Graffiti 108

Happiness is not a constant. It's a process. A system of ups and downs, of balance. There is no light without dark. No happiness without sadness. No joy without regret.

"Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better take things as they come along with patience and equanimity." -Carl Jung

"We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person." -W. Somerset Maugham

"Very little is needed to make a happy life; it is all within yourself, in your way of thinking." -Marcus Aurelius

'The World's End' & 'The Act Of Killing' Reviews

The World's End is third installment from Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright, a sci-fi buddy comedy. The film opens on Gary, Simon Pegg, at an AA meeting recount the best night of his life a 12 bar bar-crawl he did when he was 18 which ended at the tenth bar. He decides to get his childhood friends back together to go back to their hometown and do it again this time to completion.

The first half of the film focus on the five one-time friends, who they were and who they are now as adults. Gary is the only one who hasn't changed and the comedy comes from a real place of maturity and honesty showing what becoming an adult is like. We get a sense of the group of friends, their past personalities and present, and what Gary did to alienated all of them slowly. It becomes more and more clear as time passes Gary's alcoholism is the motivating factor behind their reunion. The film still has the characteristic Pegg-Wright style, quick cuts, quicker dialogue, and piercing whit but The World's End unlike Hot Fuzz and Shaun of the Dead feels more grown up.

At the half way point the friends discover their hometown has been taken over by robots and the film delves into action and chase but never loses the characters and relationships it has taken time to set up. The portrayal from all the friends are exceptional balancing comedy, realism, and truth about getting older. Nick Frost especially puts in an amazing nuanced performance strikingly different from anything he's done before.

The films in the Cornetto Trilogy are all entertaining and hilarious. The World's End finishes it off with just as many laughs with a surprising amount of depth.

See It.

The Act Of Killing is a documentary that follows former death squad leader Anwar Congo and some of his friends as they write, stage, and film reenactments that describe and convey their most horrific deeds and their feelings about them.

It is easy to diagnose the flaws of the film and there are only three. 1. The director Joshua Oppenheimer opens with an introduction from himself in the studio urging people to stay for the who film, it undercuts and slows down the incredibly complex, disturbing, and evocative film that follows. 2. Much of the film is shot with iPhone quality cameras, at points the poor film resolution takes away from whats being filmed. 3. A lot of time is spent on Anwar and his friends creating and filming these scenes that they've come up with but we only see parts of the what may be the intended finished product.

What makes the film so compelling is much more difficult to describe. The film goes after a broader more global truth about humanity. These men we see aren't monsters, its too easy and not accurate to view them or categorize them as such. We see, we discover that they are people, that although not likable, some despicable, they are human beings. The focus is on Anwar and as the film progresses we see his charm. We see the struggle he has with his past. We see his contradictory nature regarding the things he's done and the status he has. As much as Oppenheimer uses Anwar to discover something about killing and murder Anwar uses the camera to discover these same things about himself.

There is no judgement in the film. No excuses or explanations are made but neither are these deaths avoided. We get a direct and unflinching portrait of the act of killing.

Don't Miss It.

Pooka

On the way to The Night Shift tonight I realized I needed gas. At the same moment I saw a young woman driving a late 90's Honda Civic. She was slightly hunched over the steering wheel and her long light brown hair was almost brushing it, her face hidden. The image of the woman and the thought of gas brought something up from the past and I momentarily lost the present.

Before I had my licence my high school girlfriend would always drive us around. She had a white two door SUV with the licence plate "Pooka". Whenever we would stop for gas she would religiously, almost ritualistically, open her glove compartment and turn off her phone. If I had my phone on me she would not get out of the car until I had turned mine off as well. After a while it started to irritate and eventually enrage me. I'd sit in the car fuming because of the minute or two she would take to turn off her phone.

She did it because her mom told her to. Her mom had read some article about a cell phone exploding at a gas station or maybe even an article about that being something that could happen. At 16 she didn't rock the boat, never rebelled, got along great with her parents. Me at 15 could not understand her attitude and was constantly exasperated when she refused to stay out past curfew or lie about where she was going. Her obeying her mother in the minutiae of turning off her phone while at the gas station became an emblem for me of her obedience. I frequently instigated arguments about it, needling her until she would engage.

