Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

10 Things I Learned This Week

The 10 Things I Learned During Finals Week

1. Spilling tea on yourself burns. Badly.

2. Just because the library is open 24 hours a day doesn't mean you should be there at 4am.

3. Just because the on-campus diner is open 24 hours a day doesn't mean you should be there at 4am.

4. 6 hours of sleep is a restful night.

5. Conversations between bro's and valley girl's change from hormone fueled exchanges to pleasant chats about human nature according to Sartre.

6. Making 18 page study guides isn't uncommon.

7. You will not receive. extra credit for filling in your final with tears. Or your own blood.

8. Checking your friends photos has nothing to do with calculus.

9. Facebook status's about how much finals suck do not fully encapsulate how much finals suck.

10. Helen Jane Long albums are the pinnacle of beauty at 5am.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Silent State

This is the time of year when the life of a college student becomes just a little crazy. Copious amounts of work coupled with impending finals exams inevitably interfere with the update of this blog. However, once all this work is finished, I will fly home to San Francisco to spend the holidays with my family. So in short, there may not be any substantial updates until the new year. If it's an consolation, here is the cutest picture ever.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Palin Needs Her Meat

Apparently the Palin family needs to kill harmless animals in order to have meat for the winter. You know, between appearances on Dancing With The Stars. Assholes.

http://gawker.com/5707173/sarah-palin-murders-a-caribou

Friday, December 3, 2010

Dr. Doom Rules The Day

Around 2pm on Tuesday afternoon, The League Of Associated Super Villains organized a parade in New York City to celebrate the retirement of the Human Torch from crime fighting. Torch, who's real name is Jonathan Lowell Spencer "Johnny" Storm, said in a prepared statement that the early retirement was due to him not being able to procure health insurance from any of the major carriers. Storm articulated his point further on his blog when he stated in a post entitled "Why I Quit Saving The World," "I have a family now, and every night I have this dream. My wife and I joke that we shouldn't talk about it, but in this dream I die. I suit up, meet up with my fellow fantastics, and engage in regular crime fighting activities. However, by the end of the fight I am always mortally injured. I can't put my family through that anymore." When asked to comment on this development, Dr. Doom said, "Wahaha."

The Dreams Of A Doll

Barbie is a lady, a lady of perfection. She skis, swims, and teachers underprivileged children. She also has a perfect relationship, and wears copious amounts of J. Crew. When Barbie goes to parties she is the center of attention. Barbie is never lonely, frustrated, or upset. Girls the world over need a role model, why not Barbie?

When Barbie goes to the beach, she always applies enough SPF 70 to avoid ugly freckles. Her motivation for caring for her skin comes from when a slightly overweight doctor once told her that, "No one loves a girl with melanoma."

Barbie always wanted to go to med school, but upon realizing that scrubs do nothing for your ass, she decided to instead double major in fashion design and perfect cleavage. Business Barbie is the perfect gift for a young lady.

Barbie is the maid of honor at her friend Stephanie's wedding. An ugly rumor once circulated that Ken and Stephanie were fucking like bunnies. However, Barbie doesn't listen to stupid talk, and instead, is blindly loyal to her man. Because really, what is more important than love and friendship? Barbie sometimes takes the long way home, sits in a field, and doesn't know what to feel. Her heart is plastic, but only on a bad day. Wedding Barbie is the perfect gift for a young lady.

When Barbie goes shopping, she only buys clothes in a size zero. Because zero rhythms with hero, and every young lady needs a role model. When Barbie wears clothes she occasionally feels like a princess trapped in a castle, patiently awaiting for Ken to set her free, but Ken is too busy fucking Stephanie. Allegedly. Shopping Barbie is the perfect gift for a young lady.

When Barbie goes waterskiing she occasionally likes to drink. On the rare occasion that Barbie gets inebriated, she tends to jump out of the boat and lay on her back in the center of the lake, crying. Barbie doesn't know why she cries, but her psychiatrist believes it may be due to emotional trauma or eating too much food. Probably the latter. When there is a storm, Barbie especially likes to cry in the lake while watching the lighting hit nearby trees. Secretly hoping that a lighting bolt will strike her, acting as a proverbial shotgun blast, and bring her back to life. Waterskiing Barbie is the perfect gift for a young lady.

Barbie likes to sing, and on occasion, dance, when in the shower. However, she has a tendency to fall down, and when Ken finds her the next morning, she has no recollection of how she got the bruises. Pop Star Barbie is the perfect gift for a young lady.

Barbie wants to dream, but she is unable to. Her friends talk about what they dream of, comparing theories, trading stories. These same friends also age. Time will not take a hold of Barbie. It refuses. Barbie realises she shouldn't speak of this, so she doesn't. Instead she smiles. When Barbie can't smile anymore, she remembers to look towards the night's sky and count her lucky stars. However, when Barbie tries to do this, she sees no stars, only plastic wrapping.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

The Frames

Last night I saw The Frames at the Avalon Theatre in LA. If you have the chance, see this band live. They are nothing short of amazing. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydoaXIjjrpo

Monday, November 29, 2010

Fake Figure 8

That is the name of my latest hodgepodge of photos. If you get the reference, you win 10 points, maybe a cookie, and my eternal love. As always, I appreciate any feedback about my work. http://picasaweb.google.com/cjonny21/FakeFigure8#

I Guess We All Get Old

If you have been following recent news, then you know that both Leslie Nielsen and Irvin Kershner recently passed within the same 24 hour time period. This is further evidence that the universe must really hate talent. At least Michael Bay is safe.

Joking aside, it is really strange to watch people who were responsible for things you love, actually die. I guess we all get old.




Thursday, November 25, 2010

Home




“Home is a place you grow up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to get back to”
- John Ed Pearce

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Winter Is Coming

As winter, and more importantly, ski season approaches, I decided to write this. Enjoy.

It was a pleasure to cry on that hill.

Winter had assiduously descended upon the Lake Tahoe region. Rivers froze, bears slept, and a transcendent fire vigorously burned within every skier's heart. Laughter echoed through the valley, powder glistened in the air, and high fives were shared by all.

Well, except me.

I was six years old, had just crashed into a Ponderosa Pine, and was vociferously wailing from within the confides of a tree well. I had also just pissed my pants. My father, mother, and sister were awaiting, hoping, that my limp body would move, illustrating some sign of life. My mother was crying, my sister laughing, and my father nervously looked at the both of them, trying to decide what the appropriate reaction would be. Then to appease the impending motherly wrath, my father began to hike up the hill, his thoughts not possibly far from that his great skiing experiment had failed miserably.

Yet, as my farther stood over me and inspected my broken neon green Volkls, he couldn't help but crack a smile. I didn't know why at the time, but my childhood self took this small token of happiness and applied it to my own being. Ceasing my wail, much to the appeasement of my fellow skiers, I was soon too laughing. Having fun.

So my family and I venture to the bottom of the mountain, pick up hot chocolate, cookies, but most importantly, new skies. That afternoon as the snow peacefully fell, my sister and I tried to race down the bunny slope, get off of a chairlift without it having to make a full stop, but most importantly, conquer the universally dreaded pizza turn, so that we may move on to the more accepted french fry technique. My father, encouraging this transition at every opportunity, would give us both a talk on the chair lift stating that, “Pizza is not on the lunch menu today, only french fries.” The first time he tried this approach, the concept of a metaphor was completely lost on the both of us, as my sister quickly responded, “But I want pizza for lunch.” My father would also shout when I held my arms exorbitantly close to my side, failing miserably to grasp the concept of a pole plant. Yet, this one is more understandable. I looked like a paralyzed bear, just having moved into the scope of a Sarah Palin loving hunter, and as a last desperate plea to retain his moral existence sticks his paws up in the air. Clearly an embarrassment.

So the clocks inevitably struck 4pm, the colossal steel lifts ceased operations for the day, simply sleeping, dreaming, until tomorrow's adventures began. The drive back to San Francisco that evening was not a humdrum slog, but instead an odyssey of nostalgia. We shared stories, exchanged memories, and planned for the future.

Thirteen years later, writing this in a cramped LA dorm room, I can't help but smile. Throughout my life, skiing has been the source of great bliss and hardship. Bones have been broken, blood has been shed, and people have passed long before their time. Love is difficult thing to find in this world, but that is why we all endure the pain, the tragedy, the loss, because we love skiing. So I go to sleep, and I will wake up the next day, knowing that since I have given so much to skiing, skiing will always have me, and I will always have it.

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Life, Youth, Death, and Beauty

Words to live by from one of my favorite musicians and idols

"And one day we will die and our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea. But for now we are young; let us lay in the sun and count every beautiful thing we can see."

Jeff Mangum

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Mary Dolphin?


Occasionally, there are those news stories which just seem to make your day. This is one of them.


