that adheres to "the bechdel rule" but also as THE show that got them talking about the bechdel rule as an indicator of a tv show's quality!

named after eisner award-winning graphic novelist allison bechdel, the rule indicates bechdel's personal preference to only watch films featuring 1. at least two female character who... 2. talk to each other about... 3. ...something besides a man.

a similar rule, named after the st. petersburg times tv critic eric deggans, compliments a show for having 1. at least two non-white characters in the main cast... 2. ...in a show that is not about race.

in the context of the landscape of television, it's clear why the bechdel and deggans rules are interesting indicators: few shows - even in our multi-cultural age of gender empowerment - truly portray characters of varying races whose concerns actually echo those of real people..."the middleman" even as a wacky sci-fi show, manages to showcase characters whose ethnicities and gender (as reflected in their search for love) are not the ne plus ultra of their entire being.

further doing honor to our happy little show, the culture warriors of npr have coined a rule from the middleman's own natalie morales...the "morales rule" applies to the non-strereotypical portrayal of latinos in television, citing shows in which 1. no one calls anyone "papi'... 2. ...no one dances to salsa music... and 3. no gratuitous spanish...

...and while i have been known to call my father "papi" on a regular basis, i certainly prefer my latino characters to be simply characters, instead of signifiers of their own ethnicity...hence wendy watson.

here's a snippet, from NPR's pop culture blog about the bechdel rule:

The Middleman: Follows the Bechdel Rule so well that it was the reason we began talking about the rule here at NPR. Mind-boggling: It's science fiction — that traditional fortress of geek-maledom — but the character we identify with is a young woman. (And an artist.) She talks to her roommate about art events, vegan protests and their mothers; they're concerned with politics and creativity as well as boyfriends. "I know that the hot show on ABC Family right now is The Secret Life of the American Teenager," says NPR editor Sara Sarasohn, "but if my daughter were a teenager, I'd be making her watch The Middleman every week." Bonus: By default it follows the Morales Rule, because Natalie Morales plays the lead.

and here's a link to the original NPR story!

neil levin

chaodai — Mon, 01 Sep 2008 19:18:06 GMT

those watching tonight’s episode of "the middleman" will notice the final dedication to neil levin.

i first met neil in 1997, when we both worked on the WB’s short-lived, and not-entirely-lamented spy-fi series “three.” neil and i became fast friends, bonding over the crapitude of joel schumacher’s “batman and robin,” spending much time discussing the changes made to the reissues of the “star wars” saga, savagely arguing the merits of paul verhoeven’s “starship troopers” and playing a lot of “you don’t know jack.”

over the years, neil - or “tv’s neil levin” as he liked to call himself - served as script coordinator on many fantastic shows: “the 4400,” “firefly,” “rome,” and “tru calling” among many others...he was known by everyone with whom he worked as a gentleman and a true geek...

(how true a geek? neil's 1997 christmas card consisted of a vhs of the then-nigh-impossible-to-find "star wars christmas special," that's how neil h. levin rolled)

...so it only made sense that neil would ultimately come to work with us at “the middleman,” where the entire staff would savagely argue the merits of christopher nolan’s “batman begins,” spend much time bonding over the “star wars” prequel trilogy, and play a lot of scrabulous on facebook.

(not to mention that neil was there - literally in my office - on the day i came up with the idea for "the middleman - if anything, it was fate)

neil handled his stressful job - working on scripts with a bunch of neurotic writers and accommodating the needs of the anxiety factory that is production - with a perpetual easy-going smile...he had seen it all and was rarely fazed, and i would be remiss if i didn’t mention his quick and snarky wit (the true hallmark of the modern media nerd).

neil was family: he helped make the middleman writers bullpen into a home away from home, and we loved him for it.

some two months ago, neil was hospitalized with a concussion following a fall. during his convalescence, he suffered a massive hemorrhage and fell into a coma. he passed shortly thereafter - in peace and without pain, surrounded by loved ones and the well-wishes of his many friends.

it only makes sense, then, that this season of our unabashedly optimistic, and shamelessly geeky show be dedicated to neil levin. he epitomized the friendly, collaborative and nurturing workplace for which we all aimed; he is sorely missed...