I came back to the present gradually. Stunned by the vividness of the memory. Part of me wishes I could go back and do it all over again. Not to relive my youth or the glories of my past.

To put things right.

Trapped

This morning
I found myself trapped.
In my own apartment.
Inadvertent house arrest.
Thumb lock broken.
An unturnable knob.
The only exit
out a window
through the air
to the packed
earth
below.

Or
the systematic
dismantling
of a door with
unskilled hands,
stripped screws,
and the sweat of consternation.

Graffiti 107

A coaxing message from Death.

"Too weird to live, too rare to die!" -Hunter S. Thompson

"It's a strange thing to discover and to believe that you are loved when you know that there is nothing in you for anybody but a parent or a God to love." -Graham Greene

My Oldest Friend

Adam and I met when we were 15 in Mrs. Hoover's geometry class. We became fast friends and spent hours together driving around in my mother's Oldsmobile Achieva. He'd always egg me on and a game developed where whenever Sabotage by the Beastie Boys came on we had to get to wherever we were going before the song was over. We TP'd together, road scooters through piles of flaming leaves, shot each other with paint ball guns, played tackle football and soccer together, and learned to dance from our substantially more graceful dates at school dances together.

When I went to college Adam would come visit every month or so to hang out, party, and go to the movies. When I moved back to Rockford in 2008 we'd play ping-pong and go to the movies almost every weekend. We've been on four road trips together to the east and to the west. He's been a constant, warm, comforting, stalwart presence in my life for fourteen years. I was there shortly after his wonderful son Eli was born who is now approaching his third birthday.

Last summer when I was in rough shape Adam sat me down and gave me a talking to I very much needed. He told me he and Beanpole were worried about me, they felt bad they couldn't be there for me more, they loved me. He advised me to give anti-depressants a try, an avenue of assistance I had previously rejected, and I did. He reached out and it set me on the road to getting help and getting better.

I try to go back to Rockford once a month. To see Adam and his burgeoning family, to be a part of it's growth and to stick in his children's memories. Today Adam made breakfast and we watched Free Willy.

Little Eli loved it. At one point he said softly "I love Willy."

The Gorge

The first year of college before my group of high school friends fragmented and shattered completely we discovered the Kishwaukee Gorge forest preserve in my hometown of Rockford. At the time it was a stunning 19-year-old-stoner's playground. A real treasure. I went back for a long hike and a bit of nostalgia today.

On our first trip we discovered a small cave at the top of a steep hill. We would sit in the cave jaw and then run pell-mell down to the river- dirt surfing and swinging from sapling to sapling.

The gorge is relatively unchanged but very overgrown. I didn't see a single person in the two hours I was there which I thought odd for a Saturday afternoon.

On our repeated visits we discovered this tree which grew out over the river. We'd walk out on it testing our precarious balance and then recline in the branches soaking up the sun. Either because of storm, rot, or park maintience our tree bridge was chopped almost down to nothing. I sat on it for a while but it lacked the lazy daring it once held.

It's a beautiful place, one of my favorite places in the world. It holds some of my happiest memories.

The gorge is a lonely place now. Solitary and quiet. But lush. Being slowly taken back.

Motorcycle #2

My first motorcycle was a 1982 550cc Suzuki which I loved very much. It was a nice little bike that was perfect for cruising around Chicago but wasn't much for going farther than that. It topped out around 50mph but could struggle to maintain 65mph the few times I braved the highway. After a couple ill conceived rides and a couple mindless dumps the Suzuki gave up the ghost last summer.

I recently got my second motorcycle: a 2004 Honda VTX 1300cc. It's a lot bigger of a bike, slightly more cumbersome, with a substantial amount of get up and go. This past year without a motorcycle I felt like a piece was missing. There is nothing like riding motorcycles. There's a connection you get with the machine, it's responsiveness to slight movements, your ability to ask it for things and it instantly responding. I imagine it's a lot like the connection people had with their horses a hundred years ago. More so then a car a motorcycle develops a personality, you learn it's ticks, it's sounds, it's capabilities. On the road there is no excess information, no static, just you and the bike.

Riding a motorcycle is exhilarating. There's a sense of danger and risk and speed and pure joy. You feel alive. Smells are stronger, colors are more vibrant. It's like flying, like magic.

