Bye-Bye Shadowlands

Thank You, Part IV

2012-02-01T10:49:00.002-06:00

When I was a kid, I used to sit down one morning every December and read my father's collection of Christmas letters. He started writing them before I was born, so it was a compelling snapshot of a life in progress ... not only mine, but of each member of our family. If you could turn each paragraph written about you into a single image, stack those images like a deck of cards and flip through them, you could see an animated representation of your character, and the pattern and trajectory of your life.

Having entered my fifth year of self-employment, I now have a new "Christmas letter pattern" in the works. I don't mean my own family Christmas letter, which I model closely on my father's. And I don't mean the family photo I take every year in front of our house on James' birthday (that one is to literally create a flip book one day that will show James growing and his parents shrinking). I mean these digital thank you notes that I started writing on January 15, 2009.

Before writing this one, I went back and read the three previous entries. The flip book pattern that I see emerging is a combination of fear, shock and wonder. I will never forget the day (really the middle of the night) when I decided to "go it alone." I will never forget the odd combination of fear and liberation that ensued the moment I handed in my resignation letter a few days later. I will never forget the shock of having people offer me advice, office space, free services, and (most important) paid work in that first year. And I continue to be filled with wonder at where this whole thing is leading me.

As a writer, I should avoid cliches. But I can't avoid the metaphor of walking a tightrope with no net. That's still how this feels, and I think it always will. But rather than using that as an image of panic, I now realize how much that feeling focuses you. With so much at stake, you have to figure out what you can and can't do. Or, to use another cliche, you have to know what you know, and know what you don't know. You have no choice but to leave what you don't know to other people, be as confident as possible about whatever talent you do have, and strike a balance between the two.

Most important, I find new and surprising avenues of gratitude each year. Friends become clients. Clients become friends. And I experience unexpected support for other endeavors (I can't get through this without vaguely referring to "Memorial Day," nee "Souvenirs") that have gone farther than logic or probability would dictate. I sometimes feel that this tightrope has taken me into a strange land filled with the realistically impossible, or the pragmatically fantastic, or some other clumsy oxymoron. And I'd just like to say "thank you" to everyone who has gone there with me, and formed the invisible safety net below.

Damn You, Dawkins

2012-01-02T09:42:00.001-06:00

Everybody knows the barroom philosopher (usually a post-collegiate male who is misdirecting his anger over not being able to get a date) who one night decides to spout on over a pitcher of pale ale about how “we’re all selfish” and “everything we do is selfish.” I’ve always despised this pseudo intellect, though I’ve never quite figured out why, and I’ve never directly confronted him. Inevitably, when he makes his argument, a well-meaning devil’s advocate will point to acts of altruism as proof that we are not, in fact, selfish—to which Frat Boy Socrates will respond, “A-ha! But when you do something altruistic, it makes you feel good. Therefore, even that is ultimately selfish.” To which I will respond (only in my head, because I’m severely conflict-averse) that if we were indeed “purely selfish,” then doing something altruistic wouldn’t make us feel good at all. And in fact, in such a state of selfish beginner’s mind, none of us would have the faintest concept of “altruism” in the first place. In fact, we would probably all be dead.

All of this made me a bit reluctant when a CSC (that’s Coffee Shop Colleague) named Stuart handed me The Selfish Gene by Richard Dawkins. Dawkins, along with Sam Harris and the late Christopher Hitchens, is best-known as one of the New Atheists. But unlike his supposed colleagues, he’s an actual scientist (an evolutionary biologist trained in zoology, to be exact), and he’s written actual science books. Originally published in 1976, The Selfish Gene is still considered Dawkins’ seminal work. Yet I braced myself for the possible discovery that Dawkins is nothing more than the Oxford-educated version of the Pale Ale Pontificator.

I was wrong. The Selfish Gene is a far more complicated affair than I was prepared for. First, it’s not a terribly accessible book for the non-scientist. I imagine that it was considered fairly commercial when it was first published, but in the intervening 35 years, the bar for “accessible” has been considerably lowered. (Today, it might be called 25 Reasons Why Genes Control You—and What You Can Do About It.)

Second, its gene-centricity goes far beyond the typical news item about the latest study identifying “the gene responsible for drivers not using their turn signals.” I’ve done a fair amount of marketing work for (and, in fact, named) The Delta Center at the University of Iowa, a group of scientists who rightly challenge a simplistic, gene-centered view of cognition and development. So I was skeptical about the book’s uber-gene-centered view of evolution.

Dawkins’ basic idea is that the smallest unit of evolution, subject to Darwin’s theories of natural selection, is not the species or even the individual; it’s the gene. In fact, he goes so far as to say that this is the very definition of “gene”: A gene is the smallest unit of natural selection.

What does this mean? If it’s possible to mangle Dawkins’ theory with my own non-scientific perspective, it’s this: The thing that strives to survive is not “human beings,” “Labrador retrievers” or “philodenrons”; it’s the individual genes that these living organisms house. Or I should say, the living organisms that these genes have built. Because according to Dawkins, every element of life on this planet is, to use his alarming yet usefully visual term, a “survival machine” built by its genes. In other words, genes pool their resources to build dinosaurs, oak trees and crooked politicians. And the fittest of these—the ones that are able to survive and adapt to their environments—reproduce and live on. Until they don’t. Let’s not forget that 99 percent of all species that have ever lived on this planet are extinct. And we’re just one of them. (Thank you for that, Bill Bryson. See: A Short History of Nearly Everything)

The Selfish Gene makes this case in extraordinary detail, and I can find no reason or way to dispute it. Dawkins attacks evolutionary models based on “group” and “individual” selection with gusto, which brings us back to the barroom discussion. After all, it’s one thing to think that we do what’s good for humanity (group selection). It’s another to think that we do whatever’s good for us (individual selection). But the entire discussion is blown apart by Dawkins’ idea that we are nothing more than hosts to begin with, and that what we do is ultimately an amalgamated result of our genes fighting or cooperating based on their own needs to proliferate.

I interpret Dawkins as generally seeing genes as little pieces of code: “If the sun gets in your eyes, close them.” These are the roots of adaptive behaviors, and (to put it simply), the “programs” that continue are the ones that are successful over time. This logically leads to a discussion of game theory, which I learned about on a macro level by reading The Predictioneer’s Game by Bruce Bueno de Mesquita a few years ago. And this makes understanding the barroom discussion even more interesting.

Here’s one example that I find instructive. Forgive me as I paraphrase from memory, using my own terminology.

Let’s say you have a bird with a gene-driven behavioral code of: “If you see another bird that needs grooming, groom it” (and let’s assume that by “grooming,” we mean a process of removing bugs that can kill you; so there’s quite a bit at stake). Call these the Givers. If you had a world filled with only these entities, you’d have, by many definitions, a Utopian society. But you can’t. Because the minute you do, you create a huge opportunity for a differently programmed bird who operates on the principle: “Accept grooming from someone else, but never reciprocate.” Call these the Takers. Throw this entity into the mix, and you can mathematically calculate the results: The Takers will quickly spread. But will they take over completely? No. Because if everybody takes and nobody gives, eventually no one gets groomed and the bugs kill them. So enter a third bird called The Conditional Giver. This bird reciprocates grooming only to those who give it first. Putting these three together does an interesting thing: it creates an ESS, or Evolutionarily Stable Strategy. None of the three groups can completely dominate, but each has a place in that system. And while their numbers can fluctuate slightly, over time they maintain a certain stasis.

Does this ring true? It does to me. I feel like I see it every day—especially during election season.

Which brings me to the third book that has stuck with me over the years: Chris Hedges’ I Don’t Believe in Atheists. While the book is meant to be a rebuttal to Dawkins and the New Atheists (and in some ways it is, which I won’t get into here), Hedges’ central belief only reinforces Dawkins’ theories in The Selfish Gene. Hedges states the bleakest idea I’ve ever heard: Human beings progress technologically, but they do not—and in fact cannot—progress morally.

While we all can point to atrocities around the globe at any given moment, I think most Americans have to admit that this idea still flies in the face of something we believe deep in our subconscious: that when you look at a country that is grossly imperfect, you can still point to some things—the abolition of slavery and the Civil Rights Movement, to name just two—that point to an upward tick.

No, Hedges says. And when you take the Dawkins point of view, and imagine that the human species is basically the game theory exercise using those three kinds of birds, you can see why. We are in an evolutionary stable strategy that mixes altruism, selfishness and skepticism. And we are going nowhere.

Happy New Year!

Equality vs. Freedom?

2011-11-17T11:23:00.001-06:00

I wrote this in response to a Jason Lewis commentary in last Sunday's Startribune. Since the letter wasn't printed, I'm publishing it here:

Besides being a possible act of plagiarism (see George Will's 2004 Washington Post column, "Freedom vs. Equality"), Jason Lewis' "Do You Want Equality or Freedom?" posits what might just be the most obnoxious straw man/false choice in American political discourse. Is it helpful to examine a nation founded on ideals of both equality and freedom, then build a fence between those two ideals and demand that we live on one side or the other? (Sounds a bit like intellectual eminent domain.)

The real dividing line between our current conservatives and liberals is the idea of whether you see interrelatedness or individualism as the more dominant force. Liberals look at the internet, social media, pandemics, global supply chains, climate change and European economic contagion as evidence that, for both better and worse, our world is smaller and more interconnected than ever before. Conservatives hold to the narrative of a basically fair world in which self-made men and women make individual choices and rise to the top (while others fall to the bottom) because they deserve it.

A conservative says there is no shame in being a rich and powerful man. A liberal merely points out that other people helped form that man, and that to some degree, the well-being of those other people is also in his self-interest.

Why Ray?

2011-11-09T16:11:00.001-06:00

After seeing Ray Davies perform last night at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, I am once again driven to intense self-examination. Why has this 67-year-old suburban Londoner always stood apart as my favorite pop musical artist? For now, I've devised four families of explanation. Tomorrow, the reasons might be completely different. (If I do this long enough, I might just get it right one day.)

1. The Contrast

The same guy who wrote "You Really Got Me" also wrote "Waterloo Sunset." On one hand, that's an incredible compositional achievement. On the other hand, so what? All decent songwriters work from a full palette. Bob Dylan's catalog speaks for itself. And remember, the same Beatle who wrote "Back in the U.S.S.R." also wrote "Yesterday." The same Beatle who wrote "Revolution" also wrote "Julia." And the same Beatle who wrote "Taxman" also wrote "Something." And they were all different Beatles.

