Letter to the Editor: Part Two

Yah! I got published in the University Daily Kansan! Here's my Letter to the Editor, which was a response to a guest editorial. I've heard incredible range of reaction from "a slamdunk" to "dumbest letter to the editor ever." Here it is:

I would like to expand upon the analogy offered in an editorial comparing socialism and capitalism. The idea was that if student grades were averaged out, the best students would stop trying, thus proving socialism makes society lazy. But socialism isn't about taking away the rewards of the successful. Socialism is the allocation of public resources so that everybody will have a more fair chance to compete, or even survive.

To use the classroom analogy, socialism would be like giving every student a syllabus on the first day of class; and if a student misses that first day of class, they can still get a syllabus at another time. Capitalism would be giving the first three or four students who show up to class a syllabus and ignoring everyone else. Real world example: government funding for suburbs in the 1950s, which helped create property appreciation for homeowners. The funding ignored minorities who were red-lined out of home loans.

As a future millionaire myself, I'll have no problem paying more than my fair share of taxes for fire departments, libraries and health care because I know that having my neighbor's house burn down doesn't help me, having illiterate people doesn't help me and having sick people doesn't help me. Even if I'm a fire fighter, librarian or doctor, these don't help because I could have used that time or money on something new (see: Broken Window Fallacy).

As a last note, America can implement socialist policies — and has for centuries —without being socialist; much in the way that I can drink a beer without being an alcoholic. So stop looking for the simplest answer, because more times than not, it’s simple.

Heavy Drinking, Not Thinking

This was a newspaper article I wrote in high school, which was than butchered by the editing staff. Here is the draft that was meant to be read:

From the rolling hills of Dublin to the prairie flats of Kansas, people will be celebrating their favorite 4th century British Christian saint on March 17. That day, of course, being St. Patrick’s Day, also known as Paddy’s Day.

St. Patrick’s Day is an Irish national holiday, though not actually an official American holiday. In fact, last Saturday Aggieville was festively green in celebration. The fun times were held a week before the actual holiday because this year St. Patrick’s Day falls on the first Saturday of spring. But there will still be Irish-related entertainment in Manhattan tomorrow.

“I’ll probably go to the parade,” senior Peter Tatarko said, referring to the town parade on Pontz Avenue.

Brought to America in the 1730s, St. Patrick’s Day is a Christian festival celebrating the title saint. The story goes that St. Patrick was kidnapped by Irish raiders at young age and was forced to work for six years before escaping back home to England. A couple years later, he became a Catholic bishop and went back to Ireland to convert people to Catholicism.

Now legend has it, St. Patrick got rid of all the snakes on the island of Ireland when he went back. Some people believe this literally, while modern scientists give the ice glaciers that covered Ireland thousands of years ago credit for clearing out the snakes. In either case, St. Patrick did go to Ireland and tried to get rid of the metaphorical snakes of sinfulness.

But St. Patrick’s Day isn’t all about Christian conversion and snake killing, it’s also about wearing green to bring out the Irish-ness in everyone. Failure to wear a green article of clothing isn’t tolerated and results in pinching galore.

“It’s traditional. A custom, cultural thing to wear green,” senior Felix Wang said.

Other students feel wearing green goes past embracing Irish culture for a day.

“I wear green because it’s the law,” senior Stuart Watts said.

But there’s several ways people have celebrated March 17, the supposed day St. Patrick died. New York City has a parade watched annually by about 2 million people. The city of Chicago actually dyes the Chicago River green. And in 1780, General George Washington let his troops have a holiday break on March 17.

Whatever the motivations and actions of celebration, it’s good to celebrate Irish heritage in America because of the rich history they’ve had in our country’s development and the inevitable existence they’ll always have in American cinema.

Conversations of the Week

"She could set sail to a thousand ships."
"Is he talking about Helen of Troy?"
"Well he sure as shit ain't talking about Gertrude of Troy!"

-------------

"You don't dance enough."
"I don't dance in public."
"We're not in public, this is our living room."
"Our living room is public for me."

--------------

"How'd the basketball game go?"
"Good; we won."
"Anything interesting happen?"
"We were up by so much Bill Self put me in the game."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I was dunking on everybody."
"So you were drinking during the game?"
"Well...yeah. Still, pretty awesome."

For the Love Of!

Love is kind of like the diet menu at Taco Bell, in that it doesn't make any sense. Also, I suspect trashy people try to sabotage my experiences. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I need to work on my metaphors.

Where I At

I'm going to take a break from this blog to work on my first novel. It's called "We Service What We Sell" and it's about a group of reunited friends on the cusp of turning thirty years old accidentally making a wacky video that becomes an Internet phenomenon. Like all overnight sensations though, by the next morning they have been reduced to their original obscurity, none the richer. From there, the story deals with characters--young, old, forgotten and historic--trying to understand, recover from and fantastically escape their instant-entertainment, culturally-amnesic society.

I'll still post periodically, but just not daily.

Underrated Classics: Sullivan's Travels

Sullivan's Travels (1941)

As proven by this movie, criticizing Hollywood for being shallow has been the most fashionable movie cliche for the first-level of self-aware filmmakers for at least seventy years. However, where this movie finds its genius is in going so far to criticize those who criticize Hollywood. Yes, this movie is a self-gratifying romp that mocks lying movie producers, struggling actresses, idealistic writers and anybody else associated with making movies. Not even homeless people (during the Great Depression) can't escape a good scolding.

The joy of being unapologetic...

I'm tired and don't have the words right now.

A Strange Realization

Things that influenced my personality (that probably shouldn't have):

Weird Al - Before I could articulate it, his music taught me that there is a difference in comedy between absurdity and randomness. Absurdity has a level of truth to it that pure randomness doesn't. Also, a good story/song will have much stronger replay value than just a series of jokes.

Dynasty Warriors 3 - This video game taught the 12-year-old me that sometimes you can mangle 50 soldiers on Lubu's army, but still lose the game because your allied generals couldn't defend themselves on the other side of the map. A world happens outside of your actions, but that doesn't mean your actions don't affect the world.

Dennis Kucinich - Lesson: It's okay to be angry with moderates. That doesn't make you a radical. Get in people's faces sometimes. Congressmen get dumped on. Also, there is hope for all goofy-looking guys to marry up.

Clone High - Abraham Lincoln is essentially JD from "Scrubs"--substitute doctors for historical figures. Historically speaking, presidents beat doctors in the realm of comedy; but both are fun to laugh at when inhabiting a zany universe. Point is, comedy needs dignity.

Once Upon a Time in Mexico - Reach farther than you can grasp. If you fail, at least middle school guys will think that one fight scene was pretty cool.

Elaine Benes - If only as a fictional concept, the perfect woman exist...and she is as weird as everybody else in this world.



Much love to you all.

Local Man Becoming Philosophical

A local man in Mainville City, Ohio has become increasingly philosophical in the last year report his friends and loved ones. Though originally thought as "just a phase," it has since grown into a new lifestyle.

When asked about his mental and emotional change, the local man thought for a moment, looked into the distance and said, "We all change. Sometimes, though, we just change too much to see others change."

Sam Reinhart, a friend of the local man, said the philosophizing really started last fall when the man "began asking what is the real difference between the past and the future." And though the local man hasn't given up any of his possessions yet, he has started asking people about their own life ambitions.

"Everybody is vague," says the local man, "People are afraid of specifics. Perhaps specifics can only bring about failure."

The local man is convinced that in a matter of days he will revolutionize political and/or scientific theories, and in fact change the way people view the world. But until that happens, the local man will just continue his hermit lifestyle, listening to Alien Ant Farm and eating pizza rolls.

Note about the Author

After sending maybe a dozen short stories to a dozen different contests and publications over the winter, I finally got my first good news. One of my short stories got an honorable mention in a contest. I don't get any money or physical publication, but they will include my story "More Than a Zero" (originally posted here) in their e-version of the collection. Also this literary website running the show (sminkworks.com) wanted a one paragraph biography on the author so I typed up something that I hope tells them more about me than they expected:

"Nick Adams is a cool guy. When he’s not writing short stories, he often goes to art museums or on cross-country adventures with friends. One time his best friend, Dan, discovered he had a long-lost twin. So Nick and Dan drove from their hometown of Manhattan, Kansas to North Grove, Indiana—a trip of almost 700 miles. They learned the twin’s name was Anton and he was working as a bartender. Nick also likes eating at restaurants but doesn’t really care for Italian food. Nick has one younger brother, named Kevin."

Just Might Stand Up

I've been trying to write a book recently. You see, a book is kind of like a movie with only subtitles...forget it. My word count is down a little so I'm trying to stretch out the story with doodles. That's how I got past my Western Civilization class, at least. Did I deserve to get a 50% on an exam answer that included a doodle of Aristotle punching Godzilla? Of course I did. I earned that grade. It was symbolic, people.

What I don't like about writing a novel for the first time though is that people want to know what my plan is when I finish. Am I going to self-publish or send it to New York or some contest or what. I don't know, what do you do when you finish selling insurance? It's the same damn answer. I'm going to make a sandwich and buy a couple of lottery tickets.

Three people this week have told me I should look into doing stand up comedy but in each case it was after a one-on-one conversation. And see, that's the difference to me. If I'm only talking with one person, it's easy to be comfortable. That's why I could only be a blind comedian. Or a drunk comedian. But I don't think entertainers drink anymore, that was really more a 1960s thing.

But I have been looking for a job recently. What? An unemployed writer looking for a part-time job?! Go on... No, seriously, I'm tired of being put up for judgment this often. I've become increasingly more self-conscious. It's like middle school all over again. The manager said she'd call me. I spend all weekend waiting by the phone and don't get a peep. I thought the interview went well. I really thought she liked me. Maybe she's just playing hard to get, but I don't want to look too desperate or she'll tell her other employer friends. What I really need is a friend to pass the employer a note during third period: Do you like Nick? Yes or No? Just stop playing with my heart!