I feel at home on a bike, it feels natural, right. It's good to be home.

'The Conjuring' And Thoughts On Horror

The Conjuring is the latest in a long line of haunted-house-horror films that seem to be cut from the exact same mold, contain the same characters, the same ghouls. and the same scares. This type of movie isn't really something I'd normally be interested in or drawn to but a number of my friends suggested it and said they enjoyed it. It was fine for what it was but it was exactly like every other ghost/haunted house/exorcism movie made over the past ten years.

There seems to be two kinds of horror movies made in the current cinematic climate: haunted house movies or torture porn horror. Although those aren't movies I like I understand their appeal. What I don't understand is why these same movies keep getting remade. Keep getting an ever extending parade of sequels.

Horror is a multi-faceted complex genre with countless possibilities, frameworks, and set ups. I've always been a fan of Stephen King and recently read the books of his son Joe Hill. They write interesting horror stories attacking the genre from different angles. There's more to a story than guy-locks-people-in-house-and-makes-them-hurt-each-other or family-moves-into-house-and-kids-get-hurt-by-old-evil-spirit-while-one-parent-gets-possessed.

These scary movies are no longer scary because we can see everything coming. We know the frame work, we know the set up, there's no sense of the other world, no sense of the unknown. Ghost don't need to hurt people to be scary. They don't need to whisper or reside in cobweb filled basements or have gangley hair or emanate cold. The reason ghost stories are told is because ultimately we don't know whats beyond. We want to hear that story, get taken along that journey, but it defeats the purpose to make a formula out of it.

I want to see a movie that doesn't involve a group of people, just one person. I want to see ghosts that never manifest themselves or always have an observable presence. I want to see people interact or converse with ghosts with no direct physical or emotional threat, the threat of being in the presence of the dead is threat enough. I want to see a movie in a city where there are ghosts. Or a theater or a subway. Not a house in the country.

Horror has rich potential, there's no reason we should be telling the same story over and over again.

Allure

soft eyes
in a dark room
tension
on damp skin

shadows
and hungry grins
crawl over
foregone fusion

giddiness
and gnashing teeth
and dancing glances
tantalize

Graffiti 106

"It is poor civic hygiene to install technologies that could someday facilitate a police state." -Bruce Scheier

"To insure the adoration of a theorem for any length of time, faith is not enough, a police force is needed as well." -Albert Camus

 "I believe that the human race has developed a form of collective schizophrenia in which we are not only the slaves to this imposed thought behavior, but we are also the police force of it." -David Icke

The Right Time

"This is how we go on: One day at a time, one meal at a time, one pain at a time, one breath at a time... We say yes, I agree that the clouds often look like other things--fish and unicorns and men on horseback-- but they are really only clouds. Even when lightning flashes inside them we say they are only clouds and turn our attention to the next meal, the next pain, the next breath, the next page. This is how we go on."
-Stephen King

'In A World...' & 'Kick-Ass 2' Reviews

In A World... is a light, slightly confused, comedy about the voice over industry. Writer, director, and star Lake Bell plays Carol, our hero, on a journey to create and provide the female sound voice over has long missed and actively repressed.

The plot centers mostly on the resurrection of the "In a world..." trailer gimmick and the competition for that coveted job. There are some great cameos by voice over actors, fun recording sessions, and voice over centric humor. The film however doesn't spend a whole lot of time in this peculiar voice over world it has created. It gently meanders around Carol, her sister and brother-in-laws struggling marriage, and the strained relationship both women have with their father.

In a fitting twist the movie doesn't pack as many laughs as the trailer implies, it does however deliver in heart and message with a good amount of jokes, gags, and comedian cameos in between. Heartwarming first, funny a distant second, not exactly what was expected.

See It.

Kick-Ass 2 is the sequel to the 2010 real-kids-become-superheros action gross-out adventure. The sequel recycles the same characters for another round of the same but this time lacking in action, gore, and filthy language that made the first Kick-Ass enjoyable and different.

Aaron Tyler-Johnson reprises his role as Kick-Ass and is more boring than in the original. Jim Carrey fills the enormous shoes of Nicholas Cage and does a passable job but is barely in the movie with only one quick fight sequence. Chloe Grace Mortez is again the bright spot of the movie but her divergence into high school and the popular-girl click feels forced and an almost verbatim 10 minute rendition of Mean Girls.