When Dick Van Dyke woke up after drifting off on his board during a surfing trip years ago, he quickly realized he was stranded in the middle of the ocean with no idea how to get home, according to reports.

"I woke up out of sight of land," the 84-year-old actor recalled according to a report in the U.K.'s Guardian newspaper. "I started paddling with the swells and I started seeing fins swimming around me and I thought 'I'm dead!' "

Thankfully for Van Dyke, the circling fins didn't belong to creatures with sinister – or hungry – motives.

"They turned out to be porpoises," the actor, 84, said. "And they pushed me all the way to shore."

For any doubters, Van Dyke stresses, "I'm not kidding."

Source: People.com

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Taylor Swift No Read List

Ever since Taylor Swift won a Grammy award, two separate things have occurred. First, my faith in the music industry has died a bloody violent death. Second, Taylor Swift has read a little more classical literature, and has continued to write generic songs about these hallowed work. However, Ms. Swift to retain her place in the pop culture ethos, will inevitably have to move past titles such as The Scarlet Letter and Romeo and Juliet. Below are a list of books that Taylor Swift should never read, you know, for the sake of humanity.

1. Hamlet - The world does not need a song whose lyrics are based around the phrase "To be, or not to be."

2. Othello - I fear that Ms. Swift would not realize that Iago in Othello is not the loud obnoxious bird from Aladdin. Copyright hell would ensue once the music video is released.

3. Oedipus Rex - No matter how much you think you want it, Taylor Swift should never write a song about someone wanting to have sex with their mother and then killing their father.

4. The Sheltering Sky - A Taylor Swift album should never tackle both marital issues and the ignorance of western culture. It would just create a thematic clash. Also, the tween audience wouldn't get it.

5. Pride and Prejudice - Because the last thing the world needs is another interpretation of Jane Austin's white girl problems.

6. Anything by William S. Burroughs - Look this man up on Wikipedia. Then search the document for "Shotgun William Tell." This takes no explanation.

7. Following that same line of logic, anything by Samuel Beckett - Because T. Swift does not need to be anymore confused about reality.

8. The Great Gatsby - Because a song entitled "Green Light" would make Fitzgerald role in his grave. Also, if the song hit number 1 on the charts, it would cause a remake of Gatsby to emerge. With Ms. Swift playing the role of Gatsby. Of course.

9. Everything That Rises Must Converge - Because I don't even want to fathom what a Southern Gothic Taylor Swift would be like.

10. Twilight - Concept album about vampire love wins a Grammy. Young college student cries himself to sleep. Full story at 11.

The Way To Start A Morning

Squaw Valley as of this morning. This photo just warmed my heart.

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

A Galaxy Far Far Away...Not Too Far

Apparently a galaxy far far away, is conveniently located in the United Arab Emirates.










Sunday, November 7, 2010

Football Sunday

Heartbreaking


This past weekend in the San Francisco bay area, an 85ft blue whale beached. It later died. It was one of only 10,000 left in the entire world. Humbling.

Moments Over 127 Hours



On Friday night, I saw the latest Danny Boyle film, 127 Hours. The film is masterfully shot, meticulously edited, but most of all, has heart. This is a work, that despite all the hype surrounding the arm scene, is fundamentally about a man letting go and embracing the things in life that he holds most dear. If you have ever taken something for granted, been too involved in pointless things, or inadvertently hurt someone, 127 Hours has the ability to really speak to you. I know it did for me.

The film ends with a song by one of my favorite bands, Sigur Ros. So click on this link, lay on your bed, close your eyes, and feel alive.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WWMDfJEkQDs

Saturday, November 6, 2010

World of Tears, Mouse Ears, and Heartless Bitches

Preface: Let it be known to the reader that one teenager wrote this piece about the life of another teenager. Some of the events and all of the dialogue have been replaced to provide some failed symbolic pretense, and more importantly, to make our lives look more interesting than they really are. Also, we are a little self-obsessed, but that is beside the point. I hope you all enjoy this work of fiction based off of a true story.

Dear Disney Corporation,

I am writing this letter today to inform you that your Anaheim based park, Disneyland, is solely responsible for the worst day of my life. OK, maybe I’m being a little dramatic; call it a delusion, or better yet, a moment. Let me digress, Your corporation, which bases its public persona off of all things good and jolly in the world is 40 percent responsible for the worst day of my life. If I’m having a truly horrific day I may be willing to round that figure up to a whole 60 percent. Did you hear me? I said a whole 60 fucking percent. So now, you are all probably sitting in a nice air-conditioned room, reading this complaint, and already laughing insistently. You may even be forwarding it around the office, you know, for a good chuckle or two. No, that’s incorrect; you probably have some intern in the customer service department reading this in a dingy, damp cubicle, which during the summer months just happens to double as the containment room for all the Disney Princess costumes infested with crabs. If this is indeed the case, I am sorry. Truly, truly sorry. Yet, despite this inequality at the Disney headquarters, you must keep reading. It is your duty, your destiny. This tale will make you a better, smarter, and ultimately more informed person. Or it will just make you cry. Like I may or may not be doing right now. I understand I will not be the only person writing to you today asking for a refund on a ticket to Disneyland or vindictively grading your multiple facilities, but I am the only one with a popular Internet blog. And a broken heart.

During my second semester of my senior year in high school, students, parents, everyone really, counted down to graduation like the atomic bomb was about to go off. It was as if on June 6th, the doomsday clock struck 12 and the world would end. The memories that came before would be just that, memories, and we would all return to dust, never seeing one another again. There were meeting, meeting about meetings, hugs, goodbyes, and parties. Lots and lots of parties. During these last six glorious months of high school I met a girl, and she was pretty cool. We hung out, kissed, and soon my life devolved into something resembling a happy after school special. Then one night we went to a beach, got drunk, then naked, and had sex under the stars. We then got mugged while still naked. Best night of my life. We talked on the phone for hours every night, about our impending graduation, irrational fears of college, and life in general, but most importantly, he talked about how much he loved one another. Then graduation day arrived. We smiled, took photos, said our goodbyes, realizing a chapter of our life had definitively passed. Then two days later the doomsday clock did strike 12. She dumped me. I guess we are all now sons-of-bitches.

Picasso had his blue period, Van Gogh chopped off his ear, and I had the first two weeks of summer. I locked myself in my room, listened to numerous Smiths records, and ate my weight in chocolate pretzels. Multiple times over. My friends stopped by daily, just to make sure I was still breathing, and if I had indeed decided that I was finished with this sad existence I didn’t kill myself in too gruesome a way. My mom had paid a lot for the new carpets.

These same friends, on one fateful afternoon, invited me to go to Disneyland with them. Adrenaline and iconic characters drawn by a notorious racist, how could I not be happy?

Standing in my driveway, awaiting my ride to the grandiose land of Disney, my initial plan was to enjoy the day, pure and simple. Ride Space Mountain, scream during Indiana Jones, and imagine I had Jedi powers during Star Wars. The works. Then my friend’s generic pale white minivan pulls up to the curb, and I open the door, climb in. Oh, shit.

There she is, my ex. Sitting in the back row of this ugly minivan, which could easily double for a rapist mobile on any episode of COPS. Her head is resting against the window, her headphones blaring some music I can’t quite recognize. God she looks beautiful. Maybe she won’t see me. She just waived. I smile, take a seat, and try not to scream. Did my moronic amigos just fail to tell me she was coming today, or was this some sad attempt to get the two of us back together. It doesn’t matter.

I had all these plans, I had plans about plans, plans to enjoy the day, to forget about my past. But now my past is conveniently sitting two feet behind me. My mind, racing faster then the speed of light suddenly realizes that we are going to be quite a large group. Avoiding her wouldn’t be difficult at all. Yes, she will be at Disneyland, but so will millions of other people. Then as we are driving down the 405, 17 out of your 20 people who planned to come on this trip cancel at the last moment. There would be no rescue crew; no one would hear my SOS. We were the minivan crew, and I would have to weather this storm alone.

So we arrive at the park, our senses immediately barraged by bright lights, upbeat music, and the constant buzz of happy children, finally visiting the happiest place on earth. Driving through the parking lot, I let my hand hang out the window, wishing I were one of the birds hovering beside the road. To fly, to be free, is that a parking space? The rapist-mobile then comes to a full stop in the middle of the parking lot, much to the fear of every parent in the general vicinity (Ease of Parking: Grade C). We exit the van, and I glanced around our group, which is currently comprised of my ex (lets call her Bitch), my best friend (lets call him Steve), my high school classmate Alexandra (lets call her Alexandra), and myself. Walking to the front gate, Alexandra hands out the all day passes, and from our vantage point most of the lines look fairly short. Also, my ex and I were being civil. Well with the exception of her habits of saying hello to everyone in the group with the omission of yours truly, and not ever making eye contact with me. Things were looking up.