Listen, you've been the best audience I've never seen or heard. I'll see you next time you read me.

The Anthology

I've killed almost as many weekends doing nothing as I've lived through in the last 21 years. However, last weekend might have hit a high point as I spent the better part of two days watching an 8-part series, broken up into 68 videos on YouTube, chronicling the rise, stagnation and fall of the most influence band in 20th century music. I watched The Beatles Anthology.

The biggest difference between this documentary and most every other documentary ever mabe by our ever-documenting society is the courage to reduce some ten years of musical stardom into only 9-plus hours. While a contradiction, I feel this is what was necessary to truly go behind the first layer of the Beatles mania that can only be known second-hand for Generations X, Y and Z.

Are the 8 separate parts padded with concert footage and pre-MTV music videos? Yes. Of course I'm curious to see footage of the nearly incomprehensible Magical Mystery Tour movie and Yellow Submarine; but do I need to see the Beatles perform "She Loves You" three or four times? Not really. But it's there and begs the question why. The only answer I can fathom is actually one I like quite a bit. The band probably got sick of the songs. For every time I've heard their most obvious (early) hits, they probably played the song a hundred times more.

This goes further as the documentary parts 2 through 6 seek to be nothing but tour footage. Go figure, these guys did nothing but tour for the better part of four years. By investing this much time with the band you truly begin to understand the monotony and surreal aspects of a life surrounded by psycho-fans who wanted a piece of your hair as more than they wanted to listen to your music, which was quite a bit.

But through the extend and cross-decade interviews, the different Beatles personalities take hold in a way any book can only hope to achieve--all Beatles books invariably falling in their ill-conceived jump at cliches and assumptions. You simply can not trust a source that says Paul McCartney was best at handling the adoring, and even rampaging, fans--you have to listen to McCartney talk about the fans and gage his words verse the other three to make a(n inevitably) similar, though deeper understanding.

Likewise, John Lennon maintains a frustrating distance between himself and his political supporters/detractors. Largely thanks to being dead since 1980, all most all of Lennon's interview segments are taken from a time shortly after the Beatles breakout and thus did not give him the distance of the reflection the other band members, fans and cultural historians enjoy. How can one talk about Vietnam in a historical context when history was just last week? Fortunately for Lennon, his cryptic answers and lyrics blend perfectly in line with his esoteric personality. While a tragedy, he was clearly the most appropriate Beatle to not live out the 1980s, and will forever be a youth while his band mates, and the world, age.

Did the Beatles inspire a generation or were they inspired by the generation around them? Well, I regrettably have the take the coward's way out and say both. Following the Anthology, the Beatles were clearly inspired by the events and people around them, but just as clearly brought new thoughts to the world around them. What this means is that they gave a cultural microphone to ideological minorities who would have been crushed like the swing-music resurgence in the early 1990s. Would have the hippie movement in the late sixties existed without the Beatles? Yes. Would hippies have the direct, and almost inter-changable, connotation with the 1960s they have now without the Beatles? Hell no.

As for the last parts of the series, I felt it was lacking. I usually don't push for more drama for drama's sake (especially in Entourage), but I did expect a little more explanation and elaboration on the dynamics that dissolved the group that unanimously conquered the world in a way no band, or army, had before. I wanted to know more about their home lives and relationships because you can't tell me that Yoko Ono was the only girl affecting all four Beatles in their 7-plus year global romp.

I also wanted to know more about the guys' finances. For the first four parts, the musicians' relative lack of funds reduces them to the level of circus freaks who put nails in their noses. What I mean is that everybody always expected these guys to be swimming in pools of Chardonnay and drying themselves with robes bought from the king of Saudi Arabia. Not that they were ever poor, but they weren't "Cribs" rich, either. Years later, through the benefit of looking like a cartoon character, Danielle Radcliffe has easily surpassed them all monetarily, thus proving, if nothing else, a tax accountant can save you millions if you're playing the game right.

After going on this weekend journey with the boys from Liverpool, I'm convinced the greatest miracle is how they all turned out. I don't know if any group of entertainers has been pushed so hard and for so long to remain the best at what they do. These guys were releasing classic albums every six months when audiences nowadays are almost crazy to expect anything from their favorite band every two years. It really just a testament to high standards and lightning adaptation. When the world moves so fast, the band members--most notably Lennon and George Harrison--, had to always be running to what's next.

We live in a world some forty years older and when trans-Atlantic flights are almost met with a yawn. The boom of a pop junk culture and instant-meal entertainment has done little to push musicians any quicker. I defy anybody to name a band that has evolved through as many stages as the Beatles in as quick of a time period. And even then, no band has achieved the global and iconic popularity the Beatles had for as long as they wanted. Even their biggest critics (mostly in America's Deep South) burned record-sized bonfires.

Through their music, jokes and snowball popularity, the Beatles have achieved a near-mythical status for the generations that could never have seen them live, on par with perhaps King Arthur or Odysseus. The study of history has no formula for everything. Things always get left out, so I can't say The Beatles Anthology is a substitution for any other study of the 1960s, but I can say this: it is important, it is well made, it spurs discussion and it is one of the better ways I've found to bridge Saturday morning to Sunday night.

Last Night

You walked right past me in the bar last night. You even said, "Excuse me." Maybe you were with people; it doesn't matter, you used to be with me. And last night, you were with me. I was twenty feet away. Then ten feet. Then two feet. Then ten feet. Then twenty feet away.

Did I leave that small of an impression on your life? If you didn't see me, would you ever recognize me? How much of me do you remember? How can I count myself as a worthy human being if I'm so forgettable? How did I fail at creating memories for you?

Other people have said I'm worthy. They said it when I was selected to go to the Moon. And no, the Moon isn't that new night club that opened up. It's the Moon. As is, "I can see the Moon in your eyes." The motherfuckin' Moon, out in space.

What do you know about me that those other people don't know? Has your life been flooded with so many incredible memories that the bar was just raised above my head? Has my life been less or did I hold you higher in my own memories?

True, I didn't say, "hi" last night. But I saw you and you saw me. You just didn't know it was me. And you didn't know that it was my last night here. Not here as in the bar, but here as in Earth. If you knew, then I would've been worth remembering. Maybe.

My name is going to survive longer than I will. Maybe some 11th grader is going to have to memorize my name along with a dozen other astronauts. Maybe not. I need people to remember me, I just thought they would. I feel incredibly lonely now knowing that I am the only person in the world who remembers us. Together or not, we were and always would be a part of a two-member club.

If I die your last words to me will be "excuse me." Which is only slightly more searing than your previous last words, "I'm glad we can still be friends."

I'm going into outer space now.

Peace.

A Spirited Defense for Mass Ideas

I've contributed a blog post everyday for the last hundred and twenty some days and never fully explained why to others or myself. The latter was criminally negligent as we should all be questioning why any of us do anything. Why do we buy what we do, drive where we do, see who we do and so on. The issue just hadn't been thrown in my face until an online colleague made the oft-repeated point that less can sometimes be more. Though more is usually more, I suppose most people try to adopt the phrase, "It is better to appear a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt." But I don't see that as a rule of life anymore than one should always drive 30 miles per hour.

I think the wrong people remain silent just as much, if not more, than the wrong people don't shut up. As much as I, or anyone, can--and do--complain about the epidemic spread of obnoxious, opinionated cable news, this only makes up a rather small part in people's daily lives and thus the world in general. What contributes to the world around us are the conversations that take place in the world around us. News, online, in print or on TV, can not hear you so there is no conversations held and I think this mentality is hard to shift out of when we are amongst the living.

If you disagree with somebody, why not make an issue of it? I don't believe nearly 7 billion people can advance individually. Think of it in a capitalist mindset if you must. The more competition (ideas), the stronger the survivors will become. A monopoly gets nobody anywhere and unchecked ideas are no different. Or think of it as a conscious collaboration. But there is nothing to collaborate, nothing to build upon, nothing to add or strengthen if everyone always agrees with everyone else through their own silence.

Someone says the Internet has enough useless opinions of wanna-be journalists so they themselves will only contribute sparingly (say, one blog post a year). They say they push for quality over quantity. They have the modesty to think not everything they say is genius. But, I say, what if quantity can make quality. Why can't that be a way to learn? What if I respect readers so much that I want to improve, for them? How is it modest to think what you do contribute is genius? Why can't you just say what you have to say and let others call it genius or not? Aren't two genius comments better than one? What if the quantity becomes something more than the sum of its parts?

Sometimes the world is lacking in effort. We don't all need to aim for the Forbes 500 but we all need to aim for something, and we need to know why.

Sometimes the world is lacking confidence. Confidence to say, "I disagree," "I agree" or "I have something new." Enough question dodging. Enough pleading the fifth. Enough taking both sides. If you can't agree enough with any side, make your own side and stand for something. Something that you won't let people tread on. Something that you let identify you.

Ideas are a renewable resource but the world needs more of them. Regurgitating principles is not an idea. What you are willing to sacrifice for those principles is what makes an idea. Admittedly, I don't succeed in articulating ideas every day, but I do try every day--through this blog and in life. They take the form of quips, short stories, essays, reviews, metaphors and predictions.

I daresay that remaining quiet in the hopes of not being a fool is the most foolish thing one can do. So long as they are your ideas, blended from your experiences, your thoughts are not a disease on this world. It is only when you are a mouthpiece for someone or something else that you lose yourself, your identity and your right to contribute to the world around you.