The movie ends with a gang fight which is too little too late to save the struggling sequel. The edginess, the fast paced pointed action, and the vulgarity were all left behind in the original.

Don't See It.

Ferris Wheel

Nicole and I rode the ferris wheel at Navy Pier. It was a first for both of us. It was always something I wanted to do but seemed too touristy for an actual Chicago resident.

(in line)
Nicole: I'm nervous.
Me: What? Why?
Nicole: I'm afraid of heights.
Me: (laughs) Well why are we going on this? We could go wander around the build-a-bear...
Nicole: No! (smiles) I'm over coming something!

You only get one spin around the thing but it goes incredibly slow so you can savour it. It was a warm, bright, sunny afternoon. No complaints in the world.

Count The Dead

I talk to my dad once or twice a week. I noticed today that during every conversation I've had with him for months now he mentions a friend or acquaintance of his that has died. These are people I do not know, people I may have met once as a child, or heard the names of over dinner. I thought of asking him not to mention these peoples deaths when we talk. It's mildly depressing every conversation detouring inevitably to someones death. But then I reconsidered.

Death is nature taking it's course. Everybody dies. We should not forget that fact or the people that have gone before. We should not forget the contributions big and small, the struggles big and small, the joys big and small- of those that have died. My dad telling me about his friends and acquaintances that have passed is a way of keeping them alive. Of cultivating their memory. Of giving credence and value to their life.

We cannot forget the dead. They lived. They paved the way to the present with lives both simple and complex. Every life has meaning. Some tragic, some prosperous, some inconsequential. They all deserve to be remembered. To have names that are still uttered.

I realized I was looking at it wrong. I'm not bogged down by this list of deaths, I'm strengthened by it. By listening to my dad recount funerals and names and hearing about their lives, I'm participating in them. I'm contributing in a small way to their legacy, their scope. I'm here to take note. To remember. To live on.

Respect the past, live in the present.

The Day Magic Died

I first read the Chronicles of Narnia when I was 7. They were the first books I read and enjoyed. They inspired in me a voracious desire to read. They magic and beauty of the books spoke to me in a way I didn't really understand. I wanted to find Narnia, I wanted to go there. I had a vivid imagination as a child and part of me, at 7, believed if I looked long enough, if I looked in the right places, I could find a way to get there. Every closet, every crawl space, every attic, every hidden nook and cranny I looked in for a doorway, a path. I was obsessive about it for years.

When I was 13 my family took a trip to visit my mother's high school friend Laurie. There was an honest-to-goodness wardrobe in the front hall of the house. At that point I had almost given up my search, realized the gap that separated fiction and the real world was impassable, realized I was too old to believe in Narnia anymore. But part of me still had hope, I had to check.

I waited for the adults to be occupied in the kitchen, snuck into the front hall, and opened the wardrobe. I reached my hand passed the coats and quickly hit the wooden back. At the same moment my mom and Laurie walked into the front hall.

Laurie: What's he doing?
Mom: He's looking for Narnia.
Laurie+Mom: (laugh)

I was crushed. Overwhelmed with anger, shame, and grief I sprinted up the stairs, slammed myself into a closet and cried.

After a time my mom followed me up stairs and told me she was sorry, they weren't laughing at me, they thought it was cute. I told her to leave me alone. To please leave me alone. And eventually she did.

I was embarrassed, felt stupid and childish. But sitting in that dark closet crying I realize now I wasn't so much up set with my mother or her friend. I was in mourning. I was grieving. A dream I cultivated so long was dead. There was no way to get to Narnia.

There never had been.

Ridicule

Easy Target

I was listening to Radiolab on the train ride into work today. It was an episode which tangentially mentioned bullying, during a segment a middle aged woman broke down describing being made fun of by her sister years before in high school. Memories from far away came trickling unavoidably back to me.

I was a chubby weird kid. I got made fun of for being chubby and weird. Kids poking my little belly or pinching my junior love handles. I liked books and had a vivid imagination. Boys called me girly, sissy, gay, would push me down or slap books out of my hands. I was sensitive and so when I was bullied I would cry and be made fun of even more for crying. I didn't, and to this day don't, brush my hair. "You stick your fingers in a light socket?" "You forget your bath?" "Dirty dumby doesn't know what a comb is!" I have a black birthmark on the side of my head. "You rub poop on your head?" "You stick your head in an oven and get burned?" as I got older stuff like "You toast shit and use it as mousse?" back when mousse was a common hair product.