But there's something so stark about the Ray Davies song style contrast, it's almost impossible to believe that he isn't actually two people. As has been often discussed, Ray (and his brother, Dave) arguably invented the guitar riff. Songs like "All Day and All of the Night," "I Need You," "'Til the End of the Day" and "So Tired" get more mileage out of simple two- or three-chord hooks than any other (though it should be noted that their structures are deceptively complicated). But on "Waterloo Sunset," "Misfits" and particularly during the chorus of "Too Much on My Mind," which (amazingly) was performed last night, something else happens. A lush, lilting, melancholic contentment spreads through the air -- a scent that's even more "Kinks" than the crunchy power chords of "You Really Got Me." For me, this is their true sound.

2. The Search

I've been asked by non-Kinks fans to name the "definitive" Kinks album. Some would say "Village Green," others "Arthur." I'd toss "Face to Face" and "Lola vs. Powerman and the Moneygoround" into the ring. "Sleepwalker" is also a sleeper, and "Give the People What They Want" is actually what first hooked me on the band. But the truth is, there is no definitive Kinks album. Much as I love the band, I can't think of a single album that shines all the way through. Even The Kinks' best efforts are uneven. Despite his reputation for pickiness and perfectionism in the studio, Davies' talent for self-editing has never matched his talent for songwriting.

I've often thought that listening to a Kinks album is like listening to a great outtakes compilation taken from some other definitive, ground-breaking record. An ongoing tragedy of being a Kinks fan is that this ground-breaking record simply doesn't exist. The Kinks don't have a "Sgt. Pepper," "Exile on Main Street," "Led Zeppelin Four" or "Who's Next?" And yet, you keep imagining that they do.

3. The Theater

Ray Davies' face resembles many things -- most immediately, The Joker. But throughout a live performance, it basically wavers back and forth between the Greek masks of comedy and tragedy. And this is fitting, because Davies has always possessed a unique talent for conjuring dramatic images. This is a man trained first as a painter, who sings often about cinema, and whose mashup of stories and music paved the way for VH1's Storytellers series -- a feat that ranks among his most significant accomplishments.

Songs like "Sitting in My Hotel" and, of course, "Waterloo Sunset" create a sense of place unlike anything produced by the other British Invasion songwriting giants. Yet, although Ray Davies is an observational songwriter, you seldom get the feeling that he's actually standing in the thick of what he describes. One of the most telling lines from "Waterloo Sunset" is "every day I look at the world through my window." A similar voyeuristic feel permeates songs like "Sitting in My Hotel" and "Art Lover." Ray Davies is always a step removed, always looking through a plane of glass. To see him perform live is to watch a theatrical production in which you are watching Davies watch the world.

4. The Extra-ordinariness

But if I'm truly honest with myself, my love of Ray Davies as an artist probably comes from his irrepressible normalcy. Look at the songwriters to whom he is often compared: Lennon, McCartney, Townshend, et al. These guys always had (I hesitate to use the heinous phrase) an "it" factor. They were exceptional people doing exceptional musical things.

Ray Davies has always seemed like an ordinary man doing occasionally extraordinary things, and that's something very different. As Davies himself has said, his brother was the real rock star. Dave was the guy doing (most of) the carousing and drugs. Almost from day one in the Kinks' long career, Ray was actually married and pushing a pram. He sang "I'm not like everybody else," but I imagine that he felt that way because he was an artist who actually was a bit like everybody else.

At the Fitzgerald show, Davies told the audience about a time in British cultural history when the national mantra became "mediocrity rises." And then he followed that with what are now my favorite words ever spoken by an artist on stage: "And being slightly mediocre myself," he said, "I rose."

Eulogy for a Grandmother

2011-05-27T07:43:00.003-06:00

I’m not sure how you begin to talk about a life that spanned nearly a century—a woman whose time included half a dozen wars, The Great Depression, and 17 different presidents. But of course, this isn’t about history. It’s far more personal. For some people, we’re here to celebrate “Lou.” For others, “Mom.” For others, “Great Grandma.” For some who are here in spirit, it’s “sister,” “daughter” or “spouse.” For me, and many others, it’s “Grandma Lou.”

As Lou’s grandchildren, let’s face it, we were spoiled rotten. A lot of people don’t get to spend as many years with their mothers as we did with our grandmother, and she made every moment count. For those of us who grew up in and around the Twin Cities, Grandma was an everyday part of our lives. Even for those who visited from New York, Chicago or Anchorage, Grandma Lou was still a presence we always felt—someone who gave life some much-needed grounding. She was the center, the heart.

For me, as a child, I usually only got to see Grandma Lou and Grandpa Bob once a year, in the summer. After the interminable 500-mile drive from South Bend to the Twin Cities, you finally took that glorious left turn onto Avon Street, where the sight of the ivy-covered house at the bottom of the hill meant that you would soon be eating exotic sweets like Poppycock, running around a huge back yard that had a maple tree planted in your name, and glancing at faded black-and-white photos in the TV room—images that proved that even your grandma and grandpa were children once. At the end of one trip, I famously cried my eyes out when it was time to leave. Even more famously, I once served as a teenaged bartender during a mortgage-burning party in the basement. (For the record, I needed instruction on how to make every drink.)

Fortunately, my “Grandma Lou time” increased greatly when I moved to Minnesota in the winter of 1993. The first stop was Grandma’s house, where I would stay in the basement for a week before securing an Uptown apartment. My first memory of this experience is walking up the steps the morning after arrival to see a strange man eating bacon in the dining room. Grandma Lou strolled into the kitchen as if this was a normal occurrence, and when I finally cornered her to ask “who is that?”, her response was nonchalant: “Oh, that’s Don, the plumber. He seemed hungry.”

Like many in this church, in the last few years, my visits to 756 Parker Avenue took on a different meaning. We all tried to pay back some of that surplus of nurturing that had built up over the years, as impossibly wide as that deficit was. Some did the hard work—stopping by frequently to look after Grandma’s medical, household, financial, social and spiritual needs. I played the role of the hack documentarian. Armed with lunch and a laptop, I would visit sporadically—usually, it seemed, in winter—and we would talk for an hour or so over chicken chow mein and coffee. I was discreet about where I placed the USB microphone, but Grandma would always look at it as if it were an alien, a cockroach, or (worst of all) something from Minneapolis. The idea of recording our talks clearly made her uncomfortable. And when I started our first session by asking her standard oral history-type questions like, “please state your name,” “where were you born?” and “what were the names of your siblings?”, it felt more like a test than a real conversation. So I decided to wing it.

Of course, when it came to memory, Grandma’s long-term was far more lucid than her short-term. But even with the distant past, she wasn’t as quick to elaborate as I had hoped. I craved detail. I wanted room-to-room descriptions of her childhood home on Manomin Avenue. I wanted deep character sketches of her parents and siblings. I wanted her to remember what she got for Christmas when she was 6 years old, the smells of Thanksgiving dinner, the feel of her wedding dress—anything to give me a cinematic portrait of the past. I also wanted to capture actual recordings of the stories I already knew and loved—especially Grandpa Bob’s visits on the streetcar that ran from Midway to Cherokee Heights. And the story where she gave Grandpa an ultimatum during their courtship: “If you don’t get a car, I’m going with the other guy” ... and how Grandpa promptly spent all his money on a used Whippet and covered the torn seats with old suit jackets. (At family functions, my cousin, Erin, would often elicit a big smile from Grandma by reminding her that none of us would be here without her. I used to think, “Man, without that Whippet, I am toast ... ”)

I captured fragments of these well-known stories, but not as much as I would have liked. I did, however, uncover the occasional gem, like the story about a train trip to see family in Chicago, during which one of Grandma’s cousins basically proposed to her. Or the one about going to confession at the German church, and being told by the priest through the screen to “keep walking” another six blocks to the Irish one where she belonged—a story that I later snuck into a screenplay. Or the one about how during the Depression, her mother would gladly welcome complete strangers into their home who were going door to door looking for work, or a meal—something that we agreed would never happen today, and a story that suddenly made sense out of the whole “Don the Plumber” incident.

Over time, I realized that Grandma Lou’s dementia wasn’t erasing memories randomly. It was hierarchical ... a process that I thought of as distillation—like a fine spirit. The most important memories—the real flavors of life—clung on. And that makes sense. After all, in the big picture, “what did you have for dinner last night?” isn’t really that important. I came to expect that Grandma would tell certain stories in every session. Like the time she gave birth to her first baby, and the doctor said, “Wait, there’s another one in there.” Memories of her father’s strictness, which she regretted for the distance it placed between them. The unfairness of having to iron her brothers’ clothes and make their beds. The joys of the family’s summer cabin, and swimming across Lake Owasso to visit a boy she had a crush on. Or ice skating in Cherokee Park, and the thrill of having “a fella” skate up from behind and put his arm around her (something that I found rather forward, if not downright creepy, but that always brought a smile to her face). When she would inevitably ask me if they still “let kids skip a grade in school these days,” I finally caught on that the proper response wasn’t “I think so,” but “didn’t you say that you once skipped a grade, Grandma?” I tried to get her to say “colorful” things about her own children—Annette, Anita, Bob, Tim and Sue—who, let’s face it, all seem a little too good to be true. But she wouldn’t dish on any troubles or fights. The challenges of motherhood had all disappeared. I could see by the twinkle in her eye, all that was left was the joy.

Grandma Lou never stopped eyeing my microphone with suspicion, but over time, she did come to enjoy our sessions. I imagine that for a person who lives in a confused present, the chance to spend an hour or two walking through life’s deepest, clearest and most vivid memories is somewhat of a relief. Truth be told, I wish I had started sooner and done a lot more, because she always seemed a little younger when we were done.

But what I remember most about these sessions are the times when Grandma Lou would seem to drift away for a few seconds. Sometimes she would look out the window at that big back yard, and talk about deer sightings, or the days when the kids would skate or swim down at the pond beyond the fence. But other times, her gaze would turn inward. After talking about her childhood, her parents, her siblings, her husband, her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren ... after finishing her second cup of coffee and looking at endless pictures in photo albums and on the refrigerator that documented the tremendous amount of life that she brought into the world—as I would wait for an answer to some specific inquiry like “what was your favorite Halloween costume as a girl?”—Grandma Lou would let the question drift away and say, almost to herself: “I’ve lived a good life ... ”

And I knew that this was the ultimate distillation. The memory, the feeling—the spirit—that would never leave her. Or any of us, for having known her.