...even though we could never agree on "starship troopers."

neil's portrait with mr. fusion

neil's cameo appearance in our second episode

the quintessential neil levin

big spoiler for tonight's big question

chaodai — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 03:06:58 GMT

don't read if you haven't watched "the vampiric puppet lamentation"

no guys, it isn't wendy.

discuss.

live from comic-con...it's javi and les!

chaodai — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 20:29:03 GMT

interviewed by the amazing blair marnell!

http://www.comicsoncomics.com/?p=121

my favorite act break of the entire season...

chaodai — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 20:15:09 GMT

io9.com - in their infinite wisdom - has seen fit to post this clip from tonight's episode of "the middleman" - the vampiric puppet lamentation.

now, here at "the middleman" we have done some pretty crazy things...but watch through to the end for may just be the most insane moment of bite-me weirdness ever...

http://io9.com/5038029/exclusive-the-middleman-gives-us-the-full-whedon

the food tasting meme!

chaodai — Sun, 17 Aug 2008 19:15:28 GMT

gacked from missmelyse

because i am sick and tired of working...

The Food tasting meme

Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.
Bold all the items you.ve eaten.
Cross out any items that you would never consider eating (or eating again)
Optional extra: Post a comment http://www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.

To make the filling out of this form and generating the HTML for it a bit easier, reddywhp has played around with some PHP. Go to http://reddywhip.org/lj/foods/ and fill it out there. After filling it out, you will be given the code to copy and paste into your blog.

Livejournal users, remember to use your LJ-Cuts!

Venison
Nettle tea
Huevos rancheros
Steak tartare
Crocodile
Black pudding
Cheese fondue
Carp
Borscht
Baba ghanoush
Calamari
Pho
PB&J sandwich
Aloo gobi
Hot dog from a street cart
Epoisses
Black truffle
Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
Steamed pork buns
Pistachio ice cream
Heirloom tomatoes
Fresh wild berries
Foie gras
Rice and beans
Brawn, or head cheese
Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
Dulce de leche
Oysters
Baklava
Bagna cauda
Wasabi peas
Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
Salted lassi
Sauerkraut
Root beer float
Cognac with a fat cigar
Clotted cream tea
Vodka jelly
Gumbo
Oxtail
Curried goat
~~Whole insects~~
Phaal
Goat's milk
Malt whisky from a bottle worth $120 or more
Fugu
Chicken tikka masala
Eel
Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
Sea urchin
Prickly pear
Umeboshi
Abalone
Paneer
McDonald's Big Mac Meal
Spaetzle
Dirty gin martini
Beer above 8% ABV
Poutine
Carob chips
S'mores
Sweetbreads
Kaolin
Currywurst
Durian
Frog's Legs
Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
Haggis
Fried plantain
Chitterlings or andouillette
Gazpacho
Caviar and blini
Louche absinthe
Gjetost or brunost
~~Roadkill~~
Baijiu
Hostess Fruit Pie
Snail
Lapsang souchong
Bellini
Tom yum
Eggs Benedict
Pocky
Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
Kobe beef
Hare
Goulash
Flowers
Horse
Criollo chocolate
Spam
Soft shell crab
Rose harissa
Catfish
Mole poblano
Bagel and lox
Lobster Thermidor
Polenta
Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
Snake

behold the javitar!

chaodai — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 19:13:01 GMT

that is all.

all right, here is a guide to all the references...

chaodai — Tue, 12 Aug 2008 06:55:43 GMT

...in the middleman, episode 1009, "the obsolescent cryogenic meltdown"

