Adjusting Aperture for Dramatic Effect

The following photos were all taken from the top of the Griffith Observatory during my brief visit to Los Angeles, California - all were taken in the same few minutes, the only adjustments made being how open or closed the aperture was - beautiful and interesting results follow:

Happy Memorial Day Weekend! Remember where you (individually) and we (collectively) came from. 

Short Film of the Day

What happens when one film set's mysteries transfer to another? In this short, you may just find out...

Short Story Samplings: #5

Goodbye

Jonathan showed up ten minutes early only to find Frank sitting at the table, already waiting for him. As usual he sat perfectly straight without somehow looking rigid, perfectly proper without looking too professional. When he stood up to shake Jonathan’s hand, he made sure to shake firmly for no more than a full second and maintain eye contact throughout. He then held his arm out towards the chair across from his, as if inviting his employee to join him in the higher ranks.

            “Good to see you again, Jonathan. Please sit. I’ve already ordered us some wine.” Jonathan obliged, and just as soon as he hit his seat he was taking a swig of the glass Piano Bianco laid out in front of him. It tasted a bit dryer than usual but he did not think anything of it.

            “So, Jonathan. How do we handle this little issue of ours?” He said it as if he had asked it many times before; he asked it like he already knew the answer, like he had always known.

            “Well, I put one of my guys on it, and he seems pretty confident that we can get a name on that eyeball witness.”

            “Oh really?”

            “Yea. Yes.”

            “And when does he think he can do that?”

            “I don’t know, any day now.” Frank stared at Jonathan without the slightest hint of distrust. He took a sip of his wine and patted his lips together, making sure to get all the taste that his glass had to offer.

            “Ah, I love this wine.” Jonathan cleared his throat to speak, but before he could get a syllable out Frank was elaborating on his thought. “Bordeaux used to be my go-to, but recently, this Piano Blanco, it’s really been hitting the spot.”

            “Well people change.”

            “You’re telling me.” He smiled at Jonathan and suddenly a fear came over him. For a moment he could feel his skin heat up, but just as quickly his attention was reverted to the waiter that had suddenly intruded on their private space.

            “Can I get you gentleman anything?”

            “How about some menus?” Jonathan was ready to get this show on the road.

            “We’re actually fine for right now. I’ll give you one of these,” Frank raised his right index finger in the air and emphatically stuck it high in the air, “when we’re ready.”

            “Sounds good. Enjoy the wine.”

            “Oh. We shall.” Jonathan thought he noticed a correspondence between Frank and the waiter, but before he could properly ascertain the truth the waiter had scampered off to another table, ready to do whatever it takes for a bigger tip. He cleared his throat yet another time, but Frank beat him to the punch yet again.

            “So, Jonathan. Hypothetically— and of course, I stress hypothetically,” he held his hands out in front of him in defense, but was smiling as if they both knew the reality of the situation. “What if you can’t ID the witness? What then? Can I trust you?” Almost without any transition at all, his eyes now burnt though Jonathan. Jonathan knew the way he handled this question might mean his life. Quickly, almost too quickly, he loudly retorted “Of course.” That was all he felt he needed to say, and he stared confidently back into the eyes of his omnipotent boss. They maintained silent eye contact for a few seconds before Frank leaned back in his chair.

            “Good. Because if this somehow gets down to what I think it might, I need to know that you’re willing to spare your life for mine.”

            “Of course.” But this time he heard his voice go up a pitch. Spare his life? For this man? When it came down to it, he knew that’s what he had signed on for, but now that it was so close to becoming an actuality he couldn’t get it out of his head that he had made the biggest mistake of his life. Five years ago, when he had met Frank in this very restaurant, and told him he would be loyal until death, that he would do anything to be made Capo, and that he would do nothing to forget where he came from— his heart suddenly sank. He thought he saw Frank raise his eyebrows, but there was no way. Frank never let anyone know what he was feeling, wouldn’t even give the slightest hint. There was no chance that Jonathan had just broken that wall. He nervously finished his glass of wine and Frank poured him another one.

            “You have any idea what you want to eat?”

            “I haven’t seen the menu.”

            “Do you really need to? You haven’t been here enough?” Jonathan was afraid to say that he was not a regular, that when the other guys came to shoot the shit and talk emptily about who intimidated who or how to get revenge on all the rat fuck informants, he was at home with his wife and kids, who meant more than anything to him. He was afraid to admit that his family meant more than this family. And then he knew he was in trouble. He couldn’t even respond verbally, instead settling for a feeble shrug. Frank did not change his expression. This time, he initiated by clearing his throat; Jonathan could not even come up with an interruption.

            “Have you ever heard of ricin, Jonathan?”

            “Ricin?” A smile came across Frank’s face, and he swiftly took on the demeanor of an expert.

            “Yes, ricin. Ricinis Communis, from the castor oil plant. Highly toxic. Even if the smallest amount is ingested it can lead to death.”

            “Oh yea?” Jonathan had no idea where this was going. “And?”

            Frank tilted his head, offended and confused by Jonathan’s lack of interest in his own demise. He picked his napkin off his lap, threw it on the table, and leaned forward onto his forearms, now resting on the table. He looked Jonathan in the eye, and, like a father would tell his son to take out the trash, said, “We’re going to have to terminate your contract.”

            Jonathan’s throat went dry. He needed to take a sip of wine but could not muster up the courage to move a muscle. “Excuse me?”