Troy Smart: World's Worst Stuntman

2011-05-20T12:41:00.007-06:00

This morning, I found myself interviewing the world's worst stuntman, Troy Smart (he's here on Facebook, Twitter handle: @actionologist).

Troy is the product of idle time spent on a movie set. He's part Michael Scott, part Ricky Gervais in "Extras." He doesn't fancy himself a "stuntman." He sees himself as an "actionologist," which isn't simply an occupation, but an entire way of life.

What I learned in the interview is that this man (who actually thinks of himself as the greatest stuntman ... sorry, actionologist ... in the world, even though research shows that he's never done a stunt that has appeared in an actual movie or TV show) is confused. He's not sure where he's from. He claims that he has doubled Tom Cruise, Johnny Depp and "the lion in 'The Lion King.'" And judging by the somersault stunt he attempted during the interview, he's only marginally acquainted with the laws of physics.

Maybe I'm the one who's confused. For example, I'm not entirely sure why Troy Smart keeps a plastic packet of fresh dill in his oversized fanny pack. I'm not sure if the spider he talked about living in his apartment really qualifies as a "pet." I'm not sure if or why he was pretending to talk to Michael Bay on his cell phone (or if what he said about Bay's mother was entirely appropriate). I'm not sure if it was wise for him to be slamming a "health martini" at 9:00 in the morning. And I'm not sure if the classmates who applauded after a student pushed him down the steps in the 9th grade (the incident that, he says, launched his career) were inspired to do so because of his performance.

At any rate, it was an interesting start to the day. And I hope to soon post some "excerpts" from this "interview" for your "enjoyment."

It's the Empathy, Stupid

2011-05-09T08:17:00.006-06:00

About five years ago, Chris Rock had a standup routine where he argued (convincingly) that if you haven't fantasized about killing your spouse, then you're not in love. He should have done the bit about kids instead, and I don't just say that because yesterday was Mother's Day.

Oh, don't shoot me that shocked expression. I would further riff on Rock by stating that if I find myself talking to a mother or father who acts positively MORTIFIED that I would would DARE say something like that about my OWN child, and that they have simply NEVER felt that way, nor WOULD they ... I make a mental note that I cannot be friends with this person.

Our joys and challenges with our little boy are well-documented (mostly by me). But after having spent an intense weekend with this certifiably intense child (we sponsored a belated birthday sleepover, two other boys), I have a slightly new perspective on the matter.

Childhood is a war zone, and I don't know how we survive it. James' buddies (The Alienteers) are good kids ... really good kids. But every five seconds is a new competition, especially with a party of three. The political grounds constantly shift to produce a roving two-against-one advantage. Each boy has to constantly fight for his turf, even if that's simply "calling middle" in the back seat of the Honda. It's exhausting. And sometimes it seems the only way to unify a group of boys is to do one of two things: Play the enemy, or play the clown. I find myself doing both.

When James was 5, a friend of my parents once patiently listened to me vent about the challenges of raising this boy. When I finally gave her an opening to respond, subconsciously hoping that she would say some version of "poor you," she said, "I think it's really tough to be James." Ouch.

Those words instantly rewired my brain. And this weekend, the insight finally hit home. This is a kid who senses everything around him to a level I probably can't imagine. I know that on paper, but this weekend was different. You know that sensation in your mouth after you've had an Altoid, when everything you eat or drink feels like it's hitting a million raw nerves? This is how I imagine James' whole body feels ... all the time. (Hey, it's not a great analogy, but it works.)

I'm used to his combativeness, his teenager arrogance and impatience at home. But until now, I've never really imagined what's it like to be James in school, except intellectually. Now I've seen more clearly his insecurities with friends: wanting to be liked, wanting to be as funny as the other guy, wanting to fit in, not wanting to feel like he's the odd man out. This is normal stuff, but when it's your son ... I don't know, there's just a trace of heartbreak in it. Maybe it's because you feel simultaneously that you've been there, and you're over it, and you want to tell him (and you do, later in the hammock) that there are ways to deal with this stuff, that he shouldn't be so sensitive, and it's all going to be okay. But at the same time, a part of you realizes that this struggle never ends.

Chris Rock had it right. But even his bit wasn't an original insight; it was his own riff on a phrase that I still find to be one of the only incontrovertible truths out there: The opposite of love isn't hate; it's indifference.

Vertigo, Mr. Sunshine, and My Growing Impatience with Impatience

2011-04-18T20:37:00.005-06:00

I've already seen Hitchcock's Vertigo at least six times, but seven couldn't hurt. I just saw it again ... this time on the big screen at The Riverview in Minneapolis ... and, nation, it's time we had a talk.

First, there's this: I've heard it said that San Francisco has never been filmed as lovingly as in Vertigo. Indeed, from the opening nighttime rooftop chase scene, the film's sense of place is staggering. Everything from the obligatory Golden Gate Bridge to the sequoias, the Presidio and the San Juan Batista mission ... Hitchcock even made certain that nearly every interior scene included a (fake) beautiful view through the window. And it's somehow not distracting. Every detail in a Hitchcock film is beautiful, including the wardrobe. For my money, this level of gorgeous detail has since only been (almost) achieved by Mad Men.

With the exception of a few moments (like Jimmy Stewart yelling at Kim Novak's character that her hair color "can't matter to you!"), Vertigo holds up well. Haters have always accused it of being slow and boring. To most of the under-30 crowd, it's probably excruciating. For example, as Stewart's character, Scotty, begins to follow Madeleine, Hitchcock famously gives the viewer 10 minutes with no dialogue. Never has a score worked harder (thank you, Bernard Hermann) than during these sequences of Stewart driving, looking, driving, looking, following, looking, hiding, driving, looking. It's actually an amazing cinematic feat. And probably one Hitchcock couldn't have pulled off without his silent movie background.

But one random scene really struck me this time.

As Stewart sits inside Judy's apartment and waits for her to return, hopefully looking like the deceased Madeleine as the result of his extreme makeover control-freakishness, Hitchcock could have played it many ways. For example: Stewart hears Judy coming to the door. She opens it. Boom! She looks exactly like Madeleine. They kiss.

Instead, it goes like this: Stewart looks out the window at the street. Nothing. He paces. He looks again. He appears to have noticed something. He opens the door, looks down the hall. Nothing. We hear an elevator bell. He looks again. Judy rounds the corner. It's a moment, but not a big one. We (and Stewart) are let down by the fact that Judy's hair isn't styled like Madeleine's. She comes inside. Stewart insists that she make her hair right. She reluctantly goes into the bathroom. Stewart waits. NOW she emerges, cast in a ghostly green haze from the hotel sign outside (exterior intruding on interior), finally looking exactly like Madeleine.

That's patience. That's sense of place. That's suspense on a basic non-hacking-someone-in-the-shower level. And it's exactly what I'm seeing less and less of, especially in some new network comedies. Let's take two of the more highly touted new series: Matthew Perry's Mr. Sunshine, and Happy Endings, which just debuted after Modern Family last week. Both shows drive me nuts, and I knew it was for roughly the same reason. But it took Vertigo to make me realize why.

Neither of these shows has any real sense of place (even for a TV show). The environments are all interior. The camera angles are all standard (I think they're both one-camera shows). I feel an odd sense of claustrophobia while watching them. Everything just feels ... tight. Characters don't feel like they came from anywhere or are going anywhere. They just magically walk into frame for no reason, talk, usually insult one another, and then leave. We have no idea where they came from or why they're there. But more important, we have no idea who they are. There's no setup, no reason to care. In short, there's no patience. These shows are written, shot and edited as though "environment" and "character" are luxuries at best and annoyances at worst.

It's a big contrast to what's being done on HBO, where everything from 30-minute comedies (Curb Your Enthusiasm) to episodic dramas (In Treatment) and even cinematic mini series (Mildred Pierce) are so well-crafted. So I'm left to wonder: Is HBO now the network for aging Gen Xers like me? Am I simply becoming the inevitable crank who "doesn't get it"? Does the nation really suffer from collective ADHD? Or are network shows chronically underestimating their audiences?

Probably all of the above, and so be it. Regardless of the truth, I'd just like to thank Mr. Hitchcock once again for reminding me why I love movies, and why patience is indeed a virtue. After all, you needed it to get through this entire post.

The Deal

2011-03-27T10:08:00.007-06:00

When I take in everything I see, hear and read, I basically have only two choices: I can take Shawn Mullins' sage advice and believe that "everything's going to be all right," or I can actually start believing that Armageddon is knocking at the door.

Believing that the end is near isn't hard to do. Nearly everything I read leads me to believe that the tension between overpopulation and our food and energy needs (with a healthy dollop of human greed sprinkled in) is causing a slow but massive killing of the species. Climate change, check. Disappearing bees, check. Topsoil destruction, check. Dying oceans, check. The fact that every large species of animal on earth is in a state of decline, except for (and because of) us, check.

All of this growing evidence reinforces the following thesis: Human beings are the most intelligent species on Earth, but we're also the most self-destructive. At some point in our evolution, we became "apart from nature." (I would argue that it was the moment when we became truly aware of our mortality and began to live knowing that we're going to die.) And ever since, we've sealed our fate by trying to overcome nature. I've often thought that the very story of Adam and Eve is really just a literary reflection, passed down through oral and then written traditions, of this reality. And I'm sure that's not an original conclusion. Biting the apple was saying, "Now that we know too much about what's going to happen, watch as we screw it all up."

But then there's a different idea that creeps up now and again. For me, this starts with a line I heard from a "dog historian." He said that at some point in our joint evolution, dogs basically struck a deal with humans. They realized that to survive, they would have to be domesticated, so the deal was this: "You take care of us, we'll take care of you." Plenty of other animal species have bigger brains than canines. But what do dogs have that even orangutans don't? The ability to recognize when a human being is trying to help them. And it's this perceptive ability (and their willingness to return the favor) that has put them in such a prized position. Dogs can't go back to being like their wilder ancestors. The deal is done.