- "batter of the bulge" - reference to the battle of the bulge
- "the invasion of crete" - famously referenced by alexei sayle as "benito mussolini" in "the young ones"
- nolan bushnell - founder of atari
- tipper gore - founder of the PMRC, wife of al gore and overall moralist of the 1980's
- "gut wrencher 1" - callback to "gut wrencher 3," one of wendy's favorite games in the pilot
- "don't get all mushy on me princess" - paraphrase of han solo
- "he cut off my leg!" - callback to the jake 2.0 episode "the good, the bad and the geeky"
- "tyler ford shall smite you!" - callback to a line i wasn't allowed to put in the jake 2.0 episode because it was deemed "too geeky"
- "story of o!" - referencing the erotic novel of the same name
- "blueberry pudding pops and the elliptical machine" - uh, that one's personal
- "with great power..." - spider-man
- "klebb's fine jewels" - homage to lotte lenya's portrayal of SMERSH baddie rosa klebb in "from russia with love," the man standing behind her was cast to look like robert shaw
- "alexander scott/kelly robinson/we work for the pentagon" - homage to "i, spy"
- "dr. solaris" - homage to the matt helm film "murderer's row" (with some editorializing about the various films based on stanislaw lem's novel)
- "fabulous face" - homage to the film "in like flint"
- "fragments of moonrock!" - exclamation spoken by dr. zarkov in the 1980 "flash gordon" (while gazing upon fragments of moonrock)
- "lloyd cramden" - homage to the derek flint films
- "toaster" - homage to "battlestar galactica"
- "balthorium-g" - homage to "dr. strangelove"
- "thrifty nickel" - is indeed a supemarket classified newsletter
- "harry lime" - homage to "the third man"
- "you bet your sweet brioni" - brioni is james bond's tuxedo of choice
- "i'm not some comical throwback to the summer of love" - rebuke of austin powers
- "hai karate" - a popular men's fragrance in the 1960's/70's
- "fleming's commander jamaica rum" - ian fleming's original title for "dr. no" was "commander jamaica"
- "casanova charlie" - is not a reference to charlie from "lost," honestly
- "jelly babies" - homage to the fourth doctor's favorite candy
- "pugnantes malos, no hos pugnetis" - latin for "fighting evil so you don't have to"
- "guy goddard" - made up of the names of the two manliest men in sixties television: guy williams and mark goddard of "lost in space" (my friend lee goldberg first hit on this name combination when naming a character in his satirical novel "beyond the beyond" and graciously allowed us to continue the tradition here)
- "the whisper stream" - term used by andrew vachss in his burke novels
- "lord jeremiah purcell" - homage to the remo williams novels of warren murphy and richard sapir
- "shibumi" - homage to the spy-fi book of the same name by trevanian (and please, do NOT try the "delight of the razors" at home!)
- "govinda" - homage to the assassin "gobinda" played by kabir bedi in "octopussy"
- wendy's leather catsuit is an homage to diana rigg and honor blackman in "the avengers"
- "harry rule/caroline di contini" - homage to the ITC series "the protectors"
- "anatol gogol'" - homage to the james bond character
- "count manzeppi" - homage to "the wild, wild west"
- "the scot" was cast and dressed to look like sean connery
- "the missing eighteen and a half minutes" - refers to the erased portion of richard nixon's white house tapes
- gogol's stake in the game was intended to reference the "coeur de la mer" from james cameron's "titanic"
- "ripley's believe it or not!" - uh, homage to "ripley's believe it or not"
- "maybe scotty can beam us up" - reference to an obscure sci-fi show from the 1960's, you've probably never heard of it
- "dsv 4600" - homage to my first writing gig, "seaQuest DSV"
- "halls of montezuma/shores of tripoli" - homage to the marines
- guy goddard's red wetsuit is an homage to sean connery's in "thunderball"
- "honey ryder nightmare" - homage to ursula andress in "dr. no"

A NOTE ABOUT ANGSTROMS: yes, we're aware that an angstrom is not a unit of weight or volume. we just thought it was kind of cool. kind of like doing the kessel run in less than twelve parsecs makes no sense. unless the kessel run is a rally race: a test of navigational acuity. in which case it makes perfect sense. so if balthorium-g is somehow measured in length rather than weight and volume, this makes total sense.

what does one send the network that has everything?

chaodai — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 21:50:32 GMT

so, in the last few weeks - especially in the wake of the announcement of our shortened season - people have been asking me what they should send ABC family to show their love of "the middleman"... you know, to gently tell them of your love of the show...but frankly, i'm stumped...

...i mean, there are so many iconic props for this show, so many images that convey what we're about - the mind reels at the thought of finding one that both conveys the names "the middleman" and "wendy watson"...

...truly, if there one one thing that could contain, with simple, iconic strokes, the names of these characters - what might it be?

what can i tell you, guys, no idea...and now i'm feeling kind of hungry.

the mirror universe!

chaodai — Thu, 31 Jul 2008 15:12:39 GMT

yes folks, as you might have heard, the middleman is going to visit a parallel universe of pure evil!

it's all goatees and daggers for us in our season finale - and here is another sneak peek!

matt keeslar, natalie morales and britt morgan tear up the dystopian landscape of the mirror universe as their nefarious counterparts!

the mirror universe middleman cradles an exotic piece of weaponry!

and who is this handsome goateed ne'er do well?

more images at themiddleblog!

(all images by the indestructible ralph king!)

the middleman - dead or alive? threat or menace?

chaodai — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 19:27:44 GMT

javier grillo-marxuach here, live from middleman HQ...