I vaguely remember being chased to the bus. Pinned down. Not attacked necessarily but made immobile while things were yelled in my face. I remember being pushed, thrown, and checked into lockers. I was once chased with dog shit, another time with a squirrel corpse.

These weren't every day occurrences but happened often enough to have a significant impact.

I got older, grew, and these incidents stopped completely. I don't imagine my experiences are singular or terribly extreme but it does breed a certain amount of resentment, anger, and at times strength. People who sailed through their childhoods didn't have the same kind of tempering that kids who've been bullied had.

I don't regret the past, I don't blame a soul. I am the sum of my experiences, I don't know who I would be had the social aspects of my childhood not been difficult.

Sometimes though.

Sometimes I wish I could wrap my arms around that chubby little nerd and tell him he's not alone.

Thunderdome

Tonight I played in a mash-up as part of Carmen's experimental show Thunderdome. It was the first time I had gone to the show and it was really fun, had a very casual energy. Carmen opened with some stand up, a 5b team played, there were some sketches, and two mash-up groups. Carmen, throughout, was advocating people to take some risks.

I started our set with a potentially offensive Japanese accent. The piece moved on to Carmen setting Gary up to make fun of Playboy models at the Playboy mansion. And teetered on almost going to some place extremely dark when Gary mentioned school shootings. Tisher would have called the set "very naughty".

There was a lot of swagger and very little artifice to our set but there is something to be said for risk. We are all experienced and in order to push further, to make strides- you test boundaries. You introduce content thats dark, horrible, or abhorrent because you've never gone there or because you are testing to see if you can get the audience back after you've disgusted them. I don't think overt racism, sexism, or tragedy is funny, I don't find it humorous in the least. But I do think it's fair game subject matter to do comedy within and about. There's an amount of edge and guts involved that I love to experience and to watch.

Gary tags in and explains there's been a school shooting. And we all start laughing, not because there's anything funny about it but because Gary has the balls to simply put that idea out there. Inject our show with dark of a circumstance. I felt this feeling in my gut: nervousness, challenge, excitement. Again, not because I think its funny but because it's dangerous territory and danger can be appealing. I began to make a move to cut to that school shooting, act it out, be the shooter, engage in some kind of surreal kabuki tragedy- five grown Chicago comedians parodying the life of damaged and dead high schoolers. I hesitated.

The moment past, Carmen started a new scene and the show was done a minute or so after. I didn't feel particularly funny but I felt good, the risk made me feel sharp. Next time if someone brings up something horrible in a show, I'll go right for it.

Street Talk 15

Coming out of my apartment building.

Middle Aged Lady: Oh. (surprised) You smell good.
Me: Oh...uh...thanks. I just hopped out of the shower.
MAL: Better than me saying you smell like shit! (cackles)
Me: (chuckle) Yeah. That woulda been a blow to my ego.
MAL: Oh, you smell nice but not like that frufru stuff.
Me: ...?
MAL: I can't stand when men smell like that frufru stuff. You're still suppose to smell like a man ain't ya?
Me: I always thought so.
MAL: I like you.
Me: (I hold the door open for her and smile) I like you.
MAL: And thank you! (half to herself) A gentleman!

'Elysium' & 'Europa Report' Reviews

Elysium is a science fiction film set 140 years in the future. The planets resources are depleted and the world is over populated. The rich have evacuated Earth and live on a Utopian space station called Elysium. Blue collar tough Matt Damon has always wanted to go to Elysium and after sever radiation poisoning he has to make the trip in order to be cured.

The movie has an excellent premise, amazing visuals, and intriguing future technology. Those are it's only successes. There is virtually no character development through out. We like Matt Damon not because we know anything about his character but because he, as Matt Damon, is an inherently likable everyman. We don't care about the character we care about Matt Damon. Jodi Foster puts in a train wreck of a performance with a jarring haircut and a terribly put upon accent. Shaltro Copley as the villain has promise but never breaks past caricature.