So why do I do this? Because I'm trying to say more than you're reading. And maybe, just maybe, each day you'll have more to say than you just read.

Selling the Military Down the River

I am overcome with a feeling that many Americans are selling the US military down the river.

President Barack Obama promised to repeal the military policy "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" in his State of the Union address. Since then, the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff have gone before Congress and agreed with their (and your) Commander in Chief that, at the very least, the military could handle openly gay soldiers. This completely ignores the fact that many still say cohesion is key in the military and homosexuals jeopardize that.

The "many" I referred to are the Republican senators on the Arms Committee who have their jobs hanging by a thread thanks to the rumored conservative 'purity test' coming this fall and/or 2012. The purity test being a list of 10 commandments (lets not shy away the Biblical overtones), that all Republicans must adhere to in able to receive funding from the Republican National Committee. One of the commandments being: defend heterosexual marriage; and the overall theme being: oppose Obama.

This theme of blindly opposing Obama is horrifyingly transparent when former-moderate/reasonable Sen. John McCain can still be against the integration of gays in the military after his 2008 promise that he'd repeal "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" if the leaders of the military suggested as much. Hypocrisy seems to damage politicians as much as glass windows hurt 1980s action movie stars.

The current policy is a cruel joke on gay men and women in the service. It's not like they're going to start patting other soldiers on the butt in the middle of firefight (though butt-patting isn't gay so long as you're playing football--wherein the goal is to chase and tackle other men). "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" means the gays in uniform can't talk about their loved ones back home. It means that can't go to a gay bar when on leave. They can't say, "no, I don't care for your carton of Playboys." Soldiers aren't robots and we don't need them to be, nor do we ask them to be. Soldiers' personal lives very much shape why they fight, how they act, and who they are as people defending the freedoms of other Americans.

The persistent argument that this is a case of rights is asinine. The right to be prejudice is greatly overruled by the right to pursue a life of liberty and happiness. And this can't be a case of "military service is a choice," either. Military service is more than that. For many it's an honor, a tradition and sometimes even the sole opportunity to receive an education. If any of those were denied by the government, there would be outrage. Go figure, they are being denied. Go figure again, there is an outrage.

Sen. Jeff Sessions (R) defended his anti-gay views by saying the military is too busy to undertake progressive social reform. Others believed the military should never be a vehicle of social reform (essentially agreeing with the idea that the US military is always busy). The only problem here being that the military is a vehicle of social reform. President Truman integrated colored soldiers years before the Supreme Court ruled the same for public schools. Also he did it during the Korean War. The Civil War saw a boom in women volunteers; and though they were entirely nurses, they found themselves bearing unprecedented and controversial responsibilities outside of the home.

The US military is the perfect vehicle for social reform because they adapt best. They get over their initial difficulties and find new strengths. They are built for adaption in various kinds of warfare and global conditions. So I have little problem throwing new challenges at them when I feel the challenges are necessary advancements. There is no group of 1 million people I would sooner trust to overcome any obstacle than I would the US armed forces. I wouldn't hold back universal translators from the military because it had a complicated owner's manual and I wouldn't hold back 5,000 translators from the military because they're homosexual.

If America is ever going to learn the metric system, it'll be through the military first. And if America is ever going to reach high enough to grasp its ideals, it'll probably be through the military first.

So even if (and this is an arguable "if") the fearful senators are correct and open homosexuality disrupts unit cohesion, I stand by the over-due integration. Because if any group of Americans have to break the status quo by accepting homosexuals and thus be sent down the river, I just assume it be the US military...because I know they are the ones who will come back fastest, and clear the way for the rest of us.

I Know It When I See It

The difference between pornography and art is notoriously subjective, but--like a lot of controversies--I hope I can further the discussion with a modest blog post. Who knows, if both people that read this tell two others, then that's four people. Four people is pretty good. And including me, that's actually five people.

Without the use of pictures, I will explain how pornography fails to be art in one of two ways:

1) It is technically impressive. The best paintings and sculptures of nude models require a craft beyond most people, educationally or physically. This is not meant to be a charge against the art of filmmaking or photography, as painting can be lazy in some regards. However, pornography usually goes down the avenue of film and photography because they are most dependent on technology and least dependent on the individual's personal ability. This discrepancy is easy to spot in nearly every case, as the intentions of the "artist" show through. The one argument to this is that it takes a skilled technician to glamorize Playboy photos (and the like) beyond the realms of reality--trick lighting, airbrushing, etc. However, this is countered by my second point.

2) The art piece is bigger than the subject matter. In pornography, the subject matter (a naked person) is the sole appeal and completely determines the value of the pornography in question. Playboy doesn't hire the most skilled photographers it can, it hires the most beautiful girls it can. Porno films are the same way, in that the actors and actresses are chosen for their physical attributes and are viewed by people seeking those physical attributes. Pablo Picasso's "Les Demoiselles d' Avignon" (The Young Ladies of Avignon) is more than just five naked ladies. It raises questions and challenges conventions. Technical skill aside, it doesn't solely (if at all) appeal to raw human desires, but appeals to the mind and intellect.

A picture, painting, movie, sculpture or literary description of a naked body is no different from the same of a car. That's not to say the subject them self is like a car, but that the piece they are depicted in is no different (ignoring the angle of "shock value"). A picture of a car must be more than just the car, from a technical, emotional or intellectual standpoint.

I am willing to apply the same rules to cars and bodies that I apply to all art. If someone can honestly point to a piece and say, "that is more than the subject, that piece is worth more than it's material value"; than I will point to the same piece and say, "that is art."

ENDING NOTE: Some days ago Tyson articulated, what I feel to be a pretty interesting point on the identification of art and that is that context is key. Because a piece (movie, sculpture, painting, photograph, etc) is in a building that houses "art"--i.e. an art gallery--it's contains are art regardless of their aesthetic appeal. I suppose this goes in line with intentions though. People go to different places for different reasons and creators seek different venues for different reasons. Still...I haven't figured out a rule that eliminates exceptions. Perhaps this shouldn't be a goal.

Stand Up Material

I'm kind of nervous, this is my first time doing anything like this before. So if you could just cheer and clap when I come back on stage like I'm your favorite comedian ever, that'd really help. Thanks.

Funny how I stopped caring about lowering the drinking age once I turned 21. In my late-teen years I was positive that I could drink as reasonably as any adult; now my opinion of young people arguing for a lowered drinking age ranges between indifference, annoyance and mockery. But see, I have the same feelings towards other issues. I don't care how much millionaires are taxed when I'm not a millionaire. Incidentally, I guess I just found yet another reason to be thankful I'm not in danger of becoming a teenager again.

I see people paying $50 for a pair of pants that have holes in them. I paid $15 for mine and have ketchup stains on them. That's pretty much the same thing, right? Maybe even better, it's more original and more casual. You wait and see, in five years, all the models and store manikins will have Cheetos stains on their pants.

Sometimes I get tired of trying to make friends. Last week I came to the conclusion that the first girl who starts a conversation with me--instead of me having to break the ice--will probably be my future wife. Just lowering standards here. But soon after I thought this, a girl I've never talked to sat next to me right before our class started. She looked around the room and said, "Are there less people here than last week?" I turned to her and said with a smile, "No, we just all lost weight." She looked at me, puzzled, and asked, "Why would that matter?" I guess we're not getting married anytime soon. Sorry ladies, but the bar has been raised.

Speaking of bars, I think an army recruiter tried to recruit me at a bar last weekend. Just a plain dressed guy came up to me, asked if I was having a good time and just seemed really, really interested in what I was saying. It took me back to high school when army recruiters were a lot more prevalent. You're just talking to some stranger until they ask if you have any plans for the future. All of a sudden its like talking to a drug dealer. What did my mom used to say? Just say no? I'm serious though. I admire the willingness to day for your country, but I'm just not there yet. I just paid taxes here. When I was in high school, hell no I didn't have plans for the future. The future was this weekend. Unless Army's parents are out of town and they're throwing a party, I don't care.

The New Best

There is a new courtyard in the campus of the University of Southern California—the school itself buried snuggly just south of downtown Los Angeles. Three looming buildings stand connected to one another, blurring their individual distinctions, and a majestic archway squares off the area.

Palm trees, no less than 200 years old, have found their new home nearby. Encompassed by the best and brightest sun and young, will-be professionals, the trees’ original home is appropriately forgotten and irrelevant. They are in Los Angeles now, able to shake off their old names and old destinies.

A statue fountain occupies the middle of the courtyard as a testament to the plentiful water supply in Los Angeles. The water flows smooth and clear, even the sound flows like a steady stream of perfection. Unlike the well-hidden drinking fountains, touching the water with your hand would create a barrage of impurities on par with dumping a trash bag of road kill in the water.

The northwest corner--the corner closest to only the best chain coffee shop--is shaded by a wooden roof that would be rather useless in the event of rain. Fortunately Los Angeles paid off Mother Nature and it doesn’t rain. But the wooden roof serves its purpose as invisibly as all the other elements.

Blanket by the cool shade, film students, teachers, lovers and buffs mingle, successfully avoiding the notoriously sunny weather of southern California. Most talk about subjects ranging as far as any twenty people can talk about, though all are strengthening their contacts more than their conversations. Some negate such subtleties, though, and directly plan how they will become the entertainers of us all in twenty years, ten years or next week.

And why shouldn’t they plan? Towering over all of these conversations on either side stand two buildings named George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, respectively. The latte-drinkers, studio runners and digital craftsmen can’t escape the task laid before them. Each of us is meant to give more than we get in this world, thereby holding each of the fifty students to give two of the most grand film schools ever built--as they were all given one.