...friends, there's been a lot of loose talk - a lot of words bandied about, words like "cancellation."

which means, i gotta answer the question: has "the middleman" been cancelled?

here's the scoop: we are a fantastically well-reviewed series that the network loves and supports. abc family is the one place that allowed us to do this show in all of its quirky glory, and in spite of the ratings, they continue to tell me "don't change a thing."

and about those ratings? well...while improving incrementally, they have not been stellar, so we - and by "we," i mean the network and myself - have made the decision to make and air a twelve episode first season of "the middleman."

it is a decision that allows us to conclude our first season on a great creative note, and to pool our resources to make our season finale the best and biggest it can be.

in short: we are doing everything we can to delive "the middleman" to whatever the future holds for us: and a crucial part of that future hinges on your continued support.

so, the bottom line - the middleman ain't dead.

if you like the show, then keep watching, the best is yet to come.

if you like the show enough to tell your friends, even better.*

and, of course, we will be at the san diego comicon (me, matt keeslar and les mcclaine on thursday, and me and natalie morales at the tv guide panel on saturday at 6), to meet you - the fans - to drum up support for the show, to sign autographs and give away scwhag...why? because we can't do this without you!

and as we say here at middleman HQ: "pugnantes malos, ne hos pugnetis!"

*if your friend has a nielsen box, that would be the best!

yellow teddy discovers the jonas brothers!

chaodai — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 16:49:56 GMT

yellow dancing teddy!

chaodai — Sat, 28 Jun 2008 02:19:40 GMT

who is that hyperkinetic nerd?

chaodai — Sat, 31 May 2008 21:19:00 GMT

so the fine folk from abc family have seen fit to produce a series of videos in which i introduce you - the unsuspecting viewer - to the glory of "the middleman." if you miss the old "ask javi" days, or just want to see what happens when a tv producer drinks too much red bull...

...check it out here!

the middletrailer!

chaodai — Tue, 20 May 2008 05:20:04 GMT

a call for ramen advice!

chaodai — Sun, 04 May 2008 06:23:34 GMT

in the past, i have blogged about my ongoing quest for great ramen noodles.

now, for much of the past few months, satisfying my ramen cravings has been as simple as walking the five or so blocks from my downtown la loft to daikokuya - one of the city's most acclaimed den of noodles and pork soup. for several months now, daikokuya's thick, buttery broth has been like the culinary equivalent of nirvana for yours truly (or, as a friend of mine described it "it's like eating a melted pig").

because my favorite ramen has been so close to home, i have not been tremendously motivated to find other sources - but three weeks ago, something awful happened...i was waiting at the door to daikokuya and saw the health department's rating for the restaurant.

a big, fat "c."

normally, i will eat at a restaurant with a "b" - because, hey, maybe the food inspectors caught the place on a bad day or something...and frankly, as someone who, as a kid, used to love to stop on the side of the highway from san juan to fajardo and buy fish fritters from roadside vendors, maybe i am being a massive puss by not just shutting the heck up and eating my favorite ramen in town...but i have to say, something about the sight of that red "c" on the door of a restaurant - even one i love - i love is profoundly off-putting...

so, having drawn the line and decided to not return to daikokuya until they get back up to a "b"rating at least, i have been on a quest for great ramen in los angeles, with decidedly mixed results.

i have been following the suggestions of los angeles ramen guru rickmond wong (aka the rameniac) - but i am still searching for a bowl of ramen as perfect to my palate as daikokuya's (which ranks relatively low in the rameniac's hierarchy).

primarily, i am looking for a thick and complicated soup, and i am primarily a tonkotsu ramen eater - daikokuya's standard broth seems to be as thick as the extra-thick broth in most other ramen shops, their kotteri style is downright decadent - but also densely layered with an amazing mouth-feel) and the only place i have found that has compared so far has been kintaro...which, sadly, is in vancouver (and since we film "the middleman" series here, i am unlikely to get up there in the near future).

so if anyone out there has a recommendation, i am all ears...here is a list of the ramen i have tried in town, in descending order of preference, and why i have (or haven't liked it):

daikokuya - 'nuff said
asa ramen - the kotteri style shoyu was tasty, but not flawless - and this is a half hour drive for me
gardena ramen - a great, lovingly crafted broth which i did not love because of the use of chicken in the base - also very far from home
santouka ramen (torrance) - the rameniac's favorite, i found the soup underwhelming, more salty than flavorful
chabuya - underwhelming, i prefer their udon (and the sawtelle location is perfect for walks to the giant robot store)
ramen-ya - great, thick pork slices, but i didn't love the soup
asahi ramen - it has been several years, i don't remember it being memorable
san sui tei - i only went to this restaurant because daikokuya was closed for a location shoot