So we are naturally started our day with the classic Space Mountain. Now if you have never been to Disneyland, Space Mountain is a space themed ride, which makes up for what it lakes in scenery with a copious amounts of excitement inducing twists and turns. (Space Mountain: Grade B+). Also, Space Mountain is one of those rides were everyone and their grandmother knows were the photo camera is located. So after waiting in a line, which is rivaled in length only by the line into an all you can eat Arby’s or the Naughty Nook on a lonely Friday night, we are finally situated in the ride. Steve and Bitch are riding in the cart in front of me, and maybe it was my imagination, but they look really cozy together. You know the stuff, arms around each other, he is smiling like an over eager bro, and she is laughing incessantly. I try to ignore it, focus on the ride, stare at the dark fading plastic safety bar. This little three inch piece of plastic is supposed to save me from all the dangers that await in the dark abyss, but it could never save me from what is right in front of me. All of a sudden, the ride sputters to life and I am flung into the darkness. Did I just see Bitch kiss Steve on the cheek? No, it’s my imagination; the lack of light is getting to me. I can’t focus, the surround thrills fail at penetrating my consciousness. Surrounded by artificial excitement, I start to contemplate how this day could possibly end.

1. Bitch is using Steve to make me jealous, because in reality, she just wants me back.
2. Steve is being an overbearing douche, and Bitch is just being friendly, because at the end of the day she apologize to me, and we will get back together.
3. Steve and Bitch have recently been employed by MTV and the venerable Ashton Kutcher to star in the pilot episode for MTV’s new hit show Punk’d Teens, where teenagers punk each other with acts that force one sad individual to experience an amount of pain far beyond the recommended dosage for that age.
4. Bitch and Steve are secretly lovers and are using this Disneyland trip to rape and pillage my soul. For all intensive purposes, kick my hearts ass.

The cart accelerates back into the station and as it comes to a sudden halt, I am certain it can’t be option four. It simply cannot be, the world will not allow it. The safety bar rises; we depart the ride, and go look at the photographs from our 120-second odyssey through a dimly lit room. Steve and Bitch are kissing. They are officially none of the aforementioned options, but instead a new one, option 5.

5. Steve and Bitch are assholes. I’m going to cry in a bathroom now.

So I ran to the bathroom. Not bothering to tell the others where I was going. I needed to be alone. However, without a map, finding a restroom in Disneyland is rather difficult. (Bathroom Placement: Grade D). I sprinted past Goofy’s smiling face, Cinderella’s outstretched arms, and Pluto’s wagging tail. No amount of Disney magic was saving me today. These creatures were not here to comfort me or impart upon my tattered soul a small fragment of their eternal happiness. No, they were here to see me at my worst. To see me on my knees, being pushed and shoved around, waiting for me to break.

So I walked into the bathroom, and open the door to stall #1. Opening the door, I spy clogged up shit already nearing the brim. Opening stall #2, my luck was no better as the toilet is conveniently drenched in urine. Also it smells. Moving on to stall #3 brought hepatitis inducing odors, as the toilet was occupied by a shitting child and his mother hunching over him providing supportive words. Upon seeing my stunned tear drenched face, the mother screamed, the child giggled, and I just looked like a sexual deviant. During this moment of pure embarrassment, my mind split into a twofold parallel. First, why does no one shut doors anymore, and where can I get some supportive words? My hope was now all pegged on stall #4. It was locked. So I lowered my head, starred at my shoes, and held my breath as I entered stall #1 (Bathroom Cleanliness: Grade D-).

So I sit down on the disgusting toilet, and I don’t feel well. The smell coupled with the lack of new oxygen entering my system is causing my eyes to water, my mouth to shake, and my lungs to burn. I scream, blame it on reflex, or mental anguish, but I wail, I shout. I let the world hear me.

This song of a modern day Harpy does not sit well with the parentals currently inhabiting the bathroom, and I receive a few apprehensive knocks on the door, along with the background chatter, that for some reason they assume I cannot hear. Maybe, they don’t like me venting my anger towards Bitch or modern day society in general. Probably the latter. In a desperate attempt to appease the fears of these View watching women, I try to shit. Because nothing puts mothers at rest more than bowl movements. However, I have a small problem. I can’t. Maybe it’s the tears, maybe it’s what I had for breakfast, but whatever the reason, I am currently unable to launch a brown colored turb from my anus. Instead, I simply fart. Grabbing the sharpie from my pocket, I suddenly feel the urge to document this momentous occasion. Yes, this will be the moment where I finally write down some words of eternal wisdom, in a glorious epiphany I will scribble some text on a bathroom stall, so wonderful and full of knowledge that no one else will ever have to experience this kind of pain ever again.
Instead I write, “Here I sit broken hearted. Tried to shit but only farted.” Yes, “Here I sit broken hearted. Tried to shit but only farted.” I will win no Pulitzer Prize for this, no interpretative reading at the Oscar’s. This result of my life’s experiences will help no one. Instead, some underpaid janitor will just casually erase it at 4am. I’m a mess.

At this unique point in time, park police knocked on the stall door. Accepting my impending doom I open the door. Two overweight, slightly balding men in their mid 40’s grab each of my arms and drag me from the bathroom. I try to say I can walk, but after seeing Minnie Mouse smiling at me from above the bathroom sink I decide to shut up. I guess anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. Minnie Mouse induced insanity probably isn’t a good excuse. Neither is being really sad.
I see my group standing inside of a souvenir store. I contemplate waving, but suddenly remembered two large men were holding my arms. I try to look away, but like a cliché car accident, I simply could not. Steve and Bitch have moved away from the hats and have started playing with the stuffed animals. God, they looked so happy together. He is chronically laughing, and the way her hair fell in the light. She is so beautiful. And the way she smiles, oh that smile, when we were dating I never saw her smile with that intensity. It is like an energy source, more powerful than wind, hydroelectric, or even nuclear, it was enough power to light up a whole city. It was beauty.

Amanda sees me out of the corner of her eye. Runs over to me, and explains the situation to the security guards. They somehow let me go. Even going out of there ways to wish me a nice day (Security Detail: Grade C for severity, Grade A- for being genuinely nice guys). Amanda, noticing my red puffy eyes, makes a vain attempt to make me feel better. She grabs my arm, drags me into the gift store, and buys me a Mickey Mouse shaped Popsicle along with an oversized hoody with the words, “I left my heart in Disneyland” sprawled across the front in a large red font. Amanda then reintroduces me to the group, where Steve immediately asks, “Where have you been buddy?” I try to ignore him, but I ultimately just shrug and say, “Around.” Bitch still won’t look at me. I can’t stop looking at her.

As the sun sets behind the glorious arches of the Disney Castle, Amanda perks up, affectively breaking the awkward silence, and puts forth the idea of going to see World Of Color as our last event of the day. I nod, exhale, and begrudgingly follow the group. Once we arrived at the theatre, my eyes dart around the room. Signs display excerpts from obnoxiously positive reviews litter the walls, “Color, Spreading Happiness With Every Drop”, “Life: It’s Better Colorful”, and “So Fucking Awesome You Might Just Forget About Your Bitch Of An EX, and Smile For The First Time In Weeks.” Ok, so you got me, that last one was fabricated.

We shuffle into the crowd; Alexandra and I are closely packed in behind Bitch and Steve. This place is packed. Bitch and Steve begins to get cozy again. I am eating a Popsicle shaped like the character that single-handedly defined my childhood. The lights suddenly go down, color begins to fly through the air, and for a moment, I forget. I forget about the break up, this trip, and how it is humanly possible for two people just touching each other to inflict so much pain upon my soul. Then as waves of red clash with rolling hills of yellow, Steve and Bitch begin to kiss. They are now making out. Directly in front of me. I try to look at the colors, I really do. But every time I see a majestic purple projected onto the healing waters of blue, I can’t help but look at Bitch’s tongue slowly enters into Steve’s mouth. Steve begins to feel her, she moans a little. Pink snowflakes are falling from the sky. Also, my Popsicle is melting. She whispers in Steve’s ear. Steve hesitates, looks my way, smiles, and then proceeds to make out with Bitch with a renewed vigor. I drop my Popsicle and Mickey’s face splatters across the cold hard cement below. I also have a bloody nose. The color oozing from my nose, until I have nothing left to give. (World Of Color: A-)

So I run, I fucking fun. I run away from the beautiful color, from my problems, from the world. I don’t know where I’m heading, but I have to get there. I just simply do. I run across perfectly manicured paths, scamper through happy families, dash through food courts where perfectly hung speakers play catchy songs. These tunes presented to children in 4/4 time and with lyrics focusing on the line subject matter of how their future perfect lives as princes and princesses is only achievable if they believe in the power of love. Maybe I loved someone. (Run-ability: Grade C+)

My legs finally give out, and I stop next to a man made pond. Bending over to gasp for breath, I notice the trail of blood that I have created on my little escape attempt. I walk over to my blood stained path, and I spit on it. Trying to erase the evidence from the path, but rubbing my foot across the ground accomplishes nothing. The blood has already dried, stained forever. I cannot escape something that came from myself.