The plot has holes, loops in on itself, and telegraphs it's oh-so-predictable ending 40 minutes out. A great idea that suffered from lack of revision and/or too many cooks.

My #1 most anticipated movie of the year and my #1 disappointment.

Don't See It. 

Europa Report is a science fiction film that follows six astronauts on a mission to Europa, one of Jupiter's moons. The film is quite, claustrophobic, and patient. The science of the movie is in no way neglected offering almost as much interest as the inevitable danger that awaits on Europa.

The expedition starts out well but after an accident the crew begins to fall apart. The film jumps back and forth through the mission to further the feeling of isolation and confusion. A space film molded in the unerasable foot print of 2001 but more reminiscent of the more recent Moon or Sunshine.

A enjoyable albeit not quite original film where the thrills and scares at the end don't match the pleasurable journey. I would have rather just watched the crew travel through space and never reach their destination.

Rent It.

Goodbye Eric

Tonight was Eric's going away show, he's moving out to Colorado for grad school. I don't know Eric that well and I'd say we weren't more than casual friends. We never hung out one on one or did a show together. But I always enjoyed seeing him and talking to him. He is the person in Chicago I would randomly run into the most: on the street, at the movies, on our bikes, all over. And every time I did, it would brighten up my day. Sometimes we wouldn't even say hi just smile and wave. Those small interactions over the course of  years built up to mean something substantial. An unspoken shorthand.

The other thing I really appreciate about Eric is that I never had a chit-chat, what-you-up-to, small-talk type of conversation with him. Our conversations were always about something personal or artistic. No weather or CTA talk. He also, like myself, is not a person discomforted by silence. A lot of people have to fill the space with words which most of the time is unnecessary. If you don't have anything to say then there's no need to speak. I think he understands that more than most.

I wish I would have known him better but I'm content with how our paths crossed. Our lives are filled not only with those close to us but with those on the periphery.

Good luck buddy. Good luck, good bye.

Steve's Guide To Reviews

1. Don't summarize the plot. Most reviews are 3/4 plot summary. This is unnecessary and detrimental to the enjoyment of the person reading it. People need to know the genre of the movie(or book) and a brief idea of the premise. There should be no more than a sentence or two about what the story is about.

2. Tell me your opinion. Write why you liked it or didn't like it. There is no way a reviewer can be "objective" so stop trying to pretend as if you are. Describe how it made you feel, what you thought worked, what you thought didn't work, tell me what you thought of the performances.

3. Come up with your own rating system. The four star system has no context any more. Every reviewer is writing from a place from their personal taste and style. Embrace that and use a personalized rating system. If a reader has a better sense of who the reviewer is and what they like they can make more accurate decisions on what they may like.

4. Be Brief. Be judicious with all that you write because anyone reading a review is going to be influenced by it. A long impassioned review of a book or a movie is going to stick in the mind of the person reading it and is going to shape how they view the movie or read the book. Reviews should be a tool for people to find movies or books that appeal to them, they shouldn't create preconceived notion or bias.

5. Don't use analogies. Steer clear of the Europa Report is Event Horizon meets Moon or The Heat is Beverly Hills Cop meets Romy and Michele's High School Reunion trap. This is an obvious and easy way to classify a movie that is rarely actually accurate or helpful. Sometimes for a terrible or simple movie it is a perfect descriptor but even so: use it sparingly.

Reviews should be read for a person to get an idea if they would like something or not. Or for a person to help analyze something they've already seen or read.

Reviews should not ruin story.

Creative Well

After watching Blue Jasmine last night and being totally horrified I got to thinking about Woody Allen. The guy's got not more juice left, nothing more to say, when he's reaching for inspiration, for a story to tell, he's got nothing there to grab. Rich famous people, by necessity, have to become very insular, they don't interact with the world in their own way on their own terms if at all. Because of this I think they lose some artistic ability. It is unfortunate consequence of prolonged artistic success it becomes harder to create art.

This past year Quentin Tarintino said he would retire before he started making bad movies. He said something like- directors who have success continue to make movies after they have lost the ability to make good ones. Spielberg hasn't made a great movie in ten years. Lucas hasn't made a great movie in twenty five years. Tarintino himself hasn't started making bad movies but you can't argue that the movies aren't as good. Like him they've gotten fatter, soft around the edges. There's no as much bite to his movies anymore.