And grand the school is. The American Southwest almost-adobe architecture blended with European marble is nothing less royal than the finest castles still standing in the world. Finding the best of everything required to construct and maintain this Hollywood stepping stone, these buildings truly find their individuality, not in conception, but in execution. For being the best, is being unique.

More than what new tile can do, this new world of cinema will undoubtedly create a new generation of filmmakers that could not have otherwise existed. No, the bar of expectations isn’t just thrown in the artists’ collective face every day, it is also launched into the stratosphere.

Though we all like to reach for our ambitions, the stars, they are particularly hard to see in the Los Angeles sky, making this courtyard the best built launching pad that it desired to be.

Placeholders

This blog will have to be a placeholder for the great story I will write. This time will have to be a placeholder for the great story I will live.

And the Best Picture is...

Not Avatar. Not The Hurt Locker or Precious. The Best Picture of 2009 was Quentin Tarantino's Inglorious Basterds. While a movie about World War II being nominated for Best Picture is like the San Diego Chargers making the playoffs (always there, but never winning), Inglorious Basterds speaks volumes about the film medium as a form of art and commercial entity. It also casts a new light on the historical film genre, how stories are told and the cinematic joys we can look forward to as long as filmmakers try to make water-cooler talkers actually say something.

Inglorious Basterds is a period piece set during WWII that contains as much historical accuracy as this sentence. But within that freedom, the film tells a story that is more cinematic than history. While many historical movies aim for accuracy, they inevitably falter in some fashion--to then be criticized, or torn-apart, by historians (professional and amateur, alike). Conversely, other period pieces keep their stories so small that they don't dare ripple the waters of time. These films (ex. "Titanic") hide behind the possibility that "this story could have happened." Inglorious Basterds enters a realm that is not only unapologetically fictional, but that it changes what you think to be fact. This provides contextual knowledge, yet throws the audience into a barrage of surprises.

But more than separating what we know and what we want from history-based movies, Inglorious Basterds also separates what we know and what we want from movies themselves. The film within the film is a highly violent and historically inaccurate depiction of a WWII battle (while WWII is still raging). And like the Basterds' audience, the audience in the film is entertained by war fantasies. In fact, while the audience on screen is cheering on their heroes, the audience (you!) is cheering for Taratino's heroes. Movies in both cases provide an escape for audiences until, go figure, the fictional audience can not escape their theater--forcing the real audience (you, again) to remain in their seats also. Inglorious Basterds isn't a self-serving blood-fest; it's a very serious--though quite funny--dissection on why we watch movies and the effects they have on us.

But the movie isn't a parody or critique on films because it purposefully branches away from audience expectations. Unlike most films, Inglorious Basterds can't be broke up into 40 separate 3-minute scenes (or in Michael Bay's case, 120 1-minute scenes). Inglorious Bastereds is an unusual yet undeniable string of 5 separate segments. This may make every scene seem "long" to the untrained eye, but it's really quite more than that. Script scribes are taught at every film school and seminar to start a scene as late as possible and end it as soon as possible--the overly-practiced theory being that the movie's momentum will stay fast and increase drama. Tarantino, here, goes the exact opposite direction and treats each scene like a rubber band. He stretches and stretches each scene and conversation until every aspect has been covered, and then some. In every case, this works beautiful, especially when the audience knows on some level how the scene is going to end and goes nuts waiting to get there.

They say the best directors can control the emotions of the audience. But I only half-agree with that. I say, the best directors control the emotions of the audience in a way they haven't seen before (thus in a more invisible way). If a bad guy burns down innocent people's home, yet again, it's too easy to hate him (I'm looking at you, Avatar!); but if a bad guy is just really good at a card game, you may end up fearing him in a very new way. It's about trusting your audience. If you see the bad guy do the most evil thing imaginable, then you know how dangerous he is--he's as dangerous as the previous character that did that. If you see the bad guy do something uniquely impressive, your imagination runs wild with what he is capable of in any larger sense. The best directors manipulate their audiences AND trust their audiences.

Photographically speaking, Inglorious Basterds paints a beautiful portray of French landscape and city life that would be more expected in a...well, French film. The deliberate framing often allows as much action to happen on screen as possible, not unlike staging a play and just putting a camera in the fifth row center. But while this is refreshingly tame, it also draws even more attention to the camera movements that do occur. All of a sudden, how the camera move sells a joke or stirs a new thought in the audience's collective mind. This isn't about cramming two thousand CG jungle warriors into a shot, it's about making the real world beautiful.

But perhaps most subtly, audiences can tell when a movie is personal to the creator(s). The movie contains within it learning experiences of the creator. The evolution of an artist is a fun thing to see because it inspires hope for what they are capable of in the future. Similarly, witnessing growth in others inspires us to look for grow within ourselves. Nobody can just sit down and write the script for Inglorious Basterds. Even Tarantino couldn't--and didn't. It took him nearly ten years and half-a-dozen previous films before he was capable of what he did. And he knows it! Brad Pitt is little more than a tongue-in-cheek mouthpiece for Tarantino when he ends the movie with, "You know, this just might be my masterpiece." Smash cut to: "written and directed by Quentin Tarantino.

Tarantino, like fellow writer-director Judd Apatow, has evolved past his imitators and his former self. Cinematic habits and stagnation are criminally rampant in this year's crop of Best Picture nominees. More damning though, this year more than any other year in recent memory, proved such artistic ambivalence is widely profitable. Why doesn't Wal-Mart just make a movie and be done with this world?

Playing With Art

One of my roommates bought a video game last week that's been occupying the TV screen so much I've actually caught up on my class assignments. I don't remember which game it is; it's that one where space marines/mercenaries blast away alien monsters from another star system. You know the game I'm talking about. However, all the alien-exploding and pixel-swearing made me think about what we do with our time. How can I snub video games when I myself am sitting in front of a computer screen right now? Well, technically, I may be doing something else as you read this, but at one point I was (am?) glued in front of my own universe--it's not 2-D, it's flat screen.

There is an argument to be made that video games are art. It's crazy. But maybe, just maybe, I can make a case.

First we have to throw out the argument that video games are just a product of capitalism/hedonism/consumerism/technology and therefore not art. Obviously capitalism is a huge driver of art. Not just in aspect of artists selling their work, but in that artists (or others) purchase material to be turned into art. Yes, a coffee table may just be a coffee table, but a skilled artists can use it for a piece in an instillation that moves people. Likewise, technology can be art as the same can be down with a 42-inch plasma TV.

In line with the coffee table example, much of art is about making decisions. You choose to use the blue color. You choose to photograph that person. You choose to cast James Woods (doesn't happen much, though). Video games are like that now more than ever. You can choose to explore different areas of the digital world. You can choose to jump or run or hijack a police helicopter. Now, yes, you are bound within the laws of the game--as I cannot put a football helmet on Mario, Luigi or Spyro ('90s shout out). But artists in the real world are bound by similar laws. They cannot make a floating painting or unmeltable ice cream statue.

This notion is further complicated when one takes into the consideration, players' abilities to "break" the rules of the games. Computer nerds (I use the term lovingly) and video game hackers can re-write the codes for the games after purchase and create what are called "mods". While likely a violation of the game's warranty, they can do things previously reserved for Neo in The Matrix movies. Players can flood cities, throw cars and fly like Superman to a Rage Against the Machine soundtrack--all acts completely digital, yet moving, and, dare I say, artistic.

Furthermore games have the profound ability to make players and viewers think, talk and find real-world applications. All art is a metaphor manifested. A piece of paper and paints mean nothing because they serve no value to anybody's survival. However, when put together and made into the Mona Lisa, society spends thousands of dollars for ownership rights and protection. Video games aren't real, but what they can inspire is real. Violent video games ask us if our world is violent. Tetris made us good packers. Sports games quantity real people into a "speed" rating of 95.

Video games bring people together as much as they separate us from each other. In the 1960s, like last week, some kids played by themselves. In 2009, there were several video game conventions, selling literally thousands and thousands of tickets. The game "Pong" could be played with two people. The game Modern Warfare II holds 50,000 players online, hourly.

But together or separate, people still feel things when they play video games. Even if the most common emotion is frustration, there are more than enough traditional artists who will say challenging a viewer with their work is worth more than ambivalent shrugs, or even unrelenting praise.

All this, though, needs to be ended with the fact that playing video games doesn't make one an artist any more than looking at a building makes me an architect. And not everybody who "creates" is an artist in my book. Sorry, Michael Bay, but you're on the outs. Art is about intention and results. Someone has to say, "I am creating art"--it doesn't have to be "good" art, but they need to believe it is art-- and someone else has to say, "that is art". So if someone makes a game meant to inspire, and a player feels inspired by a game, then, viola, we have another form of art.

NFL Predictions: Superbowl Weekend

Indianapolis Colts vs. New Orleans Saints
Before this season, the Colts got a brand new coach, new coordinator and lost two of their best wide receivers. On top of this, their best defensive player, Bob Sanders, continued to be injured--which is what happens when you try to tackle trucks with your neck--and the Colts still hadn't picked up a running back who can do more than tie this shoelaces. Somehow, though, they survived. Somehow they flourished. Somehow they made it to the Superbowl. Make no mistake, "somehow" is named Peyton Manning; and even though his on-field talent is only arguably league-best, he is more of the Colts' talent than any single player on any other team.

Conversely the Saints have been one of the most fun teams to watch this entire season. They had a considerably harder schedule than the Colts and won their games with more points and style week after week. While the Colts stumbled past the Jaguars and Texans, the Saints were dismantling a Giants team so thoroughly that they never recovered. Likewise, the Patriots' decade of self-righteous dignity was stripped from them by the Saints and paraded down Bourbon Street like so many cheap string beads.