I begin to pace around the lake, check my phone, and look like I’m doing something, anything. I just don’t want people to stare, wonder, “What the hell is that loser doing?” I couldn’t take that right now. Whipping out my phone I draft a long email to my grandmother extensively asking, “What is up?”

Oh, my grandma and my grandpa. Every year around Valentines Day, the greeting card industry markets love as hot sex, expensive candy, and artificial flowers. Yet, that is all fabricated, this false love only exists because of cheesy British pop songs, romantic comedies, and the Lifetime channel. If you want to see true love, watch my grandparents go on a walk. The way they tenderly hold each hand, the way their eyes meet. They are the lifeblood of love; they are its ever-beating heart, never missing a beat, never dying. I want that, I long for that. I want to be the example; I want others to envy our big strong beating heart. Our love was supposed to be like blood in a body, and we would circulate it around the world. But you had to ruin it.
Our love was real. It was legitimate. One night, you told me about a dream you once had. You said you were walking through a forest and all of a sudden these man-eating plants attacked you. These plants ravaged your body, but somehow in there feeding frenzy, decided not to kill you. Instead, they left your mangled body to bleed out on the fading fall leaves. You then proceeded to crawl around the forest and ask hikers in the wood for replacement body parts, because somehow you knew that if you could receive just one limp you would survive. You would be fine. Yet, these people you encountered never gave you an arm, nor a piece of skin, not even a simple toenail. No, these people ignored you, letting your body slowly return to the earth from which it came.

Hearing this story, I wanted to cry, I wanted to hold you. For I would have given you more than my arm. I would have given you myself. You could take my arm, my legs, and my blood for all I care. I don’t need these fickle appendages as long as I have you.
Then I remembered you said you didn’t dream. Were you trying to tell me something? A duck from the pond has wandered up the grass and is sitting in front of me. It quacks (Duck Friendliness: Grade B+).

I want to warn this duck. I want to issue a caution to all the birds living their peaceful lives in this pond. I need to tell that them that the problem with life is not that there is suffering, no, the problem is that there is no limit to suffering. Pain doesn’t care about your age, your level of fame, or your mental state.

So you lie to yourself. You build yourself up as someone important, the hero of your own story. You exaggerate the good times, and ignore the bad. You don’t lie to advance your social standing or to appear mysterious and foreign. No, you lie because it is what your very survival depends on.

I am eighteen years old, and I have seen everything and nothing. Just give me my due. Please. For I am the beating heart. I am the common denominator of one and six billion. Don’t you see what I represent? Yes, I am the confused, lonely, teenage guy, hiding behind a persona of fake confidence and bad humor. But I am also everyone. Because this pain I feel is shared by all. If you join me, I will bleed for you all. I will live with these feelings, the pain, the sorrow, and the lost hope. I will bleed for you; spread my red color around the world. Just tell me I am not alone. Please join me. Join me. We are meant for something more than this. I am not the heart.

We are all the heart.

We need to pump our blood to each other, to feel warm, to feel connected. Let us flow as one being, bearing our shared pain as a unified whole, until our time on this planet is inevitably up. Then when we leave the heart, the person behind us will be there to pick up what we dropped. The blood flows eternal. (Grade A+).
This stark moment of realization comes to an abrupt end when I realize that people are now starring at the crying man having a fictional conversation with a duck. So I stand up, walk away from the pond, and trudge back to my group. We meet up, exchange pleasantries, and casually stroll back to the parking lot. Finding the unfortunate looking minivan, we open the doors, get situated, and begin out drive home. The birds from this morning are still here. They haven’t even moved. Not flown an inch. Sitting in traffic on the way home, I wish I could fly away, but I know I can’t. I have too much to do.

As the minivan pulls up in front of my house, I begin to say my goodbyes. Thank Alexandra for the day out, shake Steve’s and, however, when I turn to Bitch, I hesitate. Do I recite the one sided monologue I shared with the duck? No, my tongue falters, and all I can muster is a lackluster sounding “Bye.” (Grade F.)

Sincerely,
We.

Friday, November 5, 2010

"Read on, pilgram."

Writing on the internet is, and for every will be, a double edged blade. It allows writers an outlet for self publishing outlet, which even 20 years ago, would have been unimaginable. Yet, some people shouldn't write. Ever. People like this guy.

Authors Note: This is not a parody. I repeat, this is not a parody.

http://xbox.ign.com/articles/547/547877p1.html

One Of Those Songs

If any of you are unfamiliar with the work of Elliot Smith, I would make it a priority to venture to a record store this weekend and purchase one of his albums. Here is a track which has been haunting me for days.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQrhA6QtWOM

Scot Pilgrim Vs. The Fans Vs. Guillermo Del Toro

Last Monday night, in honor of the DVD release of Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Edgar Wright, Michael Cera, Bryan Lee O'Malley, and Guillermo Del Toro hosted a screening of the film at the Egyptian Theatre in Hollywood. This screening was then followed by a very informative question and answer session. Yet, this was no ordinary spiel about how incredible the film was. No, this was a 90 minute discussion about the state of the film industry, creativity, and most importantly, Flash Gordon.

Thanks for an amazing night. And an incredible film.


The 5th


Remember remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot...

Just a friendly reminder to watch V for Vendetta today. I will be.

Sunday, October 31, 2010

This Is America

Restoring Sanity

This past weekend, John Stewart held a rally in Washington DC. The point of this gathering was held for a twofold purpose. First, to bring together the dwindling numbers of sane people in this country, along with creating a ton of traffic in the DC area. Being based in LA, I was unable to attend the rally, but I did however, watch it at work. So this election day (Tuesday for the uninformed) please go and vote. I understand you may be frustrated with the system and the people involved, but you should never tire of voicing your own opinion, your own voice. So I leave you today with Jon Stewart's closing remarks from this weekend's rally. Also, FOX news is kinda evil. Actually really evil.

“I can’t control what people think this was. I can only tell you my intentions. This was not a rally to ridicule people of faith or people of activism or to look down our noses at the heartland or passionate argument or to suggest that times are not difficult and that we have nothing to fear. They are and we do. But we live now in hard times, not end times. And we can have animus and not be enemies.

But unfortunately one of our main tools in delineating the two broke. The country’s 24 hour political pundit perpetual panic conflictinator did not cause our problems but its existence makes solving them that much harder. The press can hold its magnifying up to our problems bringing them into focus, illuminating issues heretofore unseen or they can use that magnifying glass to light ants on fire and then perhaps host a week of shows on the sudden, unexpected dangerous flaming ant epidemic.

If we amplify everything we hear nothing. There are terrorists and racists and Stalinists and theocrats but those are titles that must be earned. You must have the resume. Not being able to distinguish between real racists and Tea Partiers or real bigots and Juan Williams and Rick Sanchez is an insult, not only to those people but to the racists themselves who have put in the exhausting effort it takes to hate--just as the inability to distinguish terrorists from Muslims makes us less safe not more. The press is our immune system. If we overreact to everything we actually get sicker--and perhaps eczema.

And yet, with that being said, I feel good—strangely, calmly good. Because the image of Americans that is reflected back to us by our political and media process is false. It is us through a fun house mirror, and not the good kind that makes you look slim in the waist and maybe taller, but the kind where you have a giant forehead and an ass shaped like a month old pumpkin and one eyeball.

So, why would we work together? Why would you reach across the aisle to a pumpkin assed forehead eyeball monster? If the picture of us were true, of course, our inability to solve problems would actually be quite sane and reasonable. Why would you work with Marxists actively subverting our Constitution or racists and homophobes who see no one’s humanity but their own? We hear every damn day about how fragile our country is—on the brink of catastrophe—torn by polarizing hate and how it’s a shame that we can’t work together to get things done, but the truth is we do. We work together to get things done every damn day!

The only place we don’t is here or on cable TV. But Americans don’t live here or on cable TV. Where we live our values and principles form the foundations that sustains us while we get things done, not the barriers that prevent us from getting things done. Most Americans don’t live their lives solely as Democrats, Republicans, liberals or conservatives. Americans live their lives more as people that are just a little bit late for something they have to do—often something that they do not want to do—but they do it--impossible things every day that are only made possible by the little reasonable compromises that we all make.
Look on the screen. This is where we are. This is who we are. (points to the Jumbotron screen which show traffic merging into a tunnel). These cars—that’s a schoolteacher who probably thinks his taxes are too high. He’s going to work. There’s another car-a woman with two small kids who can’t really think about anything else right now. There’s another car, swinging, I don’t even know if you can see it—the lady’s in the NRA and she loves Oprah. There’s another car—an investment banker, gay, also likes Oprah. Another car’s a Latino carpenter. Another car a fundamentalist vacuum salesman. Atheist obstetrician. Mormon Jay-Z fan. But this is us. Every one of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear—often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers.