Not to say talented artists can't create good art once they've become successful but it becomes harder. They have to work harder, they have to keep striving to be original, to tell a unique story. Some artists have a deep creative well, some strive to replenish it with life experience or research, but some keep dipping the bucket in the same old shallow swampy well and come up with a bucket of mud and call it art- Allen.

The past week or so I've been feeling it bit off with my performing. I've been feeling a bit gray personally and I can tell it's effected how I perform. My well needs replenishing. You have to recognize those moments and do something about them. Fill the well back up. If you don't you're just going to keep creating the same old thing, keep doing the same thing you've done before, recycling something that's already been recycled- it just comes across boring and sad.

There are some artists who circle around the same couple themes and don't very their style. John Irving one of my favorite authors writes about similar things, has similar themes and plot devices. It works because he attacks each story from a different angle, the characters are vibrant and three dimensional and he usually has something incredibly specific he researches in depth about in preparation for each book(i.e. tattoo culture, red light district in Amsterdam etc.). Stephen King also uses similar themes, tropes, and character types. But his stories are original even if they share some of the same parts. His ideas are fresh if at times the packaging is not.

Everything is about balance As artists we run hot, we run cold and we even out. I think I'm at a point where I am evening out and I hope I'm on the other end of feeling stagnant. But now and again you need to assess and think about what you're putting out. Think about your creative out put. Is it thick or is it thin? Where am I finding my inspiration?

'Blue Jasmine' A Review

Blue Jasmine is the latest Woody Allen film. The film follows Jeanette aka Jasmine as she soars from the height of the super rich to the depths of living with her working class sister. Cate Blanchette plays Jasmine the Woody Allen character in this yearly incarnation of the same story Woody Allen spews forth each year. Jasmine is amoral, self centered, obtuse, and has absolutely no ability for self realization or growth. I have no idea why there is a movie about this character or why this movie exists. The film may be a comment on the super rich but a comment is never made. It's unclear if we are suppose to sympathize or despise Jasmine. It would seem we are suppose to identify with Jasmine's working class sister who shelters her during her fall from grace but she along with all the working class characters are written so stereotypical, thin, and vapid we are unable to.

The plot of the movie goes no where and says nothing. The dialogue in the film is wooden, robotic, and unbelievable. The acting is at most times vacant and confused with occasional moments of clarity solely because of the talent of the star studded cast. Alec Baldwin, Andrew Dice Clay, Louise CK, Peter Sarsgaard and Bobby Cannavale struggle to bring their two dimensional characters off the page. Blanchette puts in a performance so grating its unpleasant to watch, Jasmine is not a person she's a rich lady demon and Blanchette screams and cries and yells and chews the scenery in each unbearable scene. The only bright spot is Sally Hawkins as Ginger, Jasmine's sister, portraying what seems to be the only real person in the film.

Allen at 77 seems to have lost a lot. Maybe he should try revising his scripts and giving his actors direction as opposed to making sure to get one movie out a year. It's clear Allen is past his prime and needs to put a little more work into the quality of his films as opposed to keeping up his quantity.

Worst movie of the year.

Don't See It.

Outside/Inside

inside is always
outside of something
but if you go in too far
there is no out
only smaller and smaller ins,
there is always something futher out
bigger, broader, and more spacious
but go out too far
and you might not be anywhere.
Nowhere at all.

Cycles

One of the plants I have grows flowers which bud, bloom, and die within a couple days. It's been through probably a dozen cycles since I got it last spring. They're beautiful and fleeting and they keep coming back.

They're on a cycle just like everything. Ups then downs then ups again. The present is a fleeting thing: enjoy it or push through it accordingly.

Name Shame

I've been hosting the 8 o'clock show at iO every Sunday for the last five months or so. I enjoy it and I think I do it well. Tonight however I got rocked with a realization during my opening schpeel.

Me: ...but first some introductions- Dave Asher on keys! (applause) We're not only a theater we're also a bar! We have...(I shade my eyes to look behind the bar, I see a guy and realize I don't know his name. I realize that this has been the guy tending bar for the past month or so and I've been calling him the wrong name. I reach for his name and come up empty. I'm hit with a cold bucket of shame and embarrassment. A take a brief pause to let him say his name and he doesn't. I'm left with no other alternative than to say, again, the wrong name I've been saying for weeks now) Devilyn behind the bar and Molly serving you drinks...