            “Your contract has been terminated.” And suddenly it was clear why the Piano Blanco tasted a bit dryer than usual. His contract had been terminated by ricin. “Don’t worry, Jonathan. It won’t hurt—well, not like you expect. You’ll have a few days to say goodbye to your family and whoever else it is you think is more important than what we’ve got going on here. I’m very sorry.”

            Jonathan was frozen. He was not mad, or disappointed, or even surprised; he was merely frozen. For the first time in a long time, he felt something distinctly real, yet it was a distinctive nothingness. He did not wish to yell, or cry, or anything. He did not wish to respond. And Frank did not mind. He raised his index finger in the air and the waiter began rushing over, as if his life depended on it.

            “I think we’re ready to order.”

Today's Jammies for the Mammies!

Some fire tracks from back in the day - that being over ten years ago... Enjoy and keep on dancin'... and dayyum, check those moves out!










-FIN - keep on living life the way you want, like these artists certainly did...

Album Spotlight: Sinkane - Mars

This DFA release from Ahmed Gallab, formerly known for his work with Of Montreal, builds off of that band's afrobeat influence and channels it through the future-jazz grooves similar to anything and everything with James Murphy's name on it. It may not be revolutionary, but it shows Gallab is a talent to watch in the future, despite the fact that this is his third release.

The album starts on a high note, hitting the ground running with some energetic African funk and rarely letting go. Jeeper Creeper introduces us to the world on Mars. 

Another song of note is Making Time, with a similar sound to the more famous DFA remix of MIA's Paper Planes. Focusing on moody synths and appropriately sloppy horns, this is the perfect electronic track for low-energy vibing.



And finally, the closer on the album, Caparundi, opens with Gallab beautiful voice harmonizing with itself, letting the piano opening build to a flutastic barrage of instrumentals, leading to an atmospheric, relaxed closer that perfectly captures the ups and downs of the album’s more energetic offerings.


Do yourself a favor by taking a listen and buying the album here.

Today's Quotes to Mull Over

Words on writing - by some of the best; makes you think....

1) It’s none of their business that you have to learn to write. Let them think you were born that way.
- Ernest Hemingway

-What does it mean to be "qualified" 

2) Most writers regard the truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use.

- Mark Twain

-No wonder the world today frustrates to many intellectuals... most people are full of shit.

3) A writer without interest or sympathy for the foibles of his fellow man is not conceivable as a writer.

- Joseph Conrad

-We reveal the ugly truths, not the beautiful lies... doing anything but would be blasphemous to a true writer/thinker

4) People do not deserve to have good writing, they are so pleased with bad.

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

-Never truer than these times (though they were probably just as true to him in his time...)

5) Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything really good.

- William Faulkner

-Not just writing, but life in general. Happens too rarely these days, at least in the world I find myself in.

6) No one can write decently who is distrustful of the reader’s intelligence or whose attitude is patronizing.

- E. B. White

-Same goes for any kind of storytelling.

 

7) “The authentic human being is one of us who instinctively knows what he should not do, and, in addition, he will balk at doing it. He will refuse to do it, even if this brings down dread consequences to him and to those whom he loves. This, to me, is the ultimately heroic trait of ordinary people; they say no to the tyrant and they calmly take the consequences of this resistance. Their deeds may be small, and almost always unnoticed, unmarked by history. Their names are not remembered, nor did these authentic humans expect their names to be remembered. I see their authenticity in an odd way: not in their willingness to perform great heroic deeds but in their quiet refusals. In essence, they cannot be compelled to be what they are not.” 
― Philip K. Dick

-No words, simply mesmerizing - and one of the few undisputed truths I've read of late.

8) “Writing is a little bit like prostitution. First you do it for love. Then you do it for a few friends. Then you do it for money.” 
― Molière

- cynical yet informative

9) “Of all the alchemies of human connection--sex and childbirth and marriage and friendship--the strangest is this: You can stand up and tell a story that is made entirely, embarrassingly, of "I's," and a listening audience somehow turns each "I" into a "me." This alchemy, of self-absorption into shared experience, is the alchemy of all literature.” 
― Adam Gopnik

-We all are the center of our own worlds, and anything that relates to us, relates specifically to us. 

10) Writing is its own reward.

- Henry Miller

-Fuck the haters.

The Business of Mad Men: Is the Final Season doomed?

-Ginsberg gets an unpleasant departure

Do not be alarmed. This season of Mad Men has been nearly as strong as all the others preceding it, quite the impressive feat when you consider the show is in its seventh season and, since the first, has been hailed as one of the best television shows of all time. Each episode has been denser than your average Mad Men episode while still retaining the slow-burn subtlety and soapy dramatics that initially pulled me - and many others - into it creative aura. Matt Weiner and his team have done the unthinkable - make a show under their terms, never seem to change their attitudes of what their show could - and should - be. Despite its success critically, it has never felt like a series that would cater to the audience's wants, instead delving into some storylines so baffling it might act to push people away - but alas, here it remains, and always will be - an important part of television history.

Why I fear for the show, however, has to do with AMC's transparently business-oriented strategy of splitting the final season into two half seasons, aired a year apart, in order to build up anticipation and also string fans along, knowing they will wait on pins and needles until their beloved Don Draper returns to them. This strategy worked well enough for Breaking Bad, whose final 8 episodes moved at such a brisk pace that to have it follow the first 8 would be too much adrenaline for the audience to handle. But Weiner's creation is drastically different from Gilligan's, most importantly in the way it takes its time in spooling out information, and builds its momentum season after season, finally giving the audience the little bit of catharsis they can expect from such a show in the final few episodes. Wheels turn and motors run, but nothing of great physical consequence ever happens until the penultimate few episodes - and most of the time, the payoff is worth it, due to the audience's patience and ability to have faith that everyone involved in the production knows what they are doing.