And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile long 30 foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river. Carved, by the way, by people who I’m sure had their differences. And they do it. Concession by conscession. You go. Then I’ll go. You go. Then I’ll go. You go then I’ll go. Oh my God, is that an NRA sticker on your car? Is that an Obama sticker on your car? Well, that’s okay—you go and then I’ll go.

And sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute, but that individual is rare and he is scorned and not hired as an analyst.

Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness. And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey. But we do it anyway, together.

If you want to know why I’m here and want I want from you, I can only assure you this: you have already given it to me. Your presence was what I wanted.

Sanity will always be and has always been in the eye of the beholder. To see you here today and the kind of people that you are has restored mine.

Thank you."

Monday, October 25, 2010

Bean, Cheese, and Unborn Child?

My Life is a Phase

On one special Sunday night in the 4th grade, you went over to your next door neighbors house to watch ET. OK, my memory might be failing me, but it definitely was a Spielberg movie, probably, maybe. Well, after the film had concluded, the cute little girl next door told you that she wanted to be a film maker. You didn't really know why at the time, but your 11 year old self proceeded to take up her cause as your own.

In high school she got popular and you, not so much. You had became a true Renaissance man, well versed in the intricacies of Dungeons and Dragons, and a viewer of all things Joss Whedon. Hailing from a certain west coast city, she dated various members of the lacrosse team, while you were frequently asked if you lived with your life partner in the Castro. She went to prom with a bro. You took a friend of a friend.

Many people went through the film stage. Hell, most people are still going through the film stage. A myriad number of people approach you on a daily basis telling you they have an idea for a film. Yet, what they don't realize is while they have one, you have an infinite, and there are not enough hours in your life to get them all down onto paper. Creativity may be dead in Hollywood, but not in your mind. Oh, no.

You started college, and ignoring the desperate pleas of your parents to major in something practical like business, you went to film school and majored in screen writing. For the first time in your life, you enjoyed something intellectual which wasn't associated with This American Life. Also, you got layed due to your vast knowledge of the Klingon language. That was pretty cool.

Graduation day has finally arrived. Your family, your friends, all here to wave you on, cheer you into the next stage of your life. Yet, to somehow validate your four years at an expensive liberal arts college, you need to find a job and quickly. Preferably somehow related to your major. You can't do this.

Now four years in and fully committed to the graduate school path, you are slowly coming to the sad conclusion that having a doctoral degree in film is about as helpful as burning $50,000. Now facing your impending graduation (for a second time), you quickly come to the stark realization that you need to find a job in an industry which is notoriously difficult to break into. Perspective job opportunities slowly broke down into.

1. Teachers assistant for some kids vaguely interested in film at Santa Monica City College.
2. Junior marketing associate at some office building (a writer of short sentences)
3. High school English teacher.
4. Night manager at an auto repair show (your friend's dad owns the place)
5. Gardener
6. Pool Cleaner
7. Part time model / part time gigolo
8. "That guy" that still hangs around his high school talking about the big game, and is eventually hired as a PE teacher. Only later to be fired for touching some kids. Allegedly.
9. Your dad's assistant / office whipping boy.
10. Starving screenwriter waiting to change the world.

Having come to terms with being forced out of parentally funded academia, you realize you were born into a world were there are only about 15 writers for each show, and out of those shows, only five are currently hiring. Three out of those five will get cancelled in their first season. You graduated film school with 34 other screenwriters, many far more talented than yourself. For the first time in your life you realize you are indeed doomed. You also just turned 25. Happy birthday.

So you embrace the unmitigated disaster that is your life, quit your day job, and become a full time screenwriter. You share a small loft with another struggling screenwriter, his brother, and two midgets who were extras in Leprechaun 2. You envy their success. After months of searching for work and your asshole agent not returning your calls, your friend at Universal phones you about a potential job offer. You venture over to the studio, hoping for the best, failing at convincing yourself of the worst. Walking into the meeting the suits are very brief, they probably have an important lunch with someone who's name stars with B and ends with rad Pitt. The executives say they love the writing on your website, they use phrases like "very interesting", "creative", and "brilliantly adequate." Not the words you would use, but whatever, you'll take it. You also don't have a website; details. The studio executives want you to write a romantic comedy about two dolphins who meet at Sea World, fall in love, but then due to dastardly environmentalists are released into two separate oceans, the Pacific and Lake Michigan. The film would then chronicle their journey back to one another, so the dolphins could inevitably live happily ever after. Without thinking, you sign some papers, shake hands, and call your parents, hoping to validate your very existence.

Well, the movie doesn't go well. Your nerd sensibilities get the better of you and by page 5, one of the dolphins is a vampire, the other a transformer. Also, due to Google Earth telling you the plot was impossible, you move the second ocean from Lake Michigan to The Red Sea. Far more plausible, it even has sea in the title.

Inevitably the studio executives didn't like the liberties you took with their concept. It wasn't that they minded the vampire dolphin or the licensing fees inevitably associated with featuring a transformer dolphin. No, they cared about changing the second ocean to The Red Sea, solely because it was impossible to recreate the Middle East in Canada. Dam tax breaks.

So you find yourself without a job, essentially blacklisted from Hollywood studios. Also, your bike got stolen. Bad week.

It turns out that the girl who you stole this dream from gave up on her film dreams a long time ago and went to medical school. She became a doctor and spent two years after college traveling around Africa during villages of AIDS. Did you hear that? She was helping to cure AIDS, what were you doing? Oh, that's right, writing sad poetry and listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. I almost forgot.

Well, when that same girl returned to that States, she got some investors together, and founded a company that takes the seamen of sea slugs, magically alters the fluid, and then sells it to women as an age reversal cream. An age reversal cream. Genius. This company then needed a talented writer to head their new add campaign. You were up for the job, but you were a little too "indie" for the Board Of Directors, so they chose to hire the guy that wore a suit to the interview. After they went public, that same douche bag went to a fancy Hollywood party, met Stephen Spielberg, and became his personal part time model / part time gigolo.

Apparently they make great tips.

So, needing to pay rent, you took a job at the local elementary school, trying to teach snotty noised kids about subject and predicate while they ramble off Halo strategies. During your lunch break your parents call, asking how the job search is going. You lie, say your writing for the latest Orson Wells show, and it's on Fridays at 11. This serves a twofold purpose, your parents may Google Orson Wells, see critical acclaim and never realize he has been dead for 25 years. Second, despite their best attempts at lying, your parents bedtime is 9:30, they will never watch your fictitious programing. So you go home at night, defeated, depressed, and write. You write about the tragedy of the world, how it is unfair, and how your great genius will never be fully appreciated.

One day you go on a hike to the Hollywood sign. You climb the giant H, douse yourself in gasoline, light a match, and jump off. Silently burning beneath your very dream.

The Beauty Of My Soul is Too Much For This Mortal Realm

Dear Cruel World,

I hope you are happy with yourself. Really, I hope you are. I was living my life perfectly, in pure harmonious content, until 2006. During that dastardly year of our lord, you released upon the world a great plague, an unmitigated curse, Zak Efron. Having Mr. Efron be a household named soon took a tole on my persona; solely because I bear a striking resemblance to the High School Musical star.

So at the tender age of 15, I was cursed. Women would just throw themselves at me, and despite my best intentions, it was seemingly impossible to keep them at bay. Throughout my myriad of relationships, I believed that these girls had my best intentions at heart, but I was foolhardy. In reality, these women were using me, abusing my body for their own gains on the social ladder. I always held their best interests first and foremost, but they kicked my heart's ass. I was a broken man. Also I turned 16. My parent's threw me a raging house party at the yacht club.

When I was old enough to have the beard of a man, I embarked on a odyssey around the globe. Yet, my shackle to Mr. Efron was firmly latched to my soul, never relenting, even at the far corners of the earth. In Japan, the ripples in the famed koi fish bonds echoed one name "Zak Efron." The ghosts of the Roman Coliseum whispered in my ear "Zak Efron." In France, the people whispered to be in their glorious Germanic dialect "...Zak Efron..." I could not escape, I could not escape. I constantly felt unimportant as his existence overshadowed mine. People would meet me, see me, and instantly conjure fake expectations. Instantaneously relegating me to the shadowy abyss sometimes referred to as The Disney Channel.

My sister, having just turned 13 was having panic attacks, she was entering adolescence. No, she was not having panic attacks due to adolescence, but merely because she didn't like to travel. Making here a terrible traveling companion.