If the Saints want to do what no other team has done this year (beat Manning), they need to think like no other team has done. Traditionally speaking, if you want to neutralize a quarterback, you blitz 5 to 7 guys continuously. You knock down the quarterback or at least make him run. This is how the Saints retired Kurt Warner and put Brett Favre back in a pseudo-retirement position that'll just jerk Minnesota around for a while. However, blitz packages will not work against the Colts. This is largely because the Colts have so completely neglected their running game that you'd swear Joseph Addai was a middle child. Team after team has come after Manning, and even if they get to him in the first half--they run out of blitz schemes and he dices the under-manned secondaries in the second half.

The second problem with blitzing Manning as much as teams do, is that the defenses wear out by the 4th quarter. On a pass play, the O-line just has to stand up and be in the way, so when the Colts are running 10 or 15 more pass plays than normal teams, eventually you have relatively strong linemen protecting a quarterback who has dissected the defense's playbook.

So Saints, if you want to win, don't blitz. Keep 6 or 7 or 8 guys back and make the Colts run the ball. If the Colts are going to win this game, make sure it's because of Addai, because Manning will just make it too easy. And this is where the game will be decided. The Colts have stronger kickers, the Saints better returners. The Saints have an evenly explosive offense, the Colts defense has more hidden talent than the last three seasons of American Idol combined.

The Saints were as lucky to win against the Vikings as they were to get 5 turnovers against them; and then required an overtime field goal. And even that wasn't as lucky as the Colts not having to play the Chargers two weeks ago. The Saints won't get 5 turnovers on the Colts; but the Saints also aren't the Chargers.

Saints win--and for bonus points, Drew Brees gets Superbowl MVP.

Ships are Sinking

February brings about more than just cold-weather frustration and an inexplicable day-shortage. As many Americans know, it also celebrates, or at least remembers, black history. But unlike many Americans know, the first week of February is the most damaging week of the year for romantic relationships.

According to a study conducted by MIT undergraduates, 3% of 20 to 29 year-olds were in a relationship on January 28, 2009. Within three weeks, both couples had broken up.

According to a more successful study, 54% of all couples dating in January break up by February 7th. Just as shocking, nearly all of these couples get back together in March or late February. Most relationship-ologists believe the warming weather of March brings people together, though non-February winter months don’t seem especially difficult on couples. Most shocking of all, nearly all of the relationships are ended by the guy.

When asked if Black History Month plays a role in February’s romantic troubles, Jon Washington said, “Definitely a factor; it’s the only factor for me.”

Washington went on to explain, that like a lot of guys (regardless of nationality or race), he wants to spend some time remembering and reflecting on proud African-American traditions and history; commemorating the things that really matter.

“You just loss scope sometimes,” said Washington, “and I just feel like I can’t give any relationship I’m in the energy and time it deserves.”

Washington admitted that in three or four weeks he may feel differently, but it’s hard to say. When asked if the early February timing had anything to do with Valentine’s Day, Washington looked around the room in disbelief, saying, “Valentine’s Day? Who said-what’s…Is that this month?”

Washington then deliberately knocked over a glass of water and ran out of the room.

Alienation in Politics

The most “technologically-shocking” movie of the year about aliens, with slightly above average reviews, stunned audiences again this week by being nominated for yet another award. Not just any award, mind you, but the highest, most honorable movie award. Among nine other Best Picture nominees, the Academy will have to decide if the best movie of the year was (you guessed it!): District 9.

Last spring I was excited for the release of what promised to be a smart, original and possibly realistic look at aliens landing on present-day Earth. This promise was broken. Like lots of disappointing movies, I could have just let this one go and drowned my sorrows in only the finest of malt liquors, but no. This movie lingered. It lingered on critic’ top 10 lists, it lingered in the Golden Globe race and now it is being thrown back in my face by the Academy that finds new ways to offend my insecure, cinematic arrogance every year.

While I would relish the opportunity to find 30 or 40 ways to blast the visual effects of the film that ranked no higher than the best the SciFi channel can offer, I will instead show why this nomination is more shocking on a cultural level than on any personal preferences. The Hollywood elite, usually charged with the worst of crimes (liberalism), has unknowingly nominated a film that lambastes Democrats, humanizes Republicans and foreshadowed the alienation of President Barack Obama.

Several years prior to the start of the story, an alien spacecraft entered Earth’s orbit and hovered in mid-air for weeks on end before humans learned that the alien race inside had succumbed to a disease and ran out of energy. Obviously the alien race had achieved space travel, though not completely mastered it. Similarly, Republicans several years ago gained considerable advantage in politics (controlling both chambers of Congress, the Supreme Court, and, by extension, the White House). However, like the alien race that had achieved so much, the Republicans were hurt by a hard-to-explain energy shortage—which led to car manufacturers bankrupting, a stock market slump and rise in unemployment (stranded aliens were also unemployed).

At this low point for the aliens/Republicans, humans/Democrats took over in a big way. The aliens, being a disenfranchised, leaderless minority in the film, are shoved into ghettos and makeshift housing while the human try (in vain) to figure out the technological power they suddenly obtained. Meanwhile, some of the less maniacal humans try to understand the alien creatures. The protagonist of the film, a nerd named Wikus, finds himself in the alien camp as a large part of his job—and, despite some smugness, tries to work with the alien species that doesn’t quite understand humans. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the film’s Barack Obama.

While trying to understand the alien culture, Wikus/Obama becomes infected by the alien technology/ideas and slightly deformed. When other humans/Democrats see Wikus is one-tenth alien, they all freak out. The questions then become, “is he going to turn completely alien?” and “How long do we have?” Similarly, Obama ideologically morphed, slightly but visibly. Of course in this world of two cultures there can be no in between, so Wikus is hunted by the humans for his new condition and hated by the aliens for what he had represented (the face of a pushy government) during their de facto incarceration.

Wikus eventually stumbles upon a grass roots uprising. Specifically, a small space ship previously buried beneath the grass rises up to the mother ship thanks to the bond of the only loving family in the whole movie...an alien family.

Unfortunately the movie ends with enough ambiguities to warrant a sequel but--like election cycles--I don’t really want to see it because it’s just going to be bigger, louder, more expensive and have more nonsensical inconsistencies. So bravo, Academy Awards, you gave the masses what they didn’t want (more nominees) because you didn’t have what we have always asked for: modesty.

Echelons of Society

"Nobody was challenging this guy. He had an opinion that was at the very least disagreeable but everybody in class was afraid of confrontation."
"You're complaining that a fight didn't break out in your class?"
"Not a fight, just a discussion that didn't feel like a game of Simon Sez with the teacher or the one student who speaks out just a little too much."
"So what was he actually saying?"
"He was criticizing writers for being too self-important."
"So?"
"So why is that a problem? I concede that some writers are self-important, but I wanted somebody to jump after him and say, 'what's wrong with being important?' Maybe I want writers to take their writing seriously. There aren't any self-deprecating jokes in the Declaration of Independence."
"If you wanted somebody to say this, why didn't you?"
"I did."
"So what's the problem?"
"I guess I put a little edge on it or something because the teacher kept me after class to see if I was angry."
"Were you?"
"No. I honestly wasn't. I just wanted to further intellectual debate."
"That sounds self-important."
"Self-important nothing! I'm the Robin Hood of education."
"How are you Robin Hood?"
"I defend ideas."
"What did Robin Hood defend?"
"I don't know, people. Whatever, bad example. The other problem that grows from this is that I probably scared away any potential friends I could have made in that class."
"Controversy will keep you pretty lonely."
"But I would have been untrue to myself if I let that guy blast his opinion to the entire class without challenge. It's a question of morals."
"Ever seen Grease?"
"The movie?"
"No, our neighbor, yes, the movie. The moral of that story is that you should change yourself so John Travolta will like you."
"Okay."
"But that's a stupid movie. If you hadn't have said anything in that class, there is no promise you would have made a friend. But you would be here, complaining that you feel bad about not speaking your mind in a class that was asking you to speak your mind. Now stop eating Pop-tarts on my bed and let me go to sleep, it's three in the morning!"

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part Three: I Feel Like Death

We took a momentary break between the second and third movies but more than give us time to use the restroom, it gave us time to reflect on what we've done and what lays before us. No one has left or even mentioned that possibility in the last six years--I mean 'hours'.

4:18am - We have started The Return of the King.

4:19am - I am beginning to realize that these movies will claim my life.

4:53am - I feel sick, undoubtedly too much drink and food. Way too much food. I feel like I ate nine dollars worth of Taco Bell--that's how much food I think I ate! Sweet Jesus.

5:16am - We've all become more quiet, only occasionally saying something to the film or each other. For a number of reasons though I have not updated this log as much as the first...8 hours?

5:23am - The Beacon of Gondor is lit!

5:40am - Matt broke out another package of Hawaiian bread. Also, my eyes hurt.

6:10am - "You will suffer me!" So weary. We all need a battle (and soon) to lift our spirits.

6:26am - We have just put in the sixth, and last, disc. Everyone has to repeat what they just said because no one can talk or hear at a normal level.

6:50am - Rohan's cavalry has shown up and I find life worth living again.

7:25am - We are marching onto Mordor and everyone is pumped. The morning light is faintly coming in through the window. This a world of my own.

7:40am - Somehow we have all gotten distracted talking about when Halle Berry was topless in Swordfish. Man, that was awesome.

7:45am - People here are getting violent towards Frodo. He is quite unpopular right now; probably because if Sam had been given the ring the trilogy would have been 85 minutes long.

8:18am - It's over. All of it. Over. I want to die...and post this journal on my blog, but I think I need a week of recovery. And on a final note, I want to mention how bullshit it is that Frodo clearly forget Legolas's name when reuniting with the hobbits, Gandolf, Gimli and Aragorn.