With two episodes to go before a year-long break, more has happened on this season of Mad Men than ever before - relationships have shifted dramatically over the course of a few minutes, characters seem lost in the late 60s-going into the 70s, as was clearly shown by Michael Ginsberg's hilarious than tragic downfall into full on paranoia about what computers - and thus the future - might bring. Don has re-established himself in the SC&P offices (or whatever they are called now), but in a way I'm sure few were expecting. And this week, he finally made the move in attempting to take back control, letting Cutler and his replacement, Lou Avery, know just how far he is willing to go to matter again (at least in the eyes of his co-workers and potential clients). As Don hailed a taxi and Waylon Jennings' "You Got the Only Daddy That'll Walk the Line," I excitedly began anticipating next week's entry, only to realize that after that, there is only one more, and then another year until I see how things play out. Not only was I disappointed, like Ginsberg, in the future, but felt like my energy was wasted in investing so much in the 5 episodes I have currently seen. If in a mere two weeks I will lose all connection to these characters in the middle of their journeys to the end, how satisfying can the final 7 episodes really be? Because I know there will be a huge lull after whatever major event happens in two weeks, how can I really care about anything that happens? The payoff is too distant to consider as something worth waiting for, and this cloud hangs over every episode I've seen thus far.

For Breaking Bad, while the show inherently worked regardless of the time in between half-seasons, many fans griped about how rushed they felt the ending was, as well as the second to last episode, Granite State, which fast forwarded several months, a jarring development considering the mere few days that the many episodes before encompassed. Would the show have benefited from two full 12 or 13 episode season instead of two halves cut off in the middle? The answer will never be known - but I do know that giving the viewer too much, rather than too little, especially looking back on a series after it is complete, is rarely a bad thing. Yes, some filler may have been necessary, but perhaps Walter's time in New Hampshire could have been covered better and over a longer period of time, rather the sudden snippet of information we were given. 

Mad Men is still a great show - it always will be, as long as Matt Weiner remains the micromanager he has been. But I cannot help but feel like AMC is doing them an extreme disservice by essentially teasing fans after a year break, only to have them wait yet ANOTHER year to see how everything pans out. Like the characters on the show, we will live despite these frustrations, but any emotional momentum the final few episodes might gain will be lost, and the first few episodes of the next season will surely be spent recapitulating to audiences where everyone is - something the first few episodes of previous seasons have done to a fault. For a network whose claim to fame is the very thing they are milking for as long as they can before realizing they have almost nothing else to keep the brand at the level of respect it is, it is almost offensive. There was Breaking Bad, there still is Walking Dead, and there is Mad Men - but viewers' relationship with it is drastically different than what it was before, and those are the only shows that really pull in any sort of consistent, intelligent viewers (and recently even Walking Dead has been in short supply of smart stories). Instead of being about the show itself, it is about the context the show finds itself, and unfortunately that context is one of making money and taking as little risk as possible. In doing so, I believe AMC has caused one of the biggest atrocities seen today in mainstream media: Prioritizing the network's relationship with the show over the viewer's relationship, which reveals just how out-of-touch they are with the current media-driven landscape, in which viewers bounce from one show to the other, with complete disregard for how it affects the people working on the show or how the viewers themselves interprets it - an even bigger mistake considering current viewer's attention spans cannot last much more than an hour long episode, let alone a year between subtle, methodical, character-driven episodes in one of the most serially developmental series of all time. 

Today's Movie Reviews

In the last few days, I have had the fortune to see 2 good, if not great films. Here are my thoughts.

1) Neighbors - Directed by Nicholas Stoller, Starring Seth Rogen, Rose Byrne, and Zac Efron

The latest film in the Apatow/Apatow-adjacent sect of Hollywood tells the simple, basic story of a couple of new parents who must deal with a fraternity house moving next door. They first make friends with the college-age goons, but then open up a pandora's box of pranks after calling the cops on the boys, led by Zac Efron and Dave Franco. I put this in the review simply because that is all there really is to the movie, and that is where almost all of the jokes derive from: The improvisation here is weaker, the plotting is not as clever, and ultimately, it seems this type of studio comedy, while still capable of raking in a lot of money, is growing a bit stale, running low on stoner-bro comedy ideas, attempting to throw in gross-out gag after gross out gag, and pop culture reference after reference to keep the audience from realizing just how unoriginal everything going on is. That being said, the movie's MVP, while publicly considered to be Rose Byrne (who admittedly does a completely satisfactory job as Rogen's wife, just as much part of the debaucher as her male counterparts are), is actually Stoller himself, who adds enough visual flair and creativity to make the dull moments go down relatively easy and the cliched, repetitive scenes seem fresh enough to distract me from just how little of the film actually made sense. More a series of vignettes, a few of which are particularly inspired for their sight gags, the story only really works due to the fact that the trailer gave enough away to make it obvious even to somehow who is hardly paying attention. As the frat boys, Christopher Mintz-Plasse is particularly disappointing, bringing nothing to a character that was already one-note. Also overhyped is Dave Franco, who doesn't act as much as constantly remind the audience he is a wanna-be version of his brother. So, an unoriginal plot, unrealistic/out of nowhere characterization, and a cast that has done better before must be not worth seeing, right? Wrong - especially when compared to most studio comedies these days (if Neighbors or Haunted House 2 or Ride Along is going to win the box office, I have absolutely no problem with it being Neighbors). Rogen is game and familiar enough that most of his aside jokes work fairly well, and the underwhelming cast is helped mightily by its supporting cast of adult comedians, including Hannibal Burress, Jason Montzoukas, and specifically Ike Barinholtz, who plays a role I have seen far too many times before but brings a specific energy to it that makes it stand out from the crowd. Throw in some inspired sight-gags (again, credit goes mostly to Stoller for this) and a short running time and what you get is a film that nobody should remember in 5 years from now (which means a lot, considering the impact the original Apatow Productions had on mainstream comedy) but also one that goes down easy, moving fast and furiously enough that none of the jokes stay in your mind for very long, whether they made you laugh or not. Oh yea, and there's an unbelievably cute baby, which begs the question (which I'm sure the studio execs releasing the film had on their mind): Who doesn't love a baby on a big screen? But this might be the main problem of the film, as well - it clearly considered its audience so much that any real personality the film may have had comes out instead in party montages, popular EDM music, and stereotypical frat-boy behavior that elevates just how rudimentary a lot of it is.