The rest of the show I'm in my head and can't shake off the flush in my cheeks. I feel like the utmost asshole. After the show I'm out back with Molly having a cigarette.

Me: That's not Devilyn.
Molly: No silly that's Nate.
Me: Fuck me.
Molly: You've been doing it for weeks. He was going to tell you tonight. We thought it was really funny. People have been coming up to him asking if they've got his name wrong. But no it's been you!
Me: Such a fucking asshole, Jesus...
Molly: No! It's funny!

I tell myself I haven't ordered a drink at iO in two years so I've had no interaction with the bartenders. I tell myself the male bartenders there look similar- big, bearded. There's no excuse. I feel stupid and embarrassed and like a real uppity shithead who can't find out what the fucking bartenders name is. Devilyn worked the bar on Sundays for a while and I never bothered to check to see if the schedule changed. Never bothered to engage or make an effort. It would be one thing if this was the first night but I've been doing it for weeks. It's a mistake and it's mine and I have to own it. Yuck.

The upshot- I'll never get Nate's name wrong again.

The hard lessons are the ones that stick.

Uninspired

everything is flat
and gray
and square.
all taste is
bran or pulp
or gum.
even the sun
seems bored:
withholding majesty.

emptiness-
never felt so full.

'R.I.P.D.' & '20 Feet From Stardom' Reviews

R.I.P.D. is a paranormal buddy cop movie. A cross between Men In Black and Ghostbusters which I'm sure is how it was pitched to the studio. Dead lawmen get drafted by the RIPD to go back to Earth and hunt toxic ghosts in human form. 

The movie is silly and fun with a fair amount of action. Ryan Reynolds doesn't do much throughout and his personal story which is suppose to drive the story falls flat. Jeff Bridges is in full crazy fun mode embracing the lunacy and comedy of the movie spouting off one liners through an almost unintelligible pan-western accent.

Not much story, no real acting, not much to think about. Exactly what you'd expect.

Rent It.

Twenty Feet From Stardom is a documentary about back up singers. The film follows back up singers in the industry currently, a former back up singers making it with solo careers, and ones who gave it up.

The film examines the role back up singers played in the rock hits of the 60's, 70's, and 80's and the gradual decline of back up singers in bands since then. Each singer has a fascinating complicated story. Who sang on what record with whom. Who wrote that hook who sang that one. But the overall thrust of the film is really what's next?

Implicit in every moment of the film is that no one would want to do this for a living. Being a backup singer isn't a job it's a means to becoming a solo artist, a star. One singer who won a Grammy for her first and only solo album went back to backup singing and through the course of her interviews she's constantly explaining and justifying her actions. As if the film makers themselves can't believe or understand why anyone would stick with the gig.

The film tells an interesting story. But the more interesting question it raises is not answered. What is success? There is a sense of melancholy and failure about the women in the film, emanating first and foremost from themselves. They never made it big, the world doesn't know their names. But every musician knows their names, they still get work, they still perform to adoring crowds. Why do they seem to feel incomplete without fame?

Would you rather sing backup on 50 songs that everyone knows or have a solo album that no one ever heard?

Rent It.

Gifts

I've always considered myself a great gift giver but a poor gift receiver. Its easy to find or purchase a little something or a big something to give to someone to show that you care about them. Something special or something generic it doesn't matter that much. The act itself carries more meaning than the thing being given. It says: I went out of my way, I had you in mind when I wasn't around you, I thought of you when I saw this, I want you to have something from me, I may not be able to articulate my feelings or my thoughts for you so I got you this symbol of them.

I feel like I've always, as far back as I can remember, been deficient in expressing to someone my appreciation for the gifts they've given me. It always feels fake, shallow, incomplete. Unable to acknowledge the little or large meaning of the exchange.

Jen gave me some flowers tonight. A small pot with a bunch of purple pungent blossoms. Her friendship and support and by extension these flowers mean a lot to me and I don't think I was able to express my gratitude. Not only for the gift but for everything.

The unsaid things seem to be the most important to say. And the most difficult.