I'm going to bed.

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part Two: What Have We Done?

The first movie was finished but two others were not. Without a second hesitation, we put in the third of six discs. Remembering that "Fellowship" is my favorite of the three, I wondered if we should have just watched the movies in reverse--then characters could join Frodo and Sam during their trip from Mordor to the Shire. Also, I began to regret getting up at 9am earlier that day.

12:20am - Our own fellowship is arguing over the movie DISTRICT 9. Tempers are flaring because it was a stupid movie. I pray that Gandolf's impeding fight with the Belrog will re-unify us.

12:40am - "...the union of the Two Towers." Name of the movie! Take a drink.

1:20am - Shrimp and cocktail sauce has been added to the table of food directly in front of me.

1:33am - I feel tired for the first time. This is partially because I haven't slept in some 17 hours; partially because all the "Worm Tongue" scenes in this movie are absolute death.

1:43am - The second movie doesn't have the direness (or fun moments) of the first movie.

2:01am - Max is quiet. Matt is missing (kitchen, maybe?). R.C. and myself are lively again. Also, Smigel is arguing with Gollum.

2:08am - First disc of Two Towers is over. People are noticeably weary and verbal communication has failed us a couple of times.

2:40am - Matt made delicious stew. Real nice. Potatoes and...conies?

3:00am - Jeht is drifting in and out, verbally at least. Others are becoming more aggressive in their opinions, almost always including the phrase "in the books..."

3:20am - It's hard to stay awake when the characters themselves are falling asleep.

4:00am - Sam Wise Ass is giving his speech about stories and I think its emotionally affecting the audience more than usual.

4:12am - The Two Towers are over. The Two Towers is over? Whatever. I feel (overly?) critical of that last scene with Smigel setting up the third movie. It's more forced and self-conscious than the first movie's ending. I mean, how can you just watch the second movie? No beginning, no ending. Oh, but there's more shrimp left!

Frodo: The True Story of Our Trip to Mordor--Part One: Let's Do This!

Recently I suggested to my two roommates that we kill an entire day and watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy, extended edition. Like most things I say, I was half-joking; but unlike most things I say, they both took this suggestion 100%. So that very day we went to the grocery store and bought munching food. We also made a pair of phone calls to recruit fellowship prospects. As getting everybody together was not unlike getting ten cats in one box, we didn't actually all sit down until 8:45 pm. Being the compulsive writer I am, I logged our journey in real time. It was at this hour when hobbits came to shape the fortunes of all.

8:45pm - Matt just gave us a kickoff speech. From here, Matt, Jeht, Max, Angelina, RC and myself will embark on the (extended) trilogy to Mordor and back. Food is plentiful and everyone is in good spirits.

8:50pm - Actually Matt has disappeared in the kitchen, juggling food and drink. Our journey has been delayed, but why not get it right?

"Whispers of a Nameless Fear"

9:48pm - "Get off the road! Quick!" Everybody is still drinking and laughing. There is an appropriate amount of credence to the film (as we know when to shut the fuck up) but yet people aren't afraid to venture jokes and quips.

10:37pm - Jeht just made pizza rolls at Rivendell. We celebrated.

10:42pm - We changed discs and everyone wrote their favorite lines on a giant piece of butcher paper hanging on the wall. p.s. I can't wait for: "What is this new devilry?"

11:23pm -"You shall not pass!" Everyone is totally into it, but conversations have strayed into strange realms. Ex. "What would a date with Gandolf entail?"

11:28pm - I feel good but don't like how quickly 6 people ate 80 pizza rolls. Also, why do people forget that Ewoks wanted to EAT Han, Luke and Leia? I mean, shit, that's dark.

11:45pm - Matt passed out Hawaiian bread. Easily the tastiest thing ever. This is our elven bread? Or is it elfin bread? You nerds know what I mean.

12:17pm - Fellowship is broken over (read: end of the first movie). Shorter than I feared. Wait. We're only one-third through this story? Dammit...

NFL Predictions: Probowl Weekend

You'd be hard pressed in this world to find a bigger waste of time and resources than the NFL Probowl, this year more than any previous year. Traditionally the Probowl (professional football's all-star game), is held the weekend after the Superbowl--lifting it to a prominence generally worthy of a, "oh yeah, I forgot about that." This year though, it is being held in the same stadium as the Superbowl, one week before the biggest annual event in televised sports--arguably because they don't play the game seven damn times.

Football players, like high school seniors, mentally clock out for the summer as soon as their duties are done for the season, meaning the Raiders usually get a 3 month head start, the Chiefs start their annual "rebuilding" season and Ricky Williams gets to toke up in January--also like high school seniors. But then the players are dragged back to play in sunny Hawaii; and yes they are dragged, as each "honored" player is given a sizable bonus check (likely buried in the back of the end zone). Imagine how much effort students would put to an assignment a week after getting their final grade. Now imagine those students are already promised no less than $600,000/week next fall if they don't get injured. Football fans are then forced to watch this attitude manifested on the field for three arbitrary hours. I think last year they actually caught Matt Hasselback tampering with the game clock to shave off 11 or 12 minutes.

Now, I say fans are "forced to watch" this game because it is an unusually pathetic all-star game. Perhaps this steams from the physical nature of the game, as baseball players can still try to hit home runs in their all-star game and basketball still gets classic one-on-one match ups. But with football, the season is over and nobody cares about scoring (or stopping) touchdowns. You can almost smell the Hawaiian rum from the field to your living room.

Not only is the Probowl game regrettably less forgettable due to its two-week bump, but now it's been rendered even more useless as 14 players for the Colts and Saints will obviously not be playing. Forget injury on the field, if there's an off chance somebody were to throw a hot dog at Drew Brees and blind him with mustard, I wouldn't want him to play a week before the Game of the Year. As these players were still selected, they must unconscionably miss out on pre-Superbowl team practices and meetings, as they are expected to physically be at the Probowl. That gives the NFL 14 designated drivers who are supposed to be prepping for the game of a lifetime.

Even beyond the Superbowl teams, players are waving off their Probowl invitations. No Tom Brady this year. Or Randy Moss. No Ben Roethlisberger. And--this may foreshadow a future post--definitely no Brett Favre. Instead, the NFL is turning towards players who didn't even play for the entire season to fill out their all-star rosters. Is the 19th best QB in the NFL an all-star? Apparently. All of a sudden the NFL Probowl is becoming a try-out camp for next year, not unlike the NCCA's "Senior Bowl." Which actually brings me to...

Don't have an all-star game. Have an almost-star game. Pick the players on teams that don't get much field action and have them play against each other. You better believe they'll play harder than your commercial/SNL/press conference boys will play. And if the competition gets harder, you'll really be able to see just who has some talent. As it stands now, nobody tries so fans can't really gauge if that was a good play or poor defense. And no coach or owner will have to say this to the players, but the message will be clear: you are playing for the privilege to be on a team next year. Here's a general writing lesson the NFL should know: it doesn't matter what the hero wants, if they want it badly, the audience will want them to get it. Translation: if the players WANT to win, the audience will want them to win.

And that's how the NFL can win, too.

EDITING NOTE: Just realized there wasn't one "prediction" in this blog post, so let's just say...uh...the NFC will win.

Having Faith

Dark matter is a theoretical form of matter that does not reflect or emit electromagnetic radiation. There is no proof of its existence, but its existence answers a lot of questions people just don't know. In fact, dark matter isn't so much of a physical "thing" as it is a placeholder for the mystery in the universe.

Odd that people don't worship dark matter.

The January Skyscraper

I have one novel idea, but that’s not enough for a book.

I considered hitting a dog in the face with a cream pie and felt down thinking about it. I considered hitting a cat in the face with a cream pie and fell down laughing about it.

While discussing TV actors with a friend, another friend started singing, “Shimmy shimmy cocoa what? Listen to it pound. Light it up and take a puff, pass it to me now.” After I moment I realized what had happened and yelled into the other room, “We were talking about Kelsey Grammer!”

A grizzly bear got shoved out of a plane. For that minute before the parachute deployed, the bear just absolutely freaked the fuck out.

Brett accused me of never washing my car. I told him, “You watch too many movies, Brett.” I’ve discovered this is the ultimate comeback to any criticism. Use it wisely and rampantly.

I’ve been job hunting, in the sense that I tracked down employment opportunities and then killed them. I then got stopped by a Park Ranger who said using hand grenades is morally reprehensible and, more importantly, illegal. However I escaped her bear trap-like grip and hid underneath a waterfall for two and half days. After that I found some campers and stole a bag of Skittles. Now that’s a metaphor!

Like casinos, life has no seats for onlookers.

A “welcome” mat showed up at my door. I turned it backwards so that it does not welcome the people that do not visit me, but rather the mat welcomes me to the world when I leave.

I made up the jazz song name “Tuesday Bluesday” for forgotten reasons. My friend was convinced a song that bad must already exists. It turns out there is a band by that name, and a music series in Harrisburg…and a song.

Meanest thing I heard this month: “Nice shopping cart; what are you, homeless?”

Stanton said he wanted to be buried with all his Dallas Cowboy football jerseys. We all laughed. “I’m serious!” he said. We all laughed harder. When we stopped, he continued, “No. Really.” We stood in silence.

A young, British secret agent is sent on a top-secret mission half-a-world away to stop a madman from unleashing an unspeakable act of violence on the most powerful nations around the globe. The young, brash agent later discovers that the criminal mastermind was once the best secret agent for the same secret government agency that sent him. The name of the super villain? James Bond. Best movie ever? Yes.