Final Grade: 6.5/10

2) The Orphanage - Directed by J.A. Bayona, Starring Belen Rueda

The highest grossing movie of 2007 in Spain, this Guillermo Del Toro produced film takes the concept of a horror film and manages to make a moving, tense, net never truly scary film about much more than imaginary children coming to life. Filled with moments of cinematic beauty, this film frankly surprised the hell out of me, reminding me of the power of cinema; that too many moments feel derivative and taken straight from other horror movies certainly detracts a bit, but the techincal prowess and commitment to subverting expectations shown by Bayona balances its flaws out, resulting in a highly satisfactory if not necessarily profound viewing experience. Growing up in an Orphanage, Rueda's Laura moves back in with her adopted child, Simon, and husband, Carlos. What happens from there is not worth spoiling, but it has a lot more to do with loss, the terror of the unknown, and overcoming these two terrible but inevitable facets of life than anything that creeps in the night, behind closed doors. The moments of such visual and emotional power in this film, a trademark of excellent Spanish filmmaking, render the rather standard plot moot, and the images conveyed stick in your mind well after the film is finished, most importantly the horrifying, curious visual of a small child with a particularly intimidating sack over his head. Also to be praised are the last thirty minutes, where Laura is alone, the lack of dialogue is nothing but refreshing, and the pieces of the admittedly not wholly clear puzzle come together in surprising yet even more satisfying ways. It is a shame, then, that Bayona could not help himself in some moments, amping up the genre-influenced intensity, occasionally taking me out of the story so that the rest does not remain as palatable. While this is no standard horror film, one still wants the tension to be constantly elevating, and a few scenes ripped out of your-everyday shock films work to stop that tension dead in its tracks. Also, due to the occasional insertions of such scenes, the story was not always clear, and the purpose of said scenes was not always properly discerned. Despite these flaws, The Orphanage stands out from the crowd of endless horror films released in theaters these days, mostly by focusing the story on human elements and how they are affected by the supernatural, rather than milking the audience's arbitrary awe with seeing things that could not and do not exist (as far as I am concerned). If Spanish directors and producers began controlling the horror studio scene, I certainly would not oppose, least of all if they could churn out more stuff like this and less like The Purge.

Final Grade: 8/10

Photos of the Day (Night)

Paris is beautiful: Full of history, culture (with just the right amount of pretension), and endless opportunities to marvel at just how great the human race can be. Here are some photos from a trip I took there: Some of them are simply stunning, particularly for an Iphone camera:

-Sacrebleu! It's Sacre Couer!

-Wes Anderson-esque symmetry around the Eiffel Tower

-This door is far too big...

-This one is far too small...

-Aye, aye, aye - it's Versailles!

-A bath for the ages

-And a student band reminds people why we're alive in the first place.

Viva La Revoluction! Viva La Resistance! Viva La France!

Music Review of the Day

Giorgio Moroder - From Here to Eternity (Casablanca Records)

On July 22nd, 1977, disco producer Girgio Moroder changed the music world. With his From Here to Eternity album, Moroder introduced the world to electronic disco, leading to the electronically-focused mainstream world we have today. 

Daft Punk lovers beware - nothing they do had not been done before, as is quite evident on this release, containing songs such as the title track/album opener, a song that reeks of perfect late 70's/early 80s cheese and informed the next generation of DJs on how to make dance music the right way.

Another notable track is "Utopia Me Giorgio", the most electric-focused song on the album, and a harbinger of all disco and house to come - similar to the rest of the album, but with its hear clearly concentrating on the future.



If that weren't enough, the album's final track, "Too Hot to Handle" is its most playful, keeping the same instrumentation but channeling a toddlers joy in listening to such a revolutionary album. Perhaps the clearest example of Daft Punk's playful influence on an album that plays out like a greatest hits of the mainstream electronic band's main influence/originator.



Do yourself a favor and buy the album of vinyl here

Today's Oldies but Goodies

Some more reminders that music was simply better back in the day: more full of life, more about the artistry, and far more stylish than whatever the hell is going on with famous musicians these days.

Short Story Samplings: #4

And the Crowd Goes Wild

It had been a full week since I had stood where I was, staring up at the rotund, faded blue building that read Helen Parkhurst High. The building seemed no different, but I found myself drawn to the hurricane shutters that lined the windows of every classroom. I could see the face of some pussy freshman peering through one of them, looking right at me, and then, knowing that I caught his gaze, jumping back down into his seat to tell the world of my return.