The spirit of this sentiment is echoed by Michael Specter in his book, Denialism. With apologies to the aforementioned dogs, it's the idea that, "Hey, the cat's out of the bag." Specter would argue, for example, that to assume that genetic modification of foods is bad for health is to deny the fact that everything we eat, every single day, has been genetically modified. Reductive? Yes. But the broader point is that humans struck a deal with "nature" a long time ago, just like dogs. The mere fact that the word "nature" exists proves it. We are capable of altering the world around us. That's what we've been doing all along. And the only way to survive is to keep doing it. There's no such thing as "going back to nature." The deal is done. And any notion to the contrary is sentimental at best and intellectually dishonest at worst.

To add more perspective, Bill Bryson (among others) has pointed out that more than 99 percent of all species that have ever existed are now extinct. Measure this against the broader perspective of the history of Earth, the universe, etc., and to assume that there is some kind of perfect harmony that we should strive to get back to becomes kind of absurd.

So for me, trying to figure out whether to be fatalistic or not is no easy task. I can believe that we need to "get back" to something, or I can believe that there truly is something called human nature, that it is unalterable, and that the solutions to our problems are simply always going to rest on another dimension of world-altering and nature-tinkering.

The former idea is more attractive to me because it seems to hold the moral argument. And I will continue to live a relatively low-impact lifestyle (for an American) and support the people and causes who make this argument. I will recycle. I will buy an electric car. Some day, I'll get around to composting. But if I were asked to predict how we will actually address global warming, for example, I would put my money on the idea that rather than actually changing our lifestyles and reducing our greenhouse gas output, we're going to pump sulfur into the air, send giant reflectors into space or create a machine (someone already has) that can remove CO2 from the atmosphere. We will alter genes. We will explore synthetic biology. We will create entirely new forms of life in my lifetime.

And then one day, one of those new life forms will realize how vulnerable we all are and try to kill us ... or strike a deal to guarantee our mutual survival. (Note to self: new movie idea!)

How to Dismantle a Vicious Circle

2011-03-25T09:21:00.006-06:00

A few weeks ago, I had the luxury of experiencing uninterrupted reading time. In two days, I devoured a novel-length interview with Bono conducted over a few years in the "Atomic Bomb"-era by French journalist Michka Assayas. I could write multiple posts about what was said in that book, as well as in the Hitchcock biography I read after that, but the line that comes to mind today is this: Bono said he's never understood writer's block. "Just start with how you feel right now."

How do I feel right now? Like I miss doing this. I used to write BBS more often. I used to take pride in how many posts I could create in a month. I used to look at my viewership stats (never a big following, but loyal). I used to love thinking of ideas and then putting the effort into writing them in some semi-thoughtful (yet still mercifully brief) kind of way. Now I get to it maybe once a month. Why?

It seems to be the Vicious Circle of Practicality. The writing that I enjoy the most ("compressed essays," not "blogs") pays absolutely nothing and is, I've heard, the least popular genre in the bookstore, after poetry. A minute spent BBSing is a minute not spent billing. So what? Well, "billing" financed the trip to Mexico that allowed me to sit on the beach with a gin and tonic and have the uninterrupted reading time in the first place.

I need to bill, so I can take a vacation, so I can relax, so I can read, so I can clear my head, so I can think of new ideas, so I can bill more, so I can take a vacation ...

I'm not sure about this model anymore. I'm going back to fundamentals. I've always maintained that writing is thinking. The two are inseparable. You can't be a good writer without being a good thinker. When I stop writing, I stop thinking. Writing helps me think. Thinking helps me write. This is a virtuous, not vicious, circle.

And hey, if I ever start to think that "compressays" don't pay the bills, I can remember that they do at least help me avoid the psychiatry bill.

No Fly Zone Friday #8

2011-02-18T15:29:00.004-06:00

Today gave me a glimpse of the impossible: being 25 and retired at the same time.

I headed toward Minneapolis at about 8:00 with no plan, and after wasting precious minutes trying to find a hard copy New York Times (I am old), I ended up at French Meadow Bakery for breakfast. After that, it was time to visit the newest in the line of upscale, Clover-brew coffee shops, Dogwood, in the shockingly remodeled and suddenly very sunny Calhoun Square.

Eighteen years ago, I wandered into the original Calhoun Square (as the world's squarest 23-year-old alternative lead guitarist) to get a cappuccino in the exact spot where Dogwood now sits. The place at that time was called Kafte Coffee, and I remember that people were already grumbling that the emergence of a Gap across Hennepin was proof that Uptown had finally sold out ... a sentiment that has continued unabated for two decades. I also remember my surprise when the Kafte barista asked me how my day was going. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was the perfect Minneapolis moment: a slacker service worker greeting you at a pretentious coffee shop.

After Dogwood and the Times (Spider-Man the Musical is now in negotiations to hire a script doctor ... all that attention to wire rigs, and it still comes down to script), I ventured across the street to the world's greatest bookstore, Magers & Quinn. My mission was to find suitable material for the upcoming mini-vacation in Zihuatanejo. I knew that serious lit wouldn't do (as I passed a black-covered copy of Mein Kampf, I imagined the stares I would get reading it on a Mexican beach), nor would American history or essay.

I ended up with a copy of a Bono biography in the form of an extended interview, plus bios of Hitchcock and Sacha Baron Cohen. Since M & Q has a fantastic audiobook section, I also grabbed CD versions of John Meacham's American Lion (about Andrew Jackson) and the Tom Davis memoir of his Saturday Night Live years, 39 Years of Short-term Memory Loss. Short of a gym membership, there's no greater bang-for-the-buck on the planet than a solid haul from a used bookstore.

Finally, the main event: "Cedar Rapids" at the Uptown. I had planned on finally seeing "The King's Speech," but the gods seemed to be pointing me in a different direction. And the movie didn't disappoint. Ed Helms does the hard work of carrying the movie (while also showing why the words "character" and "caricature" are so closely related), but it's really a John C. Reilly vehicle. If you like Dr. Brule, "Cedar Rapids" is mandatory viewing ... as is seeing the movie if you're a Minnesotan (the script was written by "one of us": former KARE-11 reporter, Phil Johnston).

All in all, the day offered a glimpse into my personal paradise: feeling psychologically in your mid-20s without all the personal and financial insecurity (for one day, let's not get carried away) that accompanies that age. In other words, it was like getting to be retired without having to be 65. When someone asked my father what he was going to do when he retired, he responded, "I'm not going to do anything. I'm just going to be." The fact that you're not expected to live your life in that state until your body is long on its decline is a crying shame. A crying, crying shame.

No Fly Zone Friday #7

2011-01-21T16:12:00.003-06:00

Today's stops: Day by Day Cafe for breakfast and the New York Times. Kopplin's for the world's greatest cup of coffee. St. Anthony Main for "True Grit." The original Dunn Bros. on Grand and Snelling for an afternoon cap and reflection.

Today's theme starts with a question ... the same question that begins one of my favorite books of 2010, Denialism, by New Yorker science writer, Michael Specter:

If you had a choice to live in the past or in the future, which would you choose?

My guess is that most people would choose the past, and indeed, that would be my initial leaning. I would probably choose the so-called "Roaring '20s" in America, but who wouldn't be tempted by any number of other eras in other places?

A great deal of my recent reading is making me think otherwise, however. I just finished a biography of Albert Einstein, which reminds one of the true Nazi threat, not to mention the horrors of a real world war. "True Grit" could have been edgier than it was in placing you amid the hardships of the American frontier, but it does offer enough to make you think twice about romanticizing it. But most important, Bill Bryson's new book, At Home: a Short History of Private Life, which I've been playing in the car for weeks, pretty much terrifies you into loving the present.

At Home is an ingenious idea (though not executed as cleanly as it sounds). Bryson uses the home as a device in which to talk about modern human history. For example, in the living room, you learn about the advent and evolution of furniture. In the dining room, you get a brief history of the spice trade in answer to the question, "Why, of all spices, did we settle on salt and pepper?" I'm currently in the bathroom (in the book, that is), and of the history this room encapsulates (the former occupation of "night soil" removal, the practice of Middle Ages Christians to never bathe for fear that open pores led to disease), you do not want to know.

Of the present, we always have a certain amount of disdain. We are convinced that in the past, people were nicer and food was more wholesome. There was no global warming or terrorist threat. No incessant political bickering or 24-hour news cycle. No Snookie, no spoiled kids. Everything was simpler. We weren’t pulled in a million directions. Our attention spans and our governments suffered no deficits. People were better educated, more personal, more decent. Music was better. Art made sense. People had some measure of job security, and birds didn't arbitrarily fall from the sky.

Bryson's book brings things into sharper perspective. Of the environment, imagine yourself being sickened in your sleep every night by the paint or wallpaper in your bedroom (and not realizing it). Imagine living in London and seeing human waste and animal carcasses clogging the Thames. Of "things being simpler," imagine the state of your teeth, or the procedure that might be used to address breast cancer. Of decency, don't delude yourself. You might find the woman blocking your way in the Target aisle annoying, but nobody is challenging you to a duel. Intelligence? People lived with open fires in their homes and got rained on (due to the necessarily slatted nature of roofs) for millennia before someone finally came up with the concept of a chimney. And as for kids being nicer and less spoiled, well, that might be true, but back in the era you might admire, you wouldn't have been surprised to see half of your children die of disease.

Speaking as a person who can't even enjoy lying in the hammock in summer and staring up into clear blue sky, because he can't stop thinking about all the gasses in the atmosphere toasting the planet ... and wondering if his own son will see food shortages and real political chaos in his lifetime ... this actually eases my mind. As Bryson points out, basic concepts like "privacy" and "comfort" (not to mention "dental care" and "antibiotics") are very, very new. Fittingly, this gives me great comfort. Perhaps The Beatles were right, "It's Getting Better All the Time (It Can't Get No Worse)." I'll choose the future, please.

Then again, to have actually seen The Beatles in the Cavern Club ... damn.

Einstein's Accidental Theory of Everything

2011-01-21T11:18:00.002-06:00

"The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead, and his eyes are dimmed.

It was the experience of mystery, even if mixed with fear, that engendered religion. A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, our perceptions of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty, which only in their most primitive forms are accessible to our minds. It is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute true religiosity; in this sense, and in this alone, I am a deeply religious man.

I cannot conceive of a God who rewards and punishes his creatures, or has a will of the kind that we experience in ourselves. Neither can I nor would I want to conceive of an individual that survives his physical death; let feeble souls, from fear or absurd egoism, cherish such thoughts.