Returning stateside, I tried to distance myself from the Efron zeitgeist by becoming the one thing Zak could never be; a hipster. I bought skinny jeans, ray bands, and spent entire afternoons album hunting at Amoeba. I also went camera shopping and finally decided on one that didn't take pictures anymore. Apparently that's in right now. Yet, this purchase soon ran into the inevitable issue of be not being able to post my new found indie cred on facebook, obviously due to my lack of a functioning camera. So, I did what any good Orange County boy would do. I hired a professional photographer, had him take photos of me holding a camera wrong, and then had him apply tacky looking, but indie, photoshop filters to all of the prints. Then I bought a Sigur Ros t-shirt. There from Norway, right?

Yet, even this strategy proved unsuccessful as Zak Efron inevitably bough a flannel. It was a sad day.

So now, I sit there with a glass of whisky in my hand, and a gun to my head. Goodbye cruel world, you were never going to accept my beauty. Never.

Goodbye,
(Douchebag in my roommates English class)

PS: Don't take this personally Zak, I was just feeling hard done to that you were getting all the recognition, when I am clearly the better looking of the two of us. Also, you look like me, not the other way round. Try living with that every day of your life. It's fucking difficult.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Shock Of Nonexistence

Last night I experienced a shock of nonexistence. You know, that frightful feeling one has when they realize that they will inevitably die. Today, in hopes of analysing this seemingly rational fear of one's own end, I decided to write a blog post about it. Yet, I inevitably failed miserably. I might try again in the near future, but I don't know yet, maybe my heart just isn't in it right now. Yet, through my failure I discovered this beautiful poem by Philip Larkin. In his piece, Aubade, Larkin says everything I wanted to and more. Reading this work, I realized that my feeble attempts at tackling this subject matter came no where near his beautiful, raw, and informative poem. I can only hope to one day write something this touching. Call it being humbled as a writer.


Aubade - Philip Larkin
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Home



This past weekend I went home for the first time in 8 weeks. It was a strange experience to say the least. It was nice, but odd.

Conversations Of A Monday

In 8am class

Student 1: Monday joke, probably relating in some way shape or form to Office Space.

Student 2: Laugh

Student 1: Weekend?

Student 2: Weekend.

Student 1: Philosophy joke.

Student: It's too early for this shit.


Buying Lunch

Customer: Buying lunch.

Server: Silence.

Customer: Asks about server's day.

Server: Silence.

Customer: Tells the server to have nice day.

Server: Silence.

Customer: Leaves

Customer 2: Has a long conversation with the server about their respective weekend activities, the weather, and the meaning of life.


Talking To Roommate

Person: Asks how day was.

Roommate: Grunts.

Person: Asks roommate to turn down bad music and to clean up his shit. Also to put on a shirt.

Roommate: Inaudible grunt.

Person: Grabs bag and leaves for the library. To try and do homework, but in reality to flirt with cute girls.

Roommate: Eats food that is not his own.


Going To Sleep

Person: Internal monologue about how tomorrow will be better.

Internal Self: Tomorrow will not be better.

Person: Curses internal self. Also goes takes a piss.

Internal Self: Realizes a paper person forgot about is due tomorrow.

Person: Ignores wisdom of internal self. Goes to sleep. Curses world.

The Road

Gravel, Assault, Pavement,
Whatever you call it,
it helps you move,
helps you live.

You go on a trip,
just drive,
travel to a far away land.
What are you looking for,
perspective, worldly insight, answers to your problems?
Or purely humorous anecdotes?
Those are cool too.

So you travel.
You meet people,
some are interesting, funny, nice.
Some are not.

You spend hours at highway rest stops,
waiting for that conversation to make all your toils worthwhile.
But, that person, that story, that communication...it never comes.

So you get back in your car and drive.
Back to your life,
and to the people that love you.

The Latest Trend?

Mad Men Finale

Kevin is an interesting fellow. Below he rants about fictional people who are both racist and sexist. If they weren't fictional most of them would be dead today. Enjoy.

The following post will have spoilers of the final episode of this season of Mad Men. You have been warned. Though, really, if you're reading this, you should have watched it yet. It was so good.

Three years ago, the Mad Men finale involved a heartfelt monologue from Don Draper about family and how the Carousel projector from Kodak incorporated the idea of family. Most of the major action ("Mr. Campbell, who cares?") had taken place the previous episode, but it was a great episode emphasizing the family structure and set up the total tonal shift of the show to a focus on the women in season two.

The next year, the finale, set against the Cuban Missile Crisis, had an understandable air of chaos, but still made time for Don begging to get Betty back, Betty finding out she's pregnant and hooking up with a stranger in a bathroom, and Peggy delivering her legendary monologue to Pete about having his child. Lots of drama, not so much sentimentality.

Last year, Mad Men ended with its one and only purely fun hour, which felt like a reward to each and every one of it's fans. Great music, great character interactions, a great idea, great lines... One of the best episodes ever produced by this show. It left you wanting to see the next episode as soon as possible.

Last night, Mad Men took one of its characters to a place he should never have been, yet it made the ultimate sense that he was there. Don Draper became Roger Sterling last night. He officially became passé, ridiculous, an object of mockery from the women in the office. He made an impulsive and stupid decision with one woman, completely screwed over another, and made peace with the one who's been in his life all along.

I don't want to break down every element of the episode, but just for highlights:

-- Betty firing Carla was heartbreaking. Even though I've been a defender of Betty's despite her behavior this season, that was too much to handle. It was heinous. Don's anger was wholly and completely justified.

-- However, we then see Betty in a completely different light by episode's end. You see exactly how in love she is with Don and how not in love she is with Henry. You see how childish she still is. You see her rocking that incredibly fierce purple jacket. (Only I would notice that.) And you truly pity her because at the end of the day, she's not really at fault for how her life turned out. She's been screwed over by men (her father, Don, Henry) at every turn.

-- Don's been spiraling out of control all season, headed towards...something, but we could never figure out what. And then he impulsively proposed to his secretary (!) and screwed over a woman he's in an incredibly stable relationship with. In other words, he became Roger Sterling. And no one likes Roger Sterling anymore, so what's to be said for that?

-- GO PEGGY! What an amazing season for our girl. She got all her problems aired out in The Suitcase, got the recognition she needed, and proceeded to kick ass the rest of the season. Landing that account was a work of genius that proves that if Don is now the Roger Sterling, Peggy is the Don Draper. It felt so good to cheer for her, too.

-- The scene in the office with Joan and Peggy was honestly one of the best scenes in the show's history. From the first line ("What could possibly be on your mind?") to the shared laughter at the end was just beautifully acted, written, and one of the most empathetic scenes we've ever seen. But something to note: even when they're sympathizing with each other, Peggy still does not congratulate Joan on her new position. They may be closer than ever, but Peggy still sees herself as above Joan.

-- Dr. Faye Miller may be one of the best people to ever walk through the Mad Men world...so, naturally, she'd get treated like utter crap. That phone call was heartwrenching to watch, because honestly, she did absolutely nothing wrong. She was exactly the right woman...and Don would never be with her. How incredibly sad.

-- Roger's reaction to the news of Don's engagement is fascinating. He went from "Who the hell is that?" to "Congratulations!" so quickly, and I wondered why. Then I realized: he saw Don's engagement as a validation of what he did with Jane three years ago. He wanted to be proven right after all this time.

-- I wouldn't be surprised if we have a bigger time leap next year. The one thing Mad Men has never done with a major character is show their wedding. I don't see how this would be any different. We'll see them again either when Don and Megan are married or when their engagement is over. No other option.

That's a lot more analysis than I planned on writing, but I hadn't quite realized how much there was to ponder. Now I'm wondering about you guys' feelings. What did you think of the episode? Where do you think we're headed next year? Is next year the show's last? (My opinion: yes, sadly.) Take it all to the comments!

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

A Burrito?

I'm Too Beautiful For This Mortal Existence

Dear Cruel World,

I hope you are happy with yourself. Really, I hope you are. I was living my life perfectly, in pure harmonious content, until 2006. During that dastardly year of our lord, you released upon the world a great plague, an unmitigated curse, Zak Efron. Having Mr. Efron be a household named soon took a tole on my persona; solely because I bear a striking resemblance to the High School Musical star.

So at the tender age of 15, I was cursed. Women would just throw themselves at me, and despite my best intentions, it was seemingly impossible to keep them at bay. Throughout my myriad of relationships, I believed that these girls had my best intentions at heart, but I was foolhardy. In reality, these women were using me, abusing my body for their own gains on the social ladder. I always held their best interests first and foremost, but they kicked my heart's ass. I was a broken man. Also I turned 16. My parent's threw me a raging house party at the yacht club.