            The week before, I had gotten into a fight. Not a “give me your lunch money” fight, but a real, bare-knuckle brawl. My opponent was Steven Mehler, the kid whose dad suddenly signed up for the military to “finally do something with himself” and then just as suddenly came back in a body bag. Ever since then, he had a nasty streak of aggression. First it was drunkenly taking Rebecca Miller’s virginity in my parent’s bedroom, and then it was leading a school-wide vendetta against Ms. Richards, the English teacher who refused to let him sit in the back corner of the classroom. Recently, his frustration had been manifesting itself in the form of asking anyone, almost everyone, for a fight. When he came to me, I figured why not. If nothing else it would get him to shut up for a while.

            Although his bite certainly did not live up to his bark, he actually gave me a pretty good workout that day by the outdoor basketball courts. For what must have been about three minutes, he used up all his energy, flailing his arms around like someone who knew they couldn’t take a single punch.  He had me jumping around, far too worried about him possibly getting one good shot in to notice that he wasn’t protecting himself at all. When his battery ran out, he held his arms down by his sides and looked me in the eye. I could tell he knew his luck had run out, and he was asking me to show him kindness. I did not. I hit him once, directly in the nose, and he fell. The crowd, which had grown to perhaps even a hundred people, let out a roar and I suddenly missed my days of being a star. On the basketball court, tennis court, in the pool, you name it, I was a champ— until of course everyone went through a little thing called puberty and most of my physical advantages dwindled away. I felt that fan support that had been missing for a few years and went with it. Even though Steven was down, I took no chances that he would forget this moment. I favored the left side of his face, and let loose with a few clean punches to his eye. When I saw blood, I moved to his jaw, hitting him a few more times. I thought I heard him beg, “Please, stop” but by then I was getting pulled off of him by three members of the maintenance staff and dragged to Principal Shearer’s office. When questioned as to why I had fought the “poor boy,” I said all I could think of. “He asked me if I wanted to.”

It was that poor boy whose battered face was the first I saw upon re-entering my domain. Even though he was merely standing at his locker organizing things it seemed as if he was waiting for me. As I heroically flung the double doors of the school open, he looked up, took a deep breath, and slammed the locker shut. I stepped over the threshold and as the doors closed behind me I could feel the breeze from it just barely avoiding knocking me down. I approached Steven with a smile, looking for a truce. “That’s quite the shiner you’ve got there, Steven, but it’s looking better than last time I saw it.” The area under his eye was a dark shade of blue, and under that were undertones of yellow and a lighter blue. His chin just had one bandage across the middle of it.

“Fuck you.”

“Whoa there, no need for that.” I cordially took my hand out of my pocket and offered it to him.

“I apologize.” He quickly slapped my hand away and directed a venomous stare my way. It was difficult to stare back, as his eye was too much for me to handle.

“Fuck. You.” He made sure to hold the pause in between the words in order to properly express his anger.

“Listen, Steve. What happened between us, it was not good. I might even go so far as to say that it was bad. And I’m sorry. But I got my punishment, and clearly you learned your lesson, and we should leave it at that. No?”

Steve did not say word, choosing instead to shake his head as if deciding to not pursue a potentially rewarding business opportunity, and eventually repeated coldly, “No.”

“What do you want, then?” This type of talk was more to his liking.

“A rematch.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Wait, you want to fight me? Again? And you really thought about this?”

“I don’t have to think about it, I just have to want it.”

“Listen, Steve—”

“I wasn’t asking. 3:30— today.”

“Don’t you want to at least give yourself time to heal?”

“I have.” I could tell he wanted this line in particular to resonate with me because after delivering it, he seemed to want to say no more, and a smirk came across his face. He continued staring, thinking he had the upper hand, and frankly, he may have been right. At that moment, I was speechless. Fortunately, the morning bell signaled the conclusion of our mano y mano and Steven quickly turned around and scampered to class. His stare lingered.

“What a Mo-Ron, trying to have at you again. He can’t be serious.”

“He seemed serious.”

“Well I guess you gotta teach him another lesson, huh?” My friend Doug was always there to encourage me, to convince me that I couldn’t take shit from anyone, that I shouldn’t take shit from anyone. Yet not once did he apply that to himself. I did all the intimidating for him, and he got to coast through life like he was entitled to the protection. Including from our chemistry teacher, Mr. Taylor, who was typically late to class.

“I don’t know… it’s a bit too soon, you know?” Like he always did when something rubbed him the wrong way, Doug made a grand gesture, throwing his arms up in the air and rolling his eyes. He took the tone of a trainer pumping up his boxer before a prizefight.

“Fuck that noise! He wants another go at you, show him what you’re made of. What are you gonna do, not show? Then everyone will think you’re some bitch.”

“Hey. I’m not a bitch.”

“Exactly. Thus, you fight.” His business-like hand gestures and adamant fist pounding on the table really stuck the point.

“It’s not that easy, though.”

“Oh but it is, mon frère. You kicked his ass last time, just go do it again! No harm done.”

“But the harm’s already been done. Shearer’s got me on his radar.”

“That old guy? What’s he gonna do, suspend you again? Then you get to miss more school; even better.” I looked up at the clock. It had only been five minutes, which meant I had to endure this conversation for ten more unless Mr. Taylor would come in and just save me.