Give a man a fish and you've fed him for a day. Teach him how to fish and you've lost a customer.

This story is a skyscraper because it is made up of dozens of stories.

American Beauty for the ReGeneration

With the Oscars nearing closer everyday (like everything else in the future), I'd like to remind the Academy of a very important quality to look for in movies. This is especially important when they'll be able to choose from ten movies for Best Picture--probably Avatar, Precious, The Hurt Locker, Up in the Air, Inglorious Basterds, A Serious Man, Nine, Invictus, Up and Star Trek (dead serious). The cinematic virtue I'm talking about is longevity. Not running length--though many of these films have that in spades, too--but of cultural relevance to the year the movie came out in.

It's these movies that have cultural relevance that stick with audiences. It's these movies that are more than Best Pictures winners. They remain in the public consciousness years later. This is what separates Braveheart from The Last Emperor. Why do people still know the goofy accents from Fargo but can't name the writer, director or star of The English Patient? Audiences don't remember Forrest Gump because it won Best Picture. Likewise, audiences haven't forgotten about Pulp Fiction even though it lost.

So let's talk about 1999. The Cider House Rules, The Green Mile, The Insider and The Sixth Sense were all beaten by American Beauty. More than the others, I feel The Sixth Sense was a better film than American Beauty. Unfortunately, The Sixth Sense is crushed by its iconic twist ending and deemed unwatchable by many solely because "they know the ending." But we don't watch movies to get to the ending. If that was true, all movies would be as short as possible. 5 second movies would become the norm. Aside from making 20 minutes of previews all that more excruciating, this would also serve as a sad commentary on life. Are we going through life to get to the ending? No, we're not. And no, we shouldn't be watching movies just to know the ending.

Back to an earlier point though, American Beauty may still have been the best pick for that year as it serves as a great marker on American sensibilities of the time. The late 90s was host to a number of movies backlashing against the rise of white-collar culture. American Beauty was about Lester quitting his job and rejecting all the status symbols his family and neighbors had come to love (including an Italian sofa). Similar themes are found in Fight Club, The Matrix, Office Space, American Psycho, etc.

This rejection of "the system" was itself a backlash to group unification seen in movies during the early nineties and eighties. This period was marked by the end of the Cold War and America's confusion about the next big threat. As we had been faced with nuclear annihilation for years on end, we could only imagine the next threat to be similarly huge. This is why movies focused more on unify against a common enemy--for instance, the saucer-aliens from Independence Day (my god, is that movie really THAT old?).

As the terrorist attacks on September 11th, 2001 were arguably the biggest single-day event in American history, it should be of no surprise that they changed movies. All of a sudden it's the little threats that scare us. Batman/James Bond/whoever else fights street criminals, not traditional super villains. Now we aren't concerned about aliens blowing up the entire east coast (as a metaphor for nuclear destruction), but we're concerned about aliens being near our homes and families, as seen in Signs (2003). In Signs, alien ships hover above Mexico City, and presumably other major cities, but we only learn this information through the television. The audience, like the characters, are stuck in their homes and neighborhoods, completely vulnerable to a threatening enemy we cannot see or understand.

Now let's re-examine my Oscar nominees prediction. These movies, for the most part, are not an acceptance or rejection of "the system." Nobody is going rogue, nor are unconnected people unifying. Rather there is a different phenomenon. Characters are finding their voice within the system they are a part of. They do not feel like a pawn in the great scheme of things like the characters in the late 90s. Brad Pitt is most definitely a part of the Allied forces in Inglorious Basterds, but he is special within the group. Kirk from Star Trek needs the star fleet to do what he feels is his calling, despite having a different up-bringing.

I think this mentality will reverberate within my previously defined ReGeneration. We need the system, we need each other, to reach new heights but also need independence to cope and fight with the independent-based threats flooding society. Outside of movie-world, nobody can argue that Facebook hasn't opened up new ways of organizing; while at the same time emphasizing the individuals. And while movies about being made about the financial industry, the army and even Facebook, I am confident they'll all be instantly forgettable if they don't tap into this solidifying generation.

Sometimes working within a good group isn't enough. Sometimes being a good individual isn't enough. And, sorry Academy Awards, sometimes winning Best Picture isn't enough.

Go Bender, Go Bender, Go Bender

Back in June, Comedy Central gave the order for 13 brand-new episodes of the "hit" television show Futurama. As I've been swamped with women, lack of women, school work and bear fights for the last 7 months, I haven't been able to collect my thoughts on Futurama...until now.

As a big Futurama fan, I welcome the new episodes with some trepidation. I was mildly amused by the four direct to DVD movies since the show was canceled--and that's a criticism, as any four episodes of the show were far beyond "mildly amus[ing]." All too often shows have suffered in quality after the four-season mark; moreover, I felt the show had a nice conclusion with the season four finale and, to a lesser extent, the final movie. Admittedly, the show always had a quiet dignity missing from shows like Family Guy and Rock of Love, but the movies were too self-aware. However I would be lying if I said I didn't want to watch any of the new Futurama episodes--a promise I could make regarding nearly every other show on television.

However I'd like to extend this opinion of Futurama to a broader audience and broader assertion; and that is that Bender was one the best television characters of the millennial decade.

Empirically, Bender is a robot in the year 3000. The show's protagonist (Phillip Fry) meets and befriends Bender despite, and because of, Bender's chronic smoking, drinking, larceny, swearing and other debauchery.

On the out most level, Bender is just the best friend character necessary to comedic balance and seen in every nearly every competent show. However, Bender's selfish hedonism is particularly absurd given his existence as a robot--a tool meant to make people's lives easier. For years robots have been an appealing concept to modern society as they reject the weakness of people (such as sleepiness, fear, pain, etc).

When we think of robots, we think of the Terminator variations. It is a machine that does its duty without fail or hesitation. However, this robotic efficiency is a pipe dream. I can't even count on my shower faucet to give me hot water 100% of the time, so we have no reason to think our robots would perform perfectly. Bender is just an extreme to epitomize this point. He is a paradox of our technology; a dream creation that is, by all measurable rights, a complete failure...like much technology (Pippin, anybody?).

However Bender's rampant hedonism strikes a cord in the audience, as we find ourselves yearning to live such a carefree lifestyle. Bender does little work yet never starves. He can drink all night and never be hungover. He can swear and steal without regard for consequences. Bender is us--if we completely did away with those annoying inhibitions. He is the ego that Freud talked about, even though such worldly pleasures seem absurd to a robot we assume to be without desire or emotions.

Our commonality with Bender deepens even more when he embodies our own insecurities, failings and fears, though. Bender's one inhuman trait is his inability to mask himself. He cannot keep secrets and cannot act like somebody else. Everyone (audience and other characters) always know how Bender is feeling and what he is thinking because he is always showing or telling what he feels or thinks. Through this one fault, Bender taps into another common human experience: our desire to be real; our desire to quite acting, our desire to just accept who we are and be accepted for who we are by the world.

And though these insecurities seem broad, or even cliche, they are originally portrayed as no other character on Futurama (or other show for that matter) can be so refreshingly transparent. Bender has a reoccurring, and impossible, dream of being a Harlem Globetrotter. He also has a considerably more philosophical fear of being forgotten once he is dead/turned off/thrown away. Bender wants to know he made an impact on the people in his life--a theme deemed universal since the Jimmy Stewart classic It's A Wonderful Life. But above all these insecurities, Bender is afraid to be alone. As early as Futurama's third episode, Bender shows he loves his friends and can be cut quite deep when rejected by people. More than people need Bender as a tool, Bender needs people as friends. Bender needs people as friends even more than he needs them for victims in his aforementioned tomfoolery.

But Bender is also known for his perpetual hatred for humanity. While this is playing off the sci-fi stereotype of all robots eventually turning on humanity, it also taps into our most repressed and cynical thoughts. The world may not be full of crazy/annoying people, but it sure seems like those people do all the driving.

On a more lighthearted and ending note, Bender is a fine example of cultural blending as he is proudly Mexican (or at least built in Mexico). However, aside from the last name (Rodriquez) and motivation to save "senoritas," Bender displays no Mexican culture. He is a perfectly assimilated New Yorker in the sense that his Mexican identity is never used against or for him--however he does experience some discrimination as a robot, possibly proving that complete assimilation is impossible and thus not a virtue. Here we reach the last point: conformity can not be reached, so we must find strength in the diversity that is present in our society; even if said diversity includes metallic beings.

"My" "Perfect" "Day"

My perfect day--as constructed from three separate and actual memories--may have actually been from the same day. Unfortunately my memory isn’t what it used to be, though come to think of it, I don’t actually remember what my memory used to be like. Anyhow, I chose these three events because they were the first to come to mind, rather than any actual ideal I aim for in my pursuit at a more perfect life.

The best morning I have on cerebral record was when I woke up from a vivid dream in which I was about to get a speeding ticket. The dream was so vivid it borders on boring with any re-telling that begins with, “So I had this dream…” However, as in real life, I was experiencing considerable frustration at the prospect of getting a ticket so when I woke up I celebrated. I had been given a “get out of jail free” card. I got all of the life experience of getting a speeding ticket without actually having to pay a fine. More over, I woke up quite late in the morning, which itself is good on two accounts: 1) warm beds are comfortable and 2) no school or other worldly obligations necessitated my existence. If it was my way, I think I’d make every dream I have rather miserable so that awaking can be that much more glorious and liberating. However, there is probably a downside to that wish that I am not seeing.