When I was old enough to have the beard of a man, I embarked on a odyssey around the globe. Yet, my shackle to Mr. Efron was firmly latched to my soul, never relenting, even at the far corners of the earth. In Japan, the ripples in the famed koi fish bonds echoed one name "Zak Efron." The ghosts of the Roman Coliseum whispered in my ear "Zak Efron." In France, the people whispered to be in their glorious Germanic dialect "...Zak Efron..." I could not escape, I could not escape. I constantly felt unimportant as his existence overshadowed mine. People would meet me, see me, and instantly conjure fake expectations. Instantaneously relegating me to the shadowy abyss sometimes referred to as The Disney Channel.

My sister, having just turned 13 was having panic attacks, she was entering adolescence. No, she was not having panic attacks due to adolescence, but merely because she didn't like to travel. Making here a terrible traveling companion.

Returning stateside, I tried to distance myself from the Efron zeitgeist by becoming the one thing Zak could never be; a hipster. I bought skinny jeans, ray bands, and spent entire afternoons album hunting at Amoeba. I also went camera shopping and finally decided on one that didn't take pictures anymore. Apparently that's in right now. Yet, this purchase soon ran into the inevitable issue of be not being able to post my new found indie cred on facebook, obviously due to my lack of a functioning camera. So, I did what any good Orange County boy would do. I hired a professional photographer, had him take photos of me holding a camera wrong, and then had him apply tacky looking, but indie, photoshop filters to all of the prints. Then I bought a Sigur Ros t-shirt. There from Norway, right?

Yet, even this strategy proved unsuccessful as Zak Efron inevitably bough a flannel. It was a sad day.

So now, I sit there with a glass of whisky in my hand, and a gun to my head. Goodbye cruel world, you were never going to accept my beauty. Never.

Goodbye,
(Douchebag in my roommates English class)

PS: Don't take this personally Zak, I was just feeling hard done to that you were getting all the recognition, when I am clearly the better looking of the two of us. Also, you look like me, not the other way round. Try living with that every day of your life. It's fucking difficult.

Monday, October 11, 2010

You Are No Spielberg

On one special Sunday night in the 4th grade, you went over to your next door neighbors house to watch ET. OK, my memory might be failing me, but it definitely was a Spielberg movie, probably, maybe. Well, after the film had concluded, the cute little girl next door told you that she wanted to be a film maker. You didn't really know why at the time, but your 11 year old self proceeded to take up her cause as your own.

In high school she got popular and you, not so much. You had became a true Renaissance man, well versed in the intricacies of Dungeons and Dragons, and a viewer of all things Joss Whedon. Hailing from a certain west coast city, she dated various members of the lacrosse team, while you were frequently asked if you lived with your life partner in the Castro. She went to prom with a bro. You took a friend of a friend.

Many people went through the film stage. Hell, most people are still going through the film stage. A myriad number of people approach you on a daily basis telling you they have an idea for a film. Yet, what they don't realize is while they have one, you have an infinite, and there are not enough hours in your life to get them all down onto paper. Creativity may be dead in Hollywood, but not in your mind. Oh, no.

You started college, and ignoring the desperate pleas of your parents to major in something practical like business, you went to film school and majored in screen writing. For the first time in your life, you enjoyed something intellectual which wasn't associated with This American Life. Also, you got layed due to your vast knowledge of the Klingon language. That was pretty cool.

Graduation day has finally arrived. Your family, your friends, all here to wave you on, cheer you into the next stage of your life. Yet, to somehow validate your four years at an expensive liberal arts college, you need to find a job and quickly. Preferably somehow related to your major. You can't do this.

Now four years in and fully committed to the graduate school path, you are slowly coming to the sad conclusion that having a doctoral degree in film is about as helpful as burning $50,000. Now facing your impending graduation (for a second time), you quickly come to the stark realization that you need to find a job in an industry which is notoriously difficult to break into. Perspective job opportunities slowly broke down into.

1. Teachers assistant for some kids vaguely interested in film at Santa Monica City College.
2. Junior marketing associate at some office building (a writer of short sentences)
3. High school English teacher.
4. Night manager at an auto repair show (your friend's dad owns the place)
5. Gardener
6. Pool Cleaner
7. Part time model / part time gigolo
8. "That guy" that still hangs around his high school talking about the big game, and is eventually hired as a PE teacher. Only later to be fired for touching some kids. Allegedly.
9. Your dad's assistant / office whipping boy.
10. Starving screenwriter waiting to change the world.

Having come to terms with being forced out of parentally funded academia, you realize you were born into a world were there are only about 15 writers for each show, and out of those shows, only five are currently hiring. Three out of those five will get cancelled in their first season. You graduated film school with 34 other screenwriters, many far more talented than yourself. For the first time in your life you realize you are indeed doomed. You also just turned 25. Happy birthday.

So you embrace the unmitigated disaster that is your life, quit your day job, and become a full time screenwriter. You share a small loft with another struggling screenwriter, his brother, and two midgets who were extras in Leprechaun 2. You envy their success. After months of searching for work and your asshole agent not returning your calls, your friend at Universal phones you about a potential job offer. You venture over to the studio, hoping for the best, failing at convincing yourself of the worst. Walking into the meeting the suits are very brief, they probably have an important lunch with someone who's name stars with B and ends with rad Pitt. The executives say they love the writing on your website, they use phrases like "very interesting", "creative", and "brilliantly adequate." Not the words you would use, but whatever, you'll take it. You also don't have a website; details. The studio executives want you to write a romantic comedy about two dolphins who meet at Sea World, fall in love, but then due to dastardly environmentalists are released into two separate oceans, the Pacific and Lake Michigan. The film would then chronicle their journey back to one another, so the dolphins could inevitably live happily ever after. Without thinking, you sign some papers, shake hands, and call your parents, hoping to validate your very existence.

Well, the movie doesn't go well. Your nerd sensibilities get the better of you and by page 5, one of the dolphins is a vampire, the other a transformer. Also, due to Google Earth telling you the plot was impossible, you move the second ocean from Lake Michigan to The Red Sea. Far more plausible, it even has sea in the title.

Inevitably the studio executives didn't like the liberties you took with their concept. It wasn't that they minded the vampire dolphin or the licensing fees inevitably associated with featuring a transformer dolphin. No, they cared about changing the second ocean to The Red Sea, solely because it was impossible to recreate the Middle East in Canada. Dam tax breaks.

So you find yourself without a job, essentially blacklisted from Hollywood studios. Also, your bike got stolen. Bad week.

It turns out that the girl who you stole this dream from gave up on her film dreams a long time ago and went to medical school. She became a doctor and spent two years after college traveling around Africa during villages of AIDS. Did you hear that? She was helping to cure AIDS, what were you doing? Oh, that's right, writing sad poetry and listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. I almost forgot.

Well, when that same girl returned to that States, she got some investors together, and founded a company that takes the seamen of sea slugs, magically alters the fluid, and then sells it to women as an age reversal cream. An age reversal cream. Genius. This company then needed a talented writer to head their new add campaign. You were up for the job, but you were a little too "indie" for the Board Of Directors, so they chose to hire the guy that wore a suit to the interview. After they went public, that same douche bag went to a fancy Hollywood party, met Stephen Spielberg, and became his personal part time model / part time gigolo.

Apparently they make great tips.

So, needing to pay rent, you took a job at the local elementary school, trying to teach snotty noised kids about subject and predicate while they ramble off Halo strategies. During your lunch break your parents call, asking how the job search is going. You lie, say your writing for the latest Orson Wells show, and it's on Fridays at 11. This serves a twofold purpose, your parents may Google Orson Wells, see critical acclaim and never realize he has been dead for 25 years. Second, despite their best attempts at lying, your parents bedtime is 9:30, they will never watch your fictitious programing. So you go home at night, defeated, depressed, and write. You write about the tragedy of the world, how it is unfair, and how your great genius will never be fully appreciated.

One day you go on a hike to the Hollywood sign. You climb the giant H, douse yourself in gasoline, light a match, and jump off. Silently burning beneath your very dream.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Who Has Candles?

Today is the lead singer of Radiohead, Thom Yorke's birthday. Happy birthday Thom. Thank you for all the music you have given the world over the years, it means more to people than you may even realize.




Can we please have the new album soon? Much love.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Paradox?

All About The Social Network

This piece is by Kevin. He is a contributor to this blog and an all round interesting fellow.



The last time I posted my State of the Cinema report, things looked grim. There were barely any awards-worthy movies released in the first seven months of the year as we headed into August. And now? Well, things are absolutely no different.

That's harsh, actually. There have been a couple of great movies that will never be nominated for Oscars: Easy A and Catfish, and there's been exactly one stellar, Oscar-worthy movie released in the past two months: The Social Network, Aaron Sorkin's masterpiece about Facebook. It's an early frontrunner for Best Picture, and one that conforms nicely to the mold set forward by other best pictures in recent years (Slumdog Millionaire and The Hurt Locker in particular shattered the expectation of a Best Picture).