“I don’t know, he told me if I did it again, it’d be pretty serious.”

“What’d he say?” At this point I would have done anything for Mr. Taylor to come in and start his titration lecture. The attention I always got from Doug suddenly seemed to all be a hoax, a ruse in order for him to project himself onto a part of me. I didn’t want anything to do with him anymore.

“He said he’d probably have to suspend me— at least that’s what I think he said. I wasn’t paying full attention to be honest.”

Doug could only muster up a nod to my half-hearted response and the conversation abruptly ended. Just to make sure I got his point, after a few moments of awkward silence, he turned to me and said, “I still think you should do it. Can’t have people thinking you can be controlled.”

“Thank you for sharing your opinion now shut the fuck about it please.” Then, to myself, “Where the hell is Mr. Taylor anyway?”

Almost on cue, the door swung open and in he walked, wearing his typical business suit, something that made him stand out amongst the other Parkhurst High employees. Or maybe it was the impeccable comb over, or the precision with which he put his Samsonite briefcase down every day, sliding it into the same exact spot under the corner of his desk. He stood at the front of the class and breathed deeply, making sure to hold up his chest and broad shoulders as he did so. Even after he exhaled his upper body seemed a little bigger than it should have been. He looked around the room to scope out the mood of the day when I must have caught his eye because his shoulders slunk a bit and he let out a remorseful, “Good to see you again.”

“Why thank you, sir! It’s good to be back!” I made sure he could see my teeth and catch my subtle head tilt as he took in my response. He shook his head, looked to the ground for a moment, and came back up smiling as if our quick encounter had never happened.

“Shall we begin?”

Just before lunch, I was called to Principal Shearer’s office. When I walked in I realized it always seemed dead and lonely, not just when Shearer was in a bad mood. The faded blue walls clearly had not been changed since the building was built, and the aged wood that made up Shearer’s desk and drawers made me realize why our entire school seemed to have a musty smell to it, almost like body odor combined with old age. He sat behind his desk in a chair whose width would barely hold someone of my size yet whose highest point nearly touched the ceiling; I had never seen anything quite so geometrically abstract, except of course, for the last time I was sitting across from it.  I didn’t know why I was there but it quickly became apparent that Shearer’s motives were transparent at best.

“So how was your week off? Did you learn anything about yourself?”

“That I suck at Jeopardy.”

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t really have anything to do all week, you know, seeing how I couldn’t get my work or be with my friends because, well, they were here, but I did get to watch a lot of episodes of Jeopardy that my parents recorded. I didn’t fare so well.”

“That’s… not quite what I was getting at.”

“Then what were you getting at, Principal Shearer?” He readjusted in his seat as much as he could.

“Do not patronize me, young man.”

“Oh, I’m not. I just don’t know why I’m here exactly, and I’m trying to be as honest as I can.”

“You know why you’re here.”

“Sir, I honestly don’t.”

“Because you beat up Steven Mehler.”

“Beat up? Please, it was a fight— and I was here for that last week. I have no idea why I’m here now.”

“I wanted to check up on you.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I don’t know, is it?” With that, he took off his glasses like he was trying to be my psychiatrist or something. I already had one of those so I sat in silence, waiting for him to make the next move. If I played my cards right I’d be out of there in no more than five minutes; with a little bit of luck, maybe two. Principal Shearer suddenly stood up. I had never noticed how short he was, and his attempt to loom over me actually made me feel bad for the guy. Here he was trying to intimidate a student, me of all students, and standing over me, he barely had to look down for us to lock eyes! All of his power was lost before it had even been established.

“I’m worried about you— and let me finish before you interject. You have a lot of potential. I can see it, your teachers can see it, and I think you can see it. But for some reason, for some reason, you think you’re better off being the way you are now.”

“The way that I am now? That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been.”

“And that’s the way it’ll always be, right?” Damn right that’s the way it’ll always be. Nobody’s going to make me who they want me to be, some idealized image of the things they didn’t achieve for themselves. This guy clearly did not know who he was talking to. I wasn’t some weakling who was going to let things fall into place after following the rules for x amount of years; I wasn’t going to lead a cookie-cutter life full of the typical family photos and reunions and all that bullshit. I was going to be who I wanted to be, and I was going to do what I wanted to do. If only I could have gotten any of this out before Shearer continued. “Wrong. Because you can change. Not whenever you want, but when you are ready. You need to realize that some people are ready before others, and it is their duty to pursue the call at the moment it reaches out to them. ” He stood there for a few moments, as if waiting for a response from me, but I was not going to give him anything. There he was, trying to frighten me into following his rules and becoming the student he wanted me to be, as if the principal of a public high school has any right to tell people what they should and should not be doing.

“Are we done?”

It was two minutes before my poetry class started when Ms. Richards told me that we had an exam that day. I had missed the classes discussing the material we were to be tested on, but I was still responsible for the material nonetheless. I was a victim of circumstance.

            “Whoa there, you’re telling me that I have to recall facts and information that I don’t have and didn’t even know I had to know for today?”

            “Despite your poorly-phrased summing up of the situation, yes, you are correct.”

            “That doesn’t seem very logical. Am I wrong?”

            “You are not wrong. However, the rules are the rules. You weren’t sick, you were merely absent.”

            “A forced absence! I was suspended.”

            “For something that you yourself did. Which would mean ultimately it is your fault that you are in this situation, and nobody else’s.”

            “Give me a break, here.”

            “I’m sorry, I cannot. I didn’t come over here to discuss, but merely to inform.”