I am satisfied with the mystery of the eternity of life and with the awareness and a glimpse of the marvelous structure of the existing world, together with the devoted striving to comprehend a portion, be it ever so tiny, of the Reason that manifests itself in nature."

- Albert Einstein

LangAlert: "Mature"

2010-11-15T12:58:00.003-06:00

Somewhere along the way it became inadequate to describe something as merely "developing" or "improving." More specifically, it was suddenly too boring and bourgeois to say that you "improve" or "develop" something, or just plain make something better.

Along came the invasion of the Formerly Intransitive Verbs. These are words that describe an action that can happen, but cannot be applied to something else. Evolution, for example, is something that occurs over a long period of time. "Evolve" is a passive word. It's observational. It describes something that has changed and adapted to its environment. It is therefore intransitive. Something can evolve, but you cannot, by definition, "evolve" something.

Now comes "mature." Not the adjective; the verb. Like "evolve," "mature" also describes a passive process from the outside looking in. Over time, people, animals and plants mature. It's like micro-evolution; except that it describes a cyclical, self-contained process of development in one person or thing, rather than the collective, cumulative change and adaptation of an entire species.

But these facts never stop the CorporateSpeakanistas. Did you know that you can now hire someone to "mature your processes"? Not "improve" them. Not "make them better." But "mature" them. Because hey, if you don't mature your processes, how can you evolve your business?

No Fly Zone Friday #6

2010-10-29T12:17:00.009-06:00

I created the idea of No Fly Zone Fridays as a way of "forced disengagement." The concept: One Friday every month, take the day off to do the things that truly inspire you. It had an obvious idealistic basis to it ("The world is full of adventure; this is why self-employment is so great!") as well as a practical tinge ("If you don't do this, you're going to burn out and lose your creative IQ, as well as your income.") Nearly a year into the experiment, keeping in mind that I've only managed to do about one out of every two months for various reasons, it has become something else. No Fly Zone Friday has become an exercise in self-discovery through non-obligation.

Let me explain.

The problem with me, with creativity, with self-employment, with the culture, with growing up Catholic, with being a bloody Midwesterner ... is that you constantly preside over and attempt to mediate an internal war between your "craftsman" side (I can't bring myself self to say "artistic" in my case) and your responsible side. Being creative absolutely requires serious self-absorption. You cannot possess a vision to express without being in touch with yourself, which requires a tremendous turning inward. Being responsible requires shutting that impulse off. Snuffing it. A lot. Most of the time. Practically all of the time.

Add a family and self-employment, and you give great momentum to the responsibility side. Top it with a volatile and precarious economic climate, and you ratchet up the stakes even more. Throw inglorious middle age into the mix, when you're at the height of mortgage paying, new patio building, retirement and college planning and, most recently, disability insurance exploration, and you have all the ingredients for a new psychosis: Obligatory Obligation Syndrome.

The primary symptom is this: the feeling that everything you do in the course of a day is an obligation. It's not martyrdom, because you chose the path and would do so again. In fact, it's a luxury that you are even able to make these choices. This actually is what you want; it's just hard.

So No Fly Zone Friday comes along, and you have to ask yourself, what would I choose to do just for the next nine hours if all of those waves of obligation were temporarily parted? This forces you to go back into craftsman mode. Really, what interests me most right now? What would I like to do right now that has nothing to do what with I should be doing?

For me, it has become downright disorienting. I got into the car this morning having no idea where I was headed. I only traveled half a block. "I want a New York Times" is all I could think of. The nearest machine is right outside the St. Clair Broiler on Snelling and St. Clair. I parked the car, grabbed two dollars in quarters and took the last available edition. I got back into the car. What now? Head to my favorite coffee shop? "Not yet." I had a responsibility relapse and called the 800 number of the insurance company that was after me for a medical interview as part of the disability insurance process. That only took 15 minutes, fairly painless. In fact, it made me feel pretty good. "Think of all the questions you were able to answer 'no' to. You're pretty un-screwed up when you think about it."

Anyone watching me would have been terribly confused, because the next thing I did was get right back out of the car and head into the Broiler for breakfast. "What the hell? Get some eggs and hashbrowns and sit there and read the paper." So I did, half a block from my house. Then I did go to that favorite coffee shop, and I read even more.

Then I drove to The Walker Art Center with no knowledge of what exhibits were showing or what I wanted to see. It hit me that these NFZ Fridays usually tend to involve coffee, the New York Times, art museums and blogging. A clue? To something? Maybe?

When I entered The Walker, I stepped down into the first exhibit that caught my eye: a photographer named Alec Soth. It was spectacular. Here was a visual artist ("one of us," to boot ... always big with Minnesotans) whose sensibility interested me. Some of his photos had a Hopper-like lonely quality, but they didn't just stop there (let's face it, lonely is easy). Some had a very Midwestern sense of irony, humor, borderline satire, but they weren't judgmental. This is an artist who walks a lot of fine lines and somehow makes it all work. Perhaps my favorite photo was of a Niagara, New York, motel room from the outside in winter. Had it been just that, it would have been interesting enough ... decay, a bygone era, cold, loneliness ... but what makes the photo a work of art is what you see when you look closely at the snow: footsteps heading to the door. This isn't just another abandoned building; there's someone inside. Or is there?

But perhaps the most interesting thing I learned about Soth had to do with the camera he uses: a rare, large-format 8x10 device. This is the opposite of your iPhone digital camera. It's huge. It's imposing. You can't just walk by and inconspicuously snap a picture of a stranger. The physical presence of the camera makes the shoot an event. Soth has to stop and talk to his subjects. He has to earn their cooperation, even when they have other things to do. Then he has to get behind what amounts to a curtain to look through the camera. The whole process takes a while, and what he likes about it is not so much the quality of print the camera's huge negatives produce, but what the process does to his subjects. It forces them to relax in a way, to turn inward even in front of this huge camera. When he captures that feeling in a print, then he knows he has something interesting. And it shows in the photos.

I left with a smile on my face, and just a tinge of jealousy. After viewing Soth's photos, as well as listening to him speak about them via my phone (a nifty system I didn't know The Walker had), I realized that I was in the presence of a true artist who seems to have no trouble with obligation. He's long been perfectly in touch with his vision, and he's done everything he needs to communicate it to a random stranger like me. His obligation is to his art.

It made me consider what my project would be if I thought in terms of having an exhibit ... with no limits, no oppressive concerns about audience and entertainment ... no time constraints, and no need for disability insurance.

I came up empty.

Insane in the Membrane?

2010-08-27T12:35:00.009-06:00

Chalk this up as one of those "obvious revelations."

I was reading a Vanity Fair article on the state of the American presidency. The point of the article was not political in any way; it was simply to give the reader a sense of how much the day-to-day experience of a U.S. president has changed, even since Clinton. The line that hit me came from a press secretary who talked about how you used to be able to at least catch wind of a significant development in the West Wing, then strategize your response, then respond and gauge reaction. Now, he said, there are no boundaries, no borders between big events. It's non-stop.

This is yet another example of the "constant stream" effect. From 24-hour news to social media communication to you name it, the biggest psychological change for people of my age is that we've gone from a world with manageable boundaries to a world that resembles an incessant stock ticker. To use a third analogy, we are people surrounded by bulging spigots labeled "work," "play," "entertainment," "information," and "basic human communication." By default, they're all on full blast. For people of middle age, you have some sense that you can turn these spigots on and off at will. And the challenge in life is to know how and when to do so before drowning. For people who grew up in the new world, there is no sense of this choice. You simply take it all in.

I'm resisting the temptation to be sentimental, to say that this new world is bad, wrong or immoral, and to call for a return to the past. True, the new reality does strike me as incredibly damaging at times ... and sure to result in a society where nobody possesses deep knowledge or critical thinking capacity, and where our gradual lack of competence, loss of focus and inability to choose the "right" and "healthy" versus the "easy" and "entertaining" destroys us. But that would be the equivalent of Thomas Jefferson and the old Republicans mourning the loss of the supposedly pure agrarian America as we moved toward manufacturing, commerce, paper money and raw individualism in the early 1800s. Jefferson's model wasn't sustainable, either.

I truly believe that The Great Rewiring is taking place. I'm talking about our brains, and "rewiring" is probably the wrong analogy, because our brains are much more plastic than we'd like to believe. We tend to compare our brains to the technology of the day, and for 25 years, that's been computers. Evidence points to the reverse: Our brains mold themselves to the environment. So what is this amazing evolutionary product called the human brain doing to adapt to the constant stream age? We're about to find out. Might it be disastrous? Possibly. Might it be wonderful? Equally as possible. Might it be both. I can almost guarantee it.

But for those of us who have known the previous world and continue to adapt to the new one (including Yours Truly, who only four years ago swore that he would never need or want a cell phone and now spends four hours a day opening and closing app spigots for banking, communication, weather, news, movie listings and sports scores), the constant-stream universe is, I think, causing a new form of insanity.

This will not be a clean transition for my tribe. You can live neither in the past nor the future. It is psychological homelessness.

Where do I begin?

2010-08-06T16:26:00.005-06:00

I could start by saying that I might just be the luckiest man on the face of the earth (and that was before "Souvenirs" started to shoot). The rest is gravy. And what a fine, fine gravy it is.

Just over a year ago, I was pulled into a meeting with a Marine and a hunt club owner. I walked in a little annoyed, and the feeling only grew worse. I was juggling client projects, probably with multiple end-of-the-day deadlines breathing down my neck, and now I was told that these two gentlemen thought they wanted to make a movie.

I didn't take it seriously, because they didn't look like movie types. When they said they wanted to recreate some scenes from World War II in Minnesota, I scoffed; when they said they wanted to do the same with Iraq, I nearly laughed out loud. But still, I liked their premise of a grandson finding his grandfather's footlocker, and they weren't asking me to do anything for free. I didn't have any time for the project, and the Marine acted like he wanted a script by 5:00 that day, but something told me to say yes. I knew nothing about the topic, but I also had nothing to lose.

From that moment on, it felt like something was being set into motion that, to use the cliche (because nothing else describes it), has taken on a life of its own. Flash forward one year, and I'm watching a P38 plane ... one of only six left in the world that can still fly ... doing a strafing run over a fake explosion in a German tank. I'm speaking with Army generals who are telling me how much this story will mean to vets. A crew of over 50 people is working 12+ hour days to bring the pages I wrote to life, creating images that are being captured and edited to (hopefully) eventually be seen by many, many people.