I fully expect The Social Network to win Best Picture. I really do. I know there are other movies coming out this year that have a chance, The King's Speech, 127 Hours and The Fighter in particular. But this movie is such a home run that it seems difficult to consider any other possible outcome.

Sorkin's script is superb. Jesse Eisenberg's interpretation of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg is extremely unlikable yet completely lovable, a wonderful contradiction. Andrew Garfield steals the show as wounded friend and co-founder Eduardo Saverin. He's emotionally complex and makes the entire audience ache for his struggle. The entire cast is brilliant (though I'm not quite as in love with Justin Timberlake's performance as Napster founder Sean Parker as others seem to be), and the direction is better than capable, too. David Fincher edited himself for this film, and it's a marked improvement after his last effort, the sluggish The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. It is truly the best film I've seen all year.

I see Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor, and Best Adapted (Original? it's unclear) Screenplay wins for the film, with Fincher losing out to Inception's Christopher Nolan for Best Director. Eisenberg will likely be nominated for Best Actor, as well, but Colin Firth is probably a dead lock for The King's Speech at this point. His goodwill from last year's A Single Man will continue to steamroll to the Oscar podium this year.

If Best Original Screenplay doesn't include Network, then Inception is probably locked for that Oscar as well. In the female acting categories, Best Actress probably belongs to Black Swan's Natalie Portman, and Best Supporting Actress...is a gigantic question mark. No idea where that one is going. But hey, I've got solid ideas for seven out of the eight big categories! That's not bad! Then again, maybe the paucity of good films to make this more difficult is what is really bad.

At any rate, for The Social Network, I give it a straight-up A

Saturday, October 2, 2010

One More Thing



Many thanks to Michael Cera for signing my copy of Scott Pilgrim last night. That, and calling my friend an asshole for missing the screening last night for a wedding. You are a pretty awesome person.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The Fans

Thanks you so much to everyone that came out to the New Beverly last night for the screening of Scott Pilgrim. As a fan, it was amazing to see so many cast members there. We love you guys. As I said on the way home, it was the best night of my life that cost under $10 and didn't involve sex.


Hunting Yeti contributor Kevin with Brie Larson





The cast!


Thank you all for making this movie. Truly.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

The Function Of Loss

I hate Wednesday, absolutely despise it. Between work, my five classes, and the plethora of homework, always due first thing Thursday morning. Wednesday quickly becomes a giant cluster fuck of sleep deprivation, caffeine addiction, and just plain terrible.

Now, this Wednesday was exactly the same, nothing out of the ordinary, until about 9am. Then it just all went to hell.

I woke up at 5:30. Cursed existence itself. Went to work, and by 8 am had consumed two thermoses of tea and a chi latte. Yeah, I might just have a problem. So I left work, went to philosophy class, took notes, laughed at the inherent stupidity of some of my classmates, contributed a few insightful comments, and most shocking of all, somehow stayed awake.

9am hits, I meander out of class and begin to casually pace down the generic hallways of Uhall. I hate this building, so generic, it looks like a shopping mall, but without the bad music, and those creepy hot topic kids. I glance around the building, and realize that if someone asked me to describe this place, I could think of no discernible feature. It's almost as if the architect chosen for this project was sadly born without an imagination, no soul.

I round the corner. She enters my view. God, she looks beautiful this morning. The way her hair gently falls in front of her face, the colored streaks, blue and yellow, effortless inject life my drab morning. My heart begins to flutter, what do I say? How do I greet her? I hate straight guy awkwardness. Where is my sassy bi friend when I need him the most? I can't do this on my own. OK, it's decided, my sassy bi friend needs to be an IPhone app, always in my pocket for ease and convenience, able to pop out at a moments notice and impart on me his vast wisdom.

She is getting nearer, I need to do something now. Shit, shit, shit.

She waves and smiles. Crisis averted. We walk up to each other, both awkwardly smile again. I need to say something. Do I complement here? Ask her how her day is going? No, that's dumb, her day has just started. Should I start with a funny story? Yeah, everyone likes a joke. Now to think of something pithy yet insightful. Funny yet touching.

I greet her with a unintentionally blase sounding "Hi, how's it going?"

That wasn't that bad, was it? She isn't saying anything in response. Did I do something wrong, say something bad, is there food on my face? Oh no, her facial expression says it all, this is not good.

She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a little folded piece of paper, hands it to me. I slowly unfold it, not knowing what to expect. Could this be a medical form, is she sick? Was there some kind of freak accident? Are her friends OK? Family? Family.

I hold unfolded paper in my hand, and the headline says it all. I fold the paper back up, hand it back to her, and hug here. Everything is not all right, this is bad, this is unfair.

I'm still hugging her, trying to think of something to say. I'm speechless, utterly devoid of words, I can't even make a sound.

Our bodies separate and I still haven't said anything. We begin to walk towards her class, in silence. Feeling uncomfortable, I then commit the cardinal sin of tragedy.

"So, are you OK?"
"No."

Silence, how I longed for your sweet embrace. A moment devoid of noise has never seemed so sweet. We continue to walk, I feel sick.

We reach her classroom, and embrace again. I want to know the right words to tell her, to reassure her that everything will be fine, but I know that's impossible. Maybe, things won't be OK, things aren't OK. We hug for what seems like hours, people pass by, catching sly glances at us, trying to contemplate why two people would be hugging at 9am in a building which could be easily mistaken as a shopping center. One girl that passes begins to talk to herself, she's weird.

I manage to mutter a softly spoken "You're going to be OK." I'm failing at this. I want to me there fore her, but I can't. I don't know.

I then offer for her to skip class and we can talk about it, we make eye contact, she looks like she's about to break. Then in a moment of unimaginable strength, she rejects my offer, turns around, and walks into her philosophy class.

What do I do? I go to calculus class, of course.

I walk into class and take a seat. Glancing around the room, I begin to study my classmates. They all seem so happy, so normal, blissfully unaware of how much pain is in this world. How unfair this existence really is.

My professor hands out a work sheet. I hate calculus.

A word problem? Really? I can't do this right now, I need to hold someone, listen to Death Cab For Cutie, or write bad poetry. Anything, but here.

I get out a pencil, calculator, and begin to glance at the problem. "A mail train leaves Cleveland at 4pm traveling west towards Los Angeles. Please label this first train, train A. Train A travels at a constant rate of 62 MPH.

They say don't kill the messenger, but if I could, I would kill this train. A train, moving from some city to Los Angeles, the city of angles, carrying a cursed letter, a tragic reminder of events that have transpired. A sharp stake through heart, any and all loose stitching immediately vanquished. She may have thought she was moving on, beginning to forgive, forget, but no, it still hurts. A lot. If the mail workers had been aware of this cursed cargo would they have taken it from it's unholy compartment? Taken it out back during their lunch break and burned it? Probably not? But it's nice to hope.

The train is traveling down the hypotenuse of a right triangle. Solve for area of land traveled.

She probably had plans, so many plans. To reconcile, to forgive, to cling to a thread of normalcy and hope, that just maybe, maybe, they would one day live together as a happy family. Yet, distracted by these plans, she may not have realized it, but she was in that train, speeding down a mountain at an alarming rate. The train is in horrendous shape, no brakes, no seat belts, a wheel has come loose, and she is not sure, but it sounds like something's grinding. Also, the train is on fire. She is out of control, with no plan, on the verge of breaking down. She is terrified.

The train stops at a station for two hours. How does this stop affect ultimate delivery schedule of Train 3, currently leaving San Diego for New York.

While there may be nothing more powerful in this world than hope, there are few things more devastating than when that hope is false. She had hope. That light is extinguished.

The train arrives in Los Angeles. What is the function of this trip?

The function, maybe life is just a fucking function. We are born, the input, we live, and then we die, the output. Maybe our lives are that numerical, that everything that happens to us is just based on a long line of 0's and 1's, maybe what happened to her was just basic statisitcs. She has the 1 in 100. I feel sick, I feel cold.

Now solve for the constant.

Life is all about loss. Life is nothing without loss. The constant of our lives is the sad fact that on this earth, time runs out for everything and everyone – if that were not the case, then there would be no point in sustaining ourselves. We are motivated each and every day by the knowledge that one day we will not have the opportunity to breathe, to feel, to love.

I run out of calculus class, sprinting towards the bathroom, I puke in a nearby trash can. The worksheet is unfinished.

And every time we lose something dear to our hearts, we honor it by taking what we’ve learned from it and what we cherished about it, and carrying that on our shoulders until we, too, are lost. What we drop will be picked up by those behind us, and with so much to be happy for and proud of, there’s no room for anger or resentment.

That afternoon I saw her again, and I held her. Words were unneeded. We had the moment.