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.