Creation still mystifies me. The act of envisioning something in your brain and then making it exist in a form that can be experienced by others has always conjured my most intense spiritual feelings. Because movie-making is the most collaborative art form ever devised, the feeling is taken to still yet another level. P38s are impressive, but for some reason it was a sheep that really brought the feeling home for me. Imagine this: You write about a dead sheep lying in the middle of a road in Iraq, and a year later you are standing in a limestone quarry looking at a bloodied prosthetic sheep. Those words on that computer screen in your basement eventually caused a team of people to spend weeks (maybe months) creating this sheep. Someone designed and molded the fake ribs that are now exposed on its side. Another person has applied karo syrup blood to the wound. Still another has transported the sheep to this exact location, which, by the way, had to be secured via multiple interactions between still other people. And now a crew of 50 is spending the next two hours of their lives trying to capture this image so it can be placed within the context of a larger story--your story--and then, maybe within a year, be seen by others on a TV or in a darkened theater.

The entire experience of making "Souvenirs" has really been beyond belief, and I am the first to recognize the rare privilege involved. For me, the story I wrote on the page is ultimately about the importance of expressing gratitude. I guess by writing about the filming, I am expressing just a bit of that myself ... though I must say, it seems grossly, grossly inadequate.

Souvenirs

2010-07-24T22:55:00.004-06:00

I'll have to spend some time when this experience is over to reflect on it more clearly, but for now, it's just a matter of documenting the incredible experience of making "SOUVENIRS."

From WCCO:

'Souvenirs' Movie Shoot Puts Iraq Near Mankato

It's not every day that journalists get to ride in Chinook helicopters. Of course, it's not every day the Minnesota National Guard is promoting a film about a soldier.

Around 9 o'clock Saturday morning, soldiers escorted 11 Twin Cities news people onto a Chinook helicopter. A half hour later, the chopper touched down in the Kasota Quarry outside Mankato.

That's where the movie "Souvenirs" is being shot. It's a fictional story about a Minnesota Red Bull named Kyle Vogel. When Vogel was 13, he found his grandfather's World War II footlocker and pushed him to tell stories of three items inside. The movie flashes back to the grandfather's service in WWII and forward to Vogel's time in Iraq.

"It's not about just the fighting and what happens in war," said actor Jonathan Bennett, who plays Kyle Vogel. "It's kind of about what happens after war, and why don't we talk about it."

St. Paul resident Marc Conklin wrote the script.

"The funny thing is we're not actually making a war movie. We're making a family movie," he said. "It covers two wars and two places and two different times, but it's really about what happens on a porch between a grandfather and a grandson over lemonade."

There's a famous face in the film, James Cromwell, who was nominated for an Oscar for his part in "Babe." He wasn't on set Saturday, but his son, John Cromwell, was. The Cromwells play the same character, Bud Vogel. John Cromwell plays his as a young man, James Cromwell as an older one.

"I won't be working with him," said John Cromwell. "On the same project. It will be fun to be on the same project."

There are 110 Minnesotans working on "Souvenirs." John Cromwell is one of them. His mother's family is from Medina.

"I got a job out here a couple years ago and came out, and I just like it out here and I stayed," he said.

Lt. Col. John Clearwater was on the set. He used to work in Special Operations, but last week he started a new job in the Army's Los Angeles Entertainment office. Clearwater said movies like "Souvenirs" help American understand and support their military.

"Films are a popular form of communication for the American public," said Clearwater. "It's a good way, among others, of getting the story out, of telling the story of the American soldier."

The Minnesota Guard and the Department of Defense are playing a key role in "Souvenirs." They're providing equipment, vehicles and advice.

Clearwater spent two years in Iraq. When asked if the quarry looked like a war zone, he said, "Through the lens of a camera, they'll pull it off. And that's what counts."

The Dirty Little Secret About Our Economy

2010-07-08T07:44:00.009-06:00

Lately, I've been in a surreal state of ESEDD: Extreme Simultaneous Engagement and Disengagement Disorder. On one hand, I've been more engaged in my work and writing ... and even music ... than ever before. On the other hand, things that used to engage me (namely, news and opinion) are failing to cut through.

Part of this could be yet another symptom of middle age. I like to say that you spend your 20s thinking you know everything, your 30s realizing you don't know anything, and your 40s realizing that nobody knows anything. Last night on the way home from work, I heard callers to a talk radio show speak passionately about the Arizona immigration law. When asked if they had actually read it, not one said yes. I haven't read it either, so why should I have an opinion on it? I could get informed by reading the newspaper, but one of today's lead stories was about whether shorts are appropriate in the work place. (Really, Star Tribune, really?)

Researchers at the Institute of Made-up Facts in My Head That Are Probably True estimate that 80 percent of people who talk and write passionately about issues know nothing or very little about them. (The other 20 percent do, but are paid to take a position one way or the other.)

And then there are the ads. I've lately come to realize just how much marketing is based on the obfuscation of "causality" vs. "correlation." It's true that an alarming number of car accidents are caused by distracted driving. It's also true that a growing amount of distracted driving is due to the use of cell/smartphones. It's also true that a growing number of teenagers, especially girls, use cell/smartphones and text all day long, including while they drive. But is it true to say that being a teenage girl causes car accidents? No, that's correlation. Is it true that smartphone use while driving causes car accidents? Yes, that's causality.

Yet, this distinction is totally out the window when it comes to product marketing, or a lot of "studies" for that matter. "Parents who have a lot of books in the house tend to have smarter kids." Right, that's because having books in the house is generally a symptom of intellectually curious people. And those people tend to have smarter kids for all kinds of reasons. Do the books themselves, sitting on the shelf, unread, cause kids to be smart? Again, I am reminded of Navin Johnson's reaction in "The Jerk" as he stands by the gas pump, bullets meant for him instead hitting cans of motor oil: "Wow, this guy really hates cans!"

Which clumsily brings me to today's not-very-well-thought-out rant: The dirty little secret about our economy is that it depends on stupidity, laziness and willful ignorance. Who doesn't know that the real keys to being healthy are exercising and eating lots of fresh fruits and vegetables? Yet how much money ... and how many jobs ... are generated from the outright denial of that fact? How much money is poured into pills, supplements and gimmick diets ... anything to help people avoid getting on a treadmill and steaming some broccoli?

Who doesn't know that a good night's sleep is the key to everything from mental well-being to maintaining a healthy weight? Yet how many people sacrifice sleep with the hope of making it up with Red Bull, 5 Hour Energy, or insanely expensive cups of coffee? (Oops ... )

So once again, I'm terrified at the fact that the incentives are not aligned. For the same reason that you'll never see an hour-long TV special on why you should turn off your TV, the government (especially in a recession and carrying a crushing debt load) is never really going to be serious about creating a sharp, informed, critical-thinking citizenry. If we actually had such a thing, our economy would disintegrate.

No Fly Zone Friday #5

2010-05-28T13:40:00.003-06:00

Very scattered No Fly Zone today. In a way, going to the Screenwriters Conference at Santa Fe (which I do next week) is a week-long No Fly Zone, so I wasn't very disciplined about this one.

The day started with a work out (?!), followed by a visit to James' school to see students present some of their work. James was in a research group that developed books on the topic of their choice, and he chose Komodo dragons. The book was quite long and extensive, complete with at least six chapters that the young researcher read out loud. Yes, I couldn't have been more proud.

That was followed by an activity more typical for the stereotype that I am: drinking premium coffee at a snobby coffee shop while reading Tolstoy. That's not a joke; I've really been enjoying Anna Karenina, and I'm bound and determined to get through all 800 pages (350 to go). Those Russians just get to me; don't know why.

Next I was hit with some actual work. Blasphemy. And now I get a couple of hours to work on TWIN CITIES, the new self-indulgent indie screenplay.

All in all, a fantastic day with picture-perfect weather, but not really in the NFZ spirit. Idea for next one, courtesy of Count Tolstoy: Visiting the Museum of Russian Art in Minneapolis.

Oh yes, and I uploaded this old college production:

No Fly Zone Friday #4

2010-04-23T11:47:00.010-06:00

Back on track for No Fly Zones after March's was spent with the family in lovely Atlanta.

Today's agenda was completely spontaneous. First an iPhone calendar alert reminded me to take in my old VHS tape of the "Bee Slippers" music video (made by my college band) for digitizing and eventual YouTubification. The deal is done. I'm paying way too much money. And the product should arrive in the first week of May. (Mid-life and nostalgia are a toxic combination.)

Next it was off to my office for a quick drop off. That left me strategically situated between the Twin Cities, so I opted for caffeination and the unique currant scones at Taraccino Coffee (Nordeast, across from Kramarczuk Deli) with a side of the New York Times. Did you know that the U.S. is exploring a conventional (non-nuclear) weapon that can strike any part of the globe in an hour? Did you know that Wall St. traders are pushing for the right to bet on Box Office futures? Did you know that Al Pacino is starring in an HBO biopic on Jack Kevorkian airing tomorrow night? Did you know that there are now ever-growing social media tools that enable you to post, among other things, everything you buy, and your decoded genome, and that basically the Digital Native population doesn't give a rip about privacy? It's all there in something called a "newspaper."

I was strategically positioned to take in the International Film Festival over at St. Anthony Main, but the earliest movie started too late. I opted instead to see "The Ghost Writer," a new Roman Polanski/Ewan McGregor/Pierce Brosnan vehicle that has largely flown under the radar. A brief review ...

The movie is essentially a political thriller in which one ghost writer replaces another (who apparently drowned in a suicide attempt) in drafting the memoirs of a controversial former British prime minister. It's a well-crafted affair that moves at a deliberate pace, strikes the right tone with its Cape Cod island setting, includes one of my favorite final scenes ever, and is definitely worth seeing, renting or streaming.

My only knocks are kind of picky. I hate it when movies are obviously based on real people and events, but use cheeky names to disguise them. Brosnan's character is obviously supposed to represent Tony Blair. His name is Adam Lang (not a bad effort, but trust me, the two-syllable/one-syllable similarity is no coincidence). When Lang is shown on CNN shaking hands with the Secretary of State, we see a Condoleezza Rice lookalike. Instead of "Halliburton," we get "Hatherton." Really?