I thought about grabbing my balls and telling her to inform those, but using my better judgment I merely kicked the leg of my desk and paid her no more attention. She stood looking over me for a few moments before mustering up a “if you have a problem, take it up with Principal Shearer” and heading back to the front of the room to begin distributing tests.

The sun fell behind the clouds and the clock struck 3:30. Thinking I could get out of a lose-lose situation, I found myself walking briskly towards the school exit. The eyes of students at their lockers seemed to be focused on me, and as I got closer and closer to the light at the end of the tunnel I had a feeling that I was being led to something. My suspicions were confirmed when I finally felt fresh air once again, only to see a circle of kids, tens, maybe even a hundred, surrounding the area around my parked car. Steven placed himself in the middle of the circle and paced around, doing his best impression of a hype man trying to pump the crowd up. All the students gave in and a slow clap ensued. After the spectacle was complete, I made my presence known. The crowd opened up for me and I entered the arena. Steven would not even give me the benefit of acknowledging my presence; he was now merely squatting, slapping the pavement in order to convey his supposed dominance over it. The bruises on his face made it hard for me to picture him as anything other than my punching bag. I still could not believe he had the gall to think this was an appropriate course of action. I had won fair and square, but humiliating himself as much as possible seemed to be part of Steven’s MO.

Steven stood up, cracked his neck and his knuckles, brought that deviant stare back into my gaze, and bluntly said, “let’s do this,” as if our lives depended on it. His might have. He got into a sparring pose and seemed as if he were going to approach this a bit more strategically than last time. He circled me, and I rotated my body to make sure he was constantly in sight. As I did, I found my eyes wandering towards members of the crowd. There was Rebecca, who seemed to want nothing more than to see me get what I deserved. How she could still like Steven was beyond me, particularly after he had taken advantage of her like that. I saw Doug hitting his fist against his palm, seemingly full of more rage and will to fight than even I was at the moment. Suddenly, Steven reminded me I had business I was supposed to be attending to and cheap-shotted me in the stomach. I keeled over, more from the surprise than actual pain, and almost instinctively raised my left leg to his chest. The weak, wounded boy fell over almost immediately.

This was pathetic. One punch last time, one kick now? Who was this kid pretending to be? He lay on the floor for a moment, stunned at his own weakness. I imagined his other eye just as black, and he now looked like a raccoon, at a loss for how to possibly defend himself against this bear of a man. He tried to stand up but could not by himself. Doug took a step forward, raised his hands in the air, and yelled “That’s it!” The crowd moaned and Steven tried to stand up again.

“Bullshit! This is not fair!”

“The rules are the rules my friend.” But Doug was not in charge, and there were no rules laid out. There didn’t need to be. This was my problem and Steven’s problem, and all the fanfare played no part into how we were going to settle this. Without saying a word, I walked over to Steven and helped him up. The few students who had taken Doug’s word suddenly came back and the circle was full once again. Steven winced a little as I got him to his feet, and I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Quit being such a pussy.” I let go, turned around, and took a few steps away. I stayed turned toward the crowd but I could feel Steven’s rage building towards me. He was all-but motionless, but his breaths became deeper and longer, and his pain had clearly subsided to the point that he felt physically capable again. I stood for god knows how long, waiting for him to do what I could not believe he had not done yet. I finally could feel him approaching and turned around. I clenched my hand into a fist and closed my eyes. He grabbed my shoulder, turned me, and I relaxed my fist. I brought my arm up slowly toward him, but he hit me square in the cheek with a fist of his own. It did not hurt as much as it stung, almost like a shot at the doctor’s office. The cool air made the sting last, and Steven quickly hit me on my other cheek. The crowd let out a loud roar and it was clear what they had wanted to see all along, since over a week ago. I gave it to them.

I half-heartedly threw another punch, which Steven easily avoided. He jumped behind me and put me in a headlock. This was almost crossing the line, but just as soon as he got me in it he was throwing me to the ground. He jumped on top of me and began pummeling my face, clearly at odds with his feelings of vengeance. I heard only claps, and nobody seemed to be doing anything else. Even Doug was getting off on Steven’s rage. After what could have been ten solid strikes to the face, I decided I’d play dead. I turned my face to the pavement and closed my eyes. I could feel Steven wanting to hit me one more time, but he did not. I continued to lie down on the hard pavement with my eyes closed for what must have been like a long time. There were no more footsteps of students walking away, no more engines revving. I did not open my eyes but figured I was lying there all alone. Everyone else was at home, with their families, or hanging out with their friends, or on the phone discussing what they had just witnessed. Whether they felt bad, or proud of Steven, or disappointed that I did not put up a better fight I did not know. I figured I’d lie there for a while.

To Be Young

Youth is wasted on the young, many say. But how true is it? From my experiences in the year since graduating college, unfortunately it seems to be very true, particularly if 30 years old and under still constitutes as young. So why is it that most people seem to be so myopic that they waste their early days enjoying themselves, and the next 40-50 years suffering through work life, family life, and everything in between? I don't have an answer, but I have some thoughts on the subject:

College was and is the strangest experience of most people's lives. In no other time are you surrounded solely by people your age, with no proper barometer how to behave aside from your own voice of reason and perhaps the behavior and opinions of a few close, trusted friends. Only in college does being ambitious, driven, and thinking outside the box tend to lead to immediate disappointment. You begin to learn too soon that the world moves in crowds, and trying to stray away from it will lead to frustration, adaptation, and serious philosophical consideration of your place in the world and the value you can bring - and take - to and from it. For many, I believe, this attitude arises in our 18-22 years and implants itself firmly in the mind, so that every decision thereafter has some sort of consideration of how it might come across or whose attitudes it might not be in line with. I find this to be especially true today, where so many young people seek instant gratification, and FOMO is a part of a culture that - whether you choose to pay attention to it or not - affects many decisions that people make, from their social life to professional life and beyond. This may seem like a petty observation, but I believe it is far from it.

