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.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
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.
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.
Can we please have the new album soon? Much love.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
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
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.
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.
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.
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