The movie's other curiosity is its rather embarrassing attempt to move down from an R to a PG-13 rating. Little known fact, but if you want to write a PG-13 script, you get exactly one F-bomb. "The Ghost Writer" was written to be an R-rated movie, with maybe half a dozen effenheimers. But I noticed early on that they were being dubbed over ("Sod off!"). Sure enough, toward the end of the film, someone finally got to use the word unencumbered.

These nitpicks asides, "The Ghost Writer" is squarely in the classic thriller genre ... definitely too slow for the action movie crowd, but good fodder for those, like me, who are fans of the Hitchcock School of Suspense.

Literal Eclipse of the Heart

2010-04-14T16:22:00.001-06:00

Glenn Beck Is on to Me ...

2010-03-15T09:27:00.000-06:00

Blogging the Oscars

2010-03-07T20:40:00.028-06:00

Steve Martin & Alec Baldwin... thought I was going to be disappointed. Not at all.

What’s up with Clooney? Smile for hell’s sake!

Why won't Woody fix his teeth?

Christopher Walz, good.

Cameron Diaz still has the face of a clown.

Ed Asner is still alive?!

Wow, Up dude looks like thin Frankenstein.

Not a fan of the tux neckties. Bowties only please.

"Please welcome two actresses who have no idea who we are."

Mylie Cyrus talks like a pack-a-day smoker.

Randy Newman nominated again... twice? Doesn't win again. Is he ever in the crowd?

T Bone Burnett, creepiest man alive.

What is Tina Fey wearing? Me Tarzan, you Tina? What is Downey wearing?

Original screenplay goes to Hurt Locker. Okay, would have preferred Inglourious Basterds. Good speech.

Molly Ringwald?! Oh, it's a John Hughes thing. Is Molly Ringwald really tall, or is Matthew Broderick really short? Wow, for the most part John Hughes movies are filled with the broken dreams of young actors. Wonder why he gets so much more than the usual In Memoriam. In retrospect, nothing was better than "Planes, Trains and Automobiles." A great, great film.

I need to see Up.

Ben Stiller rules. James Cameron has no sense of humor.

What's with Jeff Bridges and the Colonel Sanders look?

Best Adapted Screenplay. Please don't give it to "Up in the Air." Good. Nice cutaway to "all the black people" after Precious writer's speech.

Has Queen Latifa lost weight?

Penelope Cruz is friggin' gorgeous and has the best taste... every year.

Best Supporting Actress... give it to Anna Kendrick, the best part of "Up in the Air," although she looks like a young Tom Cruise in the movie. Goes to Mo'Nique. I'd give it to her based only on the clips, haven't seen the movie. Forgot to thank the director.

Sigourney Weaver is wearing the drapes.

Art Direction should really be a more prominent award. Avatar, no surprise. Gotta start forwarding through the speeches, need to catch up on the DVR...

Awesome cut to a clueless Keanu Reeves after not getting a writerly joke from Martin & Baldwin.

Sarah Jessica Parker is scary, scary, scary. As Anne has pointed out, she looks like Dee Snyder from Twisted Sister.

Why are they saying "the winner is" instead of "the Oscar goes to"? I mean, I prefer it, but it's been a no-no for years.

How can you show Charlize Theron without a closeup?

Is there a lot of noise constantly in the background or am I crazy?

Horror doesn't get the respect it deserves? Puhleeze. The montage only reinforced how much better the genre used to be. Okay, except for The Birds. Oh man, Carrie still gets me. So does The Shining. Is Quentin Tarantino's face made of plastic?

Irony: The audio quality on Morgan Freeman's VO on audio editing ... sucks. Audio editing winner looks like Christopher Walken crossed with an albino witch. Hurt Locker surprisingly winning technical awards I thought were locks for Avatar.

Brad Pitt should have been nominated.

What the hell is it about James Cameron that really bothers me?

Why was Demi Moore not with the Brat Pack? Too good?!

In Memoriam coming ... James Taylor, sweet. Beatles, even sweeter. Dom Deluise died? R.I.P. Larry Gelbart.

A dance number ... fast forward.

Jesus, what is wrong with George Clooney? Almost caught up now ...

Will Avatar win Visual Effects? Is the pope German?

Good screenwriter joke, Mr. Baldwin's writer.

Snuggi joke good. Keanu Reeves bad. Always.

Don't know why main dude in Hurt Locker wasn't nominated. Oops, he was.

I kind of liked these "peer to peer" things last year; not sure this year. Clooney, get a haircut. I really love Clooney, but I have to say one more thing: He's starting to look more and more like he was drawn by Matt Groening.

Imagine a bunch of CPAs publicly loving each other as much as these actors do. Kudos to Tim Robbins for not taking it that seriously.

I love Kate Winslet. Even if she looks like toothpaste being squeezed from a silver tube.

Jeff Bridges. Haven't seen the movie yet, but good for The Colonel. He's stoned.

T. Bone Burnett, child molester.

Why is everyone wearing Martin Scorcese glasses?

Sandra Bullock, too much lipstick.

Wishing I could still fast forward ...

Why is Oprah being all mentory on acting? Good speech, though.

Most overused word on Oscar night: "brilliant."

Capping nominations rule, good bit.

Sean Penn: well meaning, never articulate.

Best Actress goes to ... Sandra Bullock. Kind of a letdown. "Did I really earn this, or did I just wear y'all down?" Good line. Great speech.

Who's the goon behind Helen Mirren?

Time for Director. "it could be, for the first time, a woman, or an African-American ... " But no, it's going to be another white dude who's already won. I'd actually love it if Tarantino won this one, but there's no chance. It's Bigelow! Good, the time has come indeed. Downright embarrassing that it took this long.

Who does Katherine Bigelow look like? Driving me crazy.

"I Am Woman"? Really?

Hurt Locker wins! Wow, quickest announcement (Tom Hanks) in history. Good for them. Sorry, James, you'll just have to go home and count your money. Feels good. A victory for theme, writing and acting.

"The show is so long that Avatar now takes place in the past."

Good show. I'd take Mssrs. Baldwin and Martin over every other host, except of course Billy Crystal.

Good night.

40, Part 1

2010-03-05T15:18:00.004-06:00

As I close in on the last two months of 40, it's high time I finally wrote about this disturbing age, which has been somewhat of an obsession for me. May writing about it exorcise its many demons.

For as long as I can remember--or at least as long as I've been watching too much TV--I've feared mid-life crisis almost more than death itself. Why? Because it's always seemed clear to me that the 40s are the decade when men lose their minds. Why else would so many fictional men with wonderful fictional wives suddenly trash it all for the sports car and the aerobics instructor? (I'm talking to you, "Fatal Attraction" Michael Douglas and "American Beauty" Kevin Spacey.)

For most of the women I know, 40 is a liberating age. There's an easing of pressure accompanied by a comfortable acceptance of self. The weight of self-consciousness lessens. Old insecurities lose their punch. Hair shortens.

For men ... well, I won't speak for men ... I'll speak for me and see if other men agree: 40 has the opposite effect. The pressure is threefold. The acceptance of self: eh. Self-consciousness? Probably greater. Insecurities, still nagging, still pestering.

The dawn of subtle physical and mental changes starts the ball rolling. Why do I suddenly misjudge distances, banging my hand on the cupboard when returning a dish? Why do I bend differently to pick a toy up off the floor, knees akimbo like an old man, rather than easily and effortlessly from the waist? Why can I suddenly not remember the names of movie stars? Why do I seem to always feel my eyes, and why am I constantly clearing my throat when I speak?

Then it hits you: 40 isn't just mid-life. It's not like you had 40 years of health and growth, and now you get 40 more. Your healthy years are over, dude ... and that's if you're lucky to be alive and haven't had any major health issues to this point. You suddenly wonder what cumulative effects your past habits have exerted on your physical state. All those gallons of pop I ingested in my teenage years, all the Frito-Lay chemicals I shoved down the gullet, the acid from 20 years of coffee drinking, the second-hand smoke from years of playing gigs, the nearly first-hand smoke from working that summer in the cramped underground Dublin nightclub. Yikes. And I've lived pretty clean ...

Then there's that whole mortality thing. If you're the over-sensitive type like me, you already make a habit of noticing the elephant in every room. By 40, you realize that the elephant in every room is death. It's the backdrop to and context of every human action and expression: football, art, procreation, blogging, hedge funds ... it matters not, mere mortal. When you see everything through the death lens, you realize that every human endeavor is in some way an attempt to achieve immortality. It's so painfully, painfully obvious.

At the same time, you reach a point in your intellectual development where you either cling even more tightly to your prior beliefs, shut the lid on exploration and become more fundamentalist ... about your religion, your politics, your vegetarianism, your musical taste ... or you blow it wide open, question everything all over again and begin a new blank slate. I highly recommend the latter.

And, perhaps most interesting of all, you try to find a way to live with this: When you're in your 20s, you think you know everything and the rest of the world is stupid. In your 30s, you get enough of a taste of how things work to realize that you don't know anything and there's actually a reason why things are the way the are. Then you hit 40 and realize that the screenwriter William Goldman was correct in a much broader sense than even he intended: Nobody knows anything.

This is at once terrifying and liberating. On one hand, there's very little actually holding society together. At all. On the other hand, you look at the things that used to intimidate you, all the things you never thought you could do, the places you never thought you would go, and you shrug your shoulders and say, "Why not?"

NFZF #2 (No Fly Zone Friday)

2010-03-05T14:48:00.004-06:00

NFZF #2 proceeded as follows:

8:00 a.m.
Dunn Bros. (Snelling & St. Clair)
Coffee and New York Times

10:00 a.m.
Accolades (Randolph & Cleveland)
Haircut

10:30 a.m.
Highland Park Library
Checked out books on histories of Mpls & St. Paul (screenplay research), two books for James, audio book: "The Quest: Historians' Search for Jesus & Muhammad" by F.E. Peters

11:15 a.m.
Chipotle

Noon
Minneapolis Institute of Arts
Marco Breuer Photography Exhibit
Frank Lloyd Wright
French & American Impressionists
Minnesota Artists

3:00 p.m.
Nina's (Western & Selby)

4:00 p.m.
Common Good Books (beneath Nina's)

LangAlert: "Micropreneur"

2010-02-08T20:45:00.003-06:00

Spotted in a recent Wall Street Journal article:

"It's a trend that began after the economic downturn of the late 1980s, as many laid-off professionals became consultants. Then it seemed temporary, though, tied to bad times. Evidence now suggests that this is our new economic condition. Today, in fact, 20% to 23% of U.S. workers are operating as consultants, freelancers, free agents, contractors or micropreneurs."