In our media-driven world, we see young people get famous all the time, mostly for all the wrong reasons. However, because we are inundated with information about those more fortunate than us, we simply cannot realize how much hard work (and on a smaller scale luck) it takes to get in the spotlight, to a place where people know your name, know what you represent, and buy into it - something I see more and more people aiming for in life. Rather than choosing to live a life that deserves praise, they choose to lead a life that brings praise, two mindsets that could not be more different in 2014. Or, there is the other side of the spectrum, where those less fortunate (and certainly not as hard working) believe that those lucky few are inherently special, due to some sort of character trait, fate, or simply because the people who believe this are not considering what the person might have been doing before everyone knew who they were. We put people up on a pedestal, and thus they remain on the pedestal, simply because much of the world chooses to let them stay there. Again, in a world where advertising rules, this is egregious, and the separation between successful and failing are world's apart, like two sides of a coin that can never overlap.

As a child lucky enough to be born and grow up within New York City, specifically Manhattan, I was exposed to some of the greatest successes in the world, and had the fortune of being around some of the hardest working, most intelligent, and yes, lucky people on the planet - people many believe would give them the opportunity to make something of themselves, if only they could somehow swing a face-to-face with the person. Perhaps this is why I see so much wrong with our society, where people let others, and even worse the past, dictate their current behavior. Thinking we don't have agency and saying so does nobody any good, least of all the person claiming it. In a nation acting as the home of the brave and the land of the free, people are awfully stubborn about following rules, whether it benefits them or not. I believe this is the root of the issue in terms of the lack of hard work I see from day to day, and the lack of interest most people have in actually changing their lives, despite their constant pleas for something more. We may want to leave the rabbit hole, but almost all of the time, staying inside feels safer, more truthful, and simply easier - rather than taking a risk, many of us settle, and adapt an attitude of "this is the way it is" when that statement in and of itself is invalid, specifically because "the way it is" is drastically different to the various people who are perceiving it.

The defense mechanism of "that's the way it is" has and will never lead to innovation, success, and progress, and while this attitude is obviously fading away, we are far from a point where everybody can see their own agency, and their own path towards impacting the world, rather than merely filling the roles and repeating the mistakes that people who lived and died before them. Having your own unique point of view, living life your way, while of course adapting to the world in other people's minds, is not something I see enough of. People may argue against me, and claim that with the rise in digital media, and the emergence of the "Information Age," people can and do communicate themselves to the world however they want. If this is what most people truly believe, I have to rudely say I feel sorry for them, because everybody using the same social media platform and liking the same things as other people is NOT a form of being independent: it is instead a way to value yourself by something physical, that which you absorb, consume, and then share said consumption of with others. And if there is a sadder way to find your place in the world, I don't know what it is. Instead of valuing thought and morals, we value action and results - this makes sense, it "keeps the world turning" if you will, but when does innovation stop meaning progress? When does being able to communicate with someone across the world, face to face, live and in real time, lead to us sitting in front of screens, never seeing other human beings in the flesh? I don't know about you, but I still value a good old-fashioned handshake very highly.

I might seem awfully hypocritical, spilling my thoughts on out a blog, but it is better than what I see many others do. I carry no second agenda with this, no ulterior motive, other than to stake my claim in the world a little bit more. I wish I could say this out loud to someone, but I have not found anyone yet who would give me the time to use this many words - they would lose interest too fast, what with their ability to constantly be distracted, to constantly be doing something, anything, except ruminating in their own mind and really thinking about their place in a world that they are by nature the center of. Rumination is sometimes said to be devil's work, a useless time-waster when more productive things could be happening. But is it not of the utmost importance for true personal growth? If we went from moment to moment without considering our actions, how they made us feel, and how they might make others feel, we risk losing connection with the very thing that connects us - a collective unconscious, emphasis on the "UN." We live in a physical world, but we are not connected physically - how else could you explain the feeling one feels at a live concert, when they could swear everyone around them was feeling the very thing they were? If we do not work when we are young, we risk losing sense of ourselves, and our potential importance in this world, no matter how mundane. Instead of sharing what we do, why not share who we really are? Not the guy or girl who makes funny faces, or who likes The Sopranos but cannot bring himself to love Boardwalk Empire, but the person whose heart melts every time they hear a saxophone, or cries when they are driving down the highway, alone, with nothing but the wind and the open road to focus on? Perhaps by becoming blank slates, and letting the world and our work bounce off of us from the time we graduate college (or for some, high school) we may surprise ourselves, discover just how powerful having our own agency can be, forget about all the petty things we use describe ourselves, and realize that we are all worth something much greater together than apart. Perhaps we can come to understand each other not for our likes or dislikes, but for our very beings, that which cannot be put into words, thoughts, actions or anything. Enjoy the moment for the moment's sake, not because of what came before or after; take company for company's sake, and appreciate the fact that with collaboration and acceptance, anyone can do anything they desire, particularly if the desire is more spiritual and emotional than anything else.


FIN