My perfect afternoon is, again, just the first one that came to mind. Actually, it may even read as lazily vague, but I assure you dear reader, this is true. The afternoon occurred sometime over winter break when I watched some movies with my little brother Chuckles. I think we watched The Hangover or Watchmen or something. Regardless, it serves in my memory as an indicator that Chuckles is back in my life after the better part of a 6 year absence--or from whenever I started high school. Aside from sharing a lazy (though cinematic) afternoon together, we were at the house that always has the most junk food: our parents’. There’s something about a sibling relationship that makes doing nothing really easy. Friendship relationships are like muscles, they require usage to stay strong. Sibling relationships are more like your skin. It’s always going to be there--barring some strange acid disaster that would surely lead to a life of super-villainy.

Like my perfect morning and afternoon, my perfect night is repeatable, unpredictable and more a commentary on life than just a flip anecdote. And that night was, again, some time over this last December or January. I was at friend’s house, which is actually lived in by multiple friends, though generally occupied by more, and it’s their house in the way that it’s own by the first friend’s parents. Confused? Good, because it doesn’t matter. Point is: a lot of my friends were together and we are all quite merry. I can’t swear to the absence or presence of alcohol, though my clouded memory is an indicator of latter. At one point we played a variation of a Russian card game we’ve come to know as “The Fool.” After that, or perhaps before that, we watched just awful television but had fun doing it. At one point I believe it was Revenge of the Sith—as that’s just an awful movie thrown on television periodically. Throughout the evening and night we shared laughs and had no less than 230 “you just had to be there” moments.

As I reflect on these three real life moments, I realize my life appears to be a pursuit of hedonism, though I routinely preach different avenues of duty and sacrifice. Likewise, my “perfect” moments are quite replicable though they don’t seem to occur as often as I’d like; or as often as any stranger would assume after reading this essay. And though these events are admittedly un-extraordinary, they are fun memories, but more importantly, they were fun moments to live and did not pass before my eyes unnoticed. If their valor is proven through no other reason than my loose ability to recall them, then they are still worth mention in what I would call my true perfect day.

Sometimes Life (continues)

At least when driving, the nicest thing
you can do for people is be predictable

NFL Predictions: Championship Weekend

Lesson from last week: If sports casters ever bring up the virtue of "momentum" again, feel free to throw last week in their face as the red-hot Cowboys and Chargers got appropriately and unexplainably embarrassed, respectively. Conversely, the Colts won with relative ease after four weeks of just playing Madden '09.

New York (Jets) at Indianapolis
The Jets were not only unlikely to win a spot in the playoffs last fall but their head coach Rex Ryan said it "was not possible." Go figure, the Colts came from behind to beat the Jaguars, giving them home field advantage throughout the playoffs (rendering their last two games obsolete). One of said games was against the Jets, who then managed to beat "the Colts" and enter the playoffs. So if the football gods are cruelly ironic, the Jets have to win this game. But while people do a lot of praying on Sundays, I don't think this theological angle is a common betting technique. In fact, so many people are going to be betting on the Colts that it'd be the smarter bet to pick the Jets (money-wise). And though the Jets' defense has been flying, Rex Ryan has never beaten Peyton Manning (excluding that throw-away game)--including the years Ryan was defensive coordinator for the Ravens. And while Peyton Manning is always enough reason to pick the Colts to win any game, I think their own defense has been an understated factor this season. I have to pick the Goliath of this game. Colts win.

Minnesota at New Orleans
I wrote on November 28th that a Vikings-Saints conference championship game would be "more fun and more expected than anything the Superbowl can promise" and I can proudly still stand by that. Both are exceptional teams on both sides of the ball and have quarterbacks putting up unprecedented numbers. Easily the most surprising thing about Favre this entire season has been his new-found ability to sacrifice a play. The man has learned to throw the ball away or go for the short pass rather than force an circus throw down the field. I take this as an indicator that Favre has learned to trust his teammates for the first time in years--and with good reason. However, throw-for-throw, I like Drew Brees more--as also previously written about. And if I liked the quarterbacks the same, I'd still go with the Saints because their head coach, Sean Payton, keeps drama out of the locker room and juggles a better running game. And if I liked the coaches the same, I'd still go with the Saints because they are at home and all four Minnesota losses this year were away games. Saints win.

The Times I Live In

I can't write the next great American novel. I can't even write a story longer than 10,000 words (most of these blog posts run between 300-600 words). I can't stick with a single story for more than a pair of months. That's why I have to try.

To have a good present, I need to have a great future and a selective past.

I have written short (and short-short) stories and will continue to do so; but now it's time to write the unwritten. The thousand-thousand ideas. Shields will be broken and compromises will be made, but this will not be the last endeavor to a place bordered by failure.

This isn't the final whistle, it's the kickoff. It's time I start playing this new literary game of ambitions: We Service What We Sell.

Nick Rundowns Some Movies

These movies aren't out yet but trailers are made for pre-release criticism.

THE RED BARON - This early fighter pilot film brings back 2006's FLYBOYS--but woefully without James Franco. And while it's from the German perspective, I don't think this movie will have the vague culture-sharing moments that dragged down LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA (aside from everybody in Europe speaking English). Also, remember, it's only about WWI so it's okay to like the Germans in this movie.

EDGE OF DARKNESS - This movie was green-lit after the unpredictable success of Liam Neeson's star-vehicle: TAKEN. Another old, Oscar-winning actor beats up young thugs who have kidnapped/killed his daughter. But can Mel Gibson play a crazy man? Sounds like kind of a stretch to me.

ALICE IN WONDERLAND - Tim Burton retells another tale few people have actually read. He continues to make Burton-esque decisions; such as casting the eccentric Johnny Depp to play the eccentric Mad Hatter and assaulting your eyes with ugly colors. This movie does nothing but further confirm that experimentation is a dead concept to Burton and Depp.

CLASH OF THE TITANS - This movie can jump off a cliff. The preview indicates the filmmakers made this classic story as trashy, obnoxious and meaningless as possible. If there is justice in the world, after this movie Sam Worthington will at least be thrown in "movie jail" and at best become known as another "former next big movie star."

WALL STREET 2 - Oliver Stone will likely continue his streak of ruining timely concepts with awful writing, awful casting and self-important directing. I have no reason to believe Stone will reach for unique drama; but I can take some solace in the fact that he won't be butchering history in his own rendition of true people ala Nixon, JFK, Alexander, World Trade Center, W., etc.

SALT - Stupid.

ROBIN HOOD - The gray color schemed deconstruction of a literary hero is so last decade. And even if it wasn't, Ridley Scott still needs to prove this is a character with layers like an onion, not a balloon meant to be played around with for two hours and then left to deflate in silence. What frustrates me most is that the trailer includes the promise to show "the hero behind the outlaw" in Robin Hood's character. What? Everybody already knows him as a hero! If you're a trying to spin a different angle on Robin Hood, why not emphasis the outlaw-ness? Or loneliness? Or short-sightedness? This movie was too easy on every level.

She Can Never Know

Benjamin Harrison sat behind a desk that could not be lifted by three men. This was partially because the desk was so heavy but also because it was illegal to steal furniture from the Oval Office. Harrison wrote on a piece of paper in silence. He wrote like a man writing a resignation letter, but he was not resigning. Nor was he just writing from the White House, he was writing from the soul.

In the letter Harrison confessed how he felt and when he started to feel that way. He told the woman why she was so special and how he could see a perfect life with her, even if the universe remained imperfect. Mention of her name stopped his world and seeing her lifted his heart every time. He started a new paragraph when he decided he must mention the obvious chasm between them, her husband, his friend, his party’s leader; all one man: Senator James Blaine.

With a single knock and a single second pause, Harrison’s secretary entered the office. Harrison had overheard many snide remarks on his choice to hire a woman as his personal secretary. He trusted a woman to organize his schedule? To communicate with ministers and kings around the world? What next, would Harrison hire a woman as Secretary of State? Or Supreme Court Justice? Perhaps Harrison thought a woman could be president. Obviously Harrison did not have a keen eye for competence.

Harrison, only slightly started by the intrusion, began to burn the letter he had written. And while his secretary was not the smartest person in the country, she knew enough to not waste time asking questions about a destroyed message.

Sir, she started, unsure if she had his attention. Walters just told me Puck is going to feature a segment criticizing you for allowing the creation of what they are calling “the Billion-Dollar Congress.”

Harrison continued to burn the letter until he couldn’t hold it any longer and dropped it on his desk. The fire would leave a small burn mark, but no bigger than the others. Harrison responded to his secretary by pointing out only President Jackson had gotten the country out of a national debt, and that only lasted for about thirty minutes. Unsure of whether to laugh or not, his secretary chose to remain silent.

Perhaps I should call together some reporters and defend the spending, Harrison suggested.
I wouldn’t sir.
Why?
For one, Senator Blaine has already come out and defended the policies and Republican Party.
Was it a speech?
Yes, sir.
Was it good?
Yes, sir.
Good, I suppose.

Harrison wondered if he should still say something to the public. He was, after all, the president. It did seem redundant though. Then it clicked. He could just ask Blaine what to do. He could ask him over for dinner and the three of them would talk about the direction of the party.

Who else are you talking about, sir?
Me, James, and Harriet.
His wife?
Yes. She’s a good friend of mine.

This all was quite short notice, Harrison knew. Blaine would likely already have plans for this entire week; he was, after all, a very busy senator. But maybe Harriet would still like to come to the White House for dinner. But no, James loved her and she loved James.

Sir?
Go now, schedule nothing and forget this conversation.
Like the others, Harrison’s secretary whispered to herself as she left.

Harrison realized his recent excitement had led him to the middle of the room for no particular reason. He then sat back down and looked at the smoldering ashes on his desk. Harrison loved Harriet but that just wasn’t going to be enough. Harrison wiped away the ashes like tears.

Caroline, Harrison’s wife, died two weeks before he lost his bid for re-election.