Wait a minute, am I a "micropreneur"? Why does that make me feel so ... small?

KumbayAvatar

2010-01-29T15:31:00.005-06:00

Where to begin? Here's an epic movie delivered in the most epic way currently possible. James Cameron is obviously a genius, and that this creation originated in his brain is staggering. "Avatar" will break every record imaginable. It will indeed change the way movies (not all, but some) are made. I'm an hour removed from seeing it in 3D at an IMAX theater, and it's as hard for me to return to this world as it is for Sam Worthington's character.

And yet, just as evaluating Sarah Palin requires you to first imagine that she looks like Madeleine Albright, to really evaluate "Avatar," you have to somehow, some way, look beyond the technology. (BTW, my one digital effects criticism is this: Why is there still some element of "weight" missing from all animate objects? When they run, they still seem to float.) When you do that, "Avatar" doesn't exactly crash back down to earth, but it does lose some of its "ground-breaking" street cred.

A disclaimer about the angle I'm approaching this with; even I'm not sure what it is. In some ways I'm a film snob, generally favoring Hitchcock classics, your basic Oscar-nominated foreign and indie fare, Charlie Kaufman screenplays, Christopher Guest mockumentaries and modern documentaries that truly educate. On the other hand, I despise some art-house fare (most notably "Magnolia" and "The Cook the Thief His Wife & Her Lover"), I'm an unapologetic fan of "It's a Wonderful Life," and just yesterday I launched a defense of that other small James Cameron movie, "Titanic," that may cost me a friend or two (just kidding, Dave and Terry).

I won't criticize "Avatar" in ways that I imagine the Academic Disgruntia already are (that it patronizingly glorifies "the primitive," that its Na'vi body designs objectify women, that it ultimately seems to advocate fighting violence with violence). Nor will I look through the lens of the Reactionary Right ("it's just another Hollywood elite, anti-corporate, anti-military, anti-imperialist fairly tale about native tree-huggers beating up on an enemy that's two-dimensional even in 3D"). Nor will I point out the obvious irony that somebody used every Western tool known to man to make garbillions of dollars on a movie essentially about preserving the rain forest--that is showing all over the world in energy-sucking air-conditioned IMAX theaters (oops, I guess I just did).

I have no problem with Avatar's epic fairly tale structure. I have no problem with making good guys good and bad guys bad. I came in expecting action, and calling "Avatar" a mere "action movie" is an insult to the movie. I guess my perspective is similar to the one I recently took with "Up in the Air," that of a coach who reserves his most virulent criticism for his best player:

"Avatar, you're good. Really good. But you could be better."

All it would take is a little more care with the script. I realized with "Avatar" that there's something I miss when watching a non-Spielbergian epic. Spielberg brings a certain breeziness, wit and sense of humor to his projects. Remember Indiana Jones watching the Ninja expertly cut the air with his sword, then sighing, shrugging his shoulders blowing him away with his pistol? James Cameron wouldn't have thought of that. Remember the plane propellers approaching the unsuspecting musclehead goomba, then the cut to blood hitting the airplane? Cameron wouldn't have done that. I watched "Saving Private Ryan" again recently and was amazed at how much Spielberg revealed with only sound. In other words, Spielberg knows how to speak in visual subtext. There's a wonderful moment early in "Avatar" when a huge American tank-like machine returns to the Pandora base, and we see the tires littered with arrows. That tells you a lot, and that's what I'm talking about. Unfortunately, it's the only visual-subtastic moment in the movie.

The rest of "Avatar" is on the nose, as is much of the dialogue. Again, don't get me wrong. When a blood-thirsty marine commander says, "Let's get this over with before lunch" (or whatever he says), or a turncoat pilot shoots at said commander and says to herself, "You're not the only one with a gun, bitch!", I'm not surprised and it doesn't ruin the movie. Plus, keep in mind that one of the main reasons I'm so critical of ham-fisted dialogue is that I've written a lot of it myself. (If I wrote a script half as good as "Avatar," I'd think I was a genius.)

But when I realized that "Avatar" is pretty much devoid of any kind of subtext or sense of humor, I felt ever so slightly let down. Because while I'm being transported to this amazing, imaginative paradise of a cinematic universe, I'm still thinking about what could have been.

Introducing "No Fly Zone Fridays"

2010-01-29T15:09:00.006-06:00

So I decided that the one thing about self-employment that messes you up (besides health insurance expenses) is the blow to balance. In some ways, self-employment enhances balance. But the cancer is the constant "working without a net" feeling. You become obsessed with working, because if you're not working, you're not making money. And if you're not making money, you're not paying the bills. And if you're not paying your bills, your son can't go to college. And then everybody dies.

The irony of being self-employed in a creative industry is that the more you work, the less space you have to do the things that helped you be creative in the first place. Things like going to a movie. Staring at art for a few hours. Walking. Reading the newspaper. Playing guitar. And blogging (which is really just the process of writing self-absorbed personal essays, but with a much better distribution method).

So a waking thought came to me in December (pay attention to the first thought you have when you wake up in the morning, it's the best one you'll have all day): No Fly Zone Fridays. The last Friday of every month is a No Fly Zone. No work. No family (for eight hours, at least). No real responsibilities. Just the space for solitary inspiration.

Today is Jan. 29, and I'm coming to the end of my first NFZF. What did I do? I went to my neighborhood Dunn Bros. I got a 12-ounce cappuccino. I read a decent chunk of the New York Times (print version). I walked over to Great Clips for a haircut. I grabbed a burrito bowl at Chipotle. I went to see Avatar in 3D at the Rosedale AMC IMAX. I stopped at Cheapo and bought two old Kinks albums. Now I'm at Kopplin's Coffee on Randolph and Hamline, and I have more than two hours to do nothing but write.

It's heaven. I'll start with my review of Avatar.

The Joe Mauer Project

2010-01-22T10:43:00.002-06:00

Just thought I'd share the Conk Creative spot with Joe Mauer for Anytime Fitness:

"Up in the Air": Not on Board

2010-01-10T14:15:00.015-06:00

I can't put my finger on it. Was it because the movie had so much hype? Was it because I liked Jason Reitman's last two movies ("Thank You for Smoking" and "Juno") so much and was bound to be let down? Whatever it was, "Up in the Air" disappointed greatly.

The opening credit sequence, and indeed the first 10 minutes of the movie, are filled with promise. Patchwork geographic images of U.S. terrain at 30,000 feet move like puzzle pieces set to music: inventive, playful, classic Reitman. Then a rapid montage of Ryan's (George Clooney's) packing habits tells you everything you need to know about his primary character traits. Excellent.

But then, something goes amiss. Actually, five things:

1. The tone never achieves balance. Both "Thank You for Smoking" and "Juno" established a universe and tone that felt immediately comfortable in the dramedy genre (the hardest genre to write and direct, in my opinion). This one never quite does. Instead of feeling like a film that is both funny and tragic, it never shakes the feeling that it can't decide between the two.

2. The structure is off. What sets the movie in motion (the "inciting incident" in screenwriting jargon): Ryan meeting Alex? The introduction of the company's new methodology and the sharp young female mind behind it? Or is it the subplot with Clooney's sister's wedding? It isn't clear, and these elements don't flow logically from each other in terms of plot or theme. I imagine that Reitman sees the unifying element as "commitment" (everything is about commitment and how Ryan views it). Theoretically, that's true. In practice, the center does not hold.

3. The writing is uneven. Parts of the film were brilliant, particularly the dialogue between the two main female characters ("Don't get me wrong, I appreciate everything your generation did for women, but...") was one element of the movie's best sequence. But it's telling that the best writing doesn't involve Clooney's character. In fact, at the movie's moment of truth, when Ryan is set up to deliver a game-changing speech, the writing is absolutely pedestrian. Either you have the speech be lackluster on purpose (because that fits Clooney's character in that situation), and then the speech doesn't have its desired effect; or the speech is profound and well-written, and it does its job within the story. Instead, Ryan somehow manages to underperform and overdeliver. You can't have it both ways.

4. Clooney's character winds up feeling unbelievable, and in the end, there's no emotional moment for the viewer. It's actually rare to see a movie where you completely buy a character during the film, but then by the end think, "Really?" But this is one of those cases. Could there really be a guy who likes to travel as much as Ryan? Sure. A guy who is as obsessed with miles and elite clubs? Maybe. A guy who travels the country firing people? Could exist, maybe already does. But a guy who also gets paid lots of money to give motivational speeches about dropping all of your commitments? Sorry. There's a reason we never see the audience's reaction to the end of any of Ryan's speeches: that particular message simply doesn't inspire. Plus, no company would hire someone to deliver a message of anti-commitment, because every company wants to build loyalty, not destroy it.

5. The movie suffers from "alternative music" syndrome. I appreciate films that do the unexpected. Lord knows we have enough movies that press blunt cookie cutters into processed emotional dough. But you can't be different just to be different. Calling your music "alternative" reveals your utter dependence on the thing against which you are rebelling (if it goes away, you lose your power). Movies like "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly," which I watched the night before, seem completely "other." "Up in the Air" felt like it was producing a few twists just for their own sake, including the very end of the movie. It's not the Hollywood ending you would expect, and that's great. But does it ultimately make a statement outside the fact that it's "unexpected"? No.

* * *

I don't mean to pick on this movie too much. "Up in the Air" is still better than 80 percent of what's out there. But especially after seeing "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly," this felt like a movie that desperately wanted to have meaning, but simply wasn't willing to do the work to achieve it. Like its main character, it marches up to the edge of profundity, and then simply escapes.

Souvenirs

2010-01-08T11:55:00.002-06:00

Introducing the official pre-production trailer of my newest script, Souvenirs:

My Son Is Not Normal

2010-01-01T13:28:00.000-06:00

The newspaper is not dead.

Play the Game

2009-12-03T20:08:00.003-06:00

I was watching The Daily Show two months ago when Jon Stewart introduced one of those academic/author guests he likes to have on--a man by the comical name of Bruce Bueno de Mesquita. Mr. Mesquita (I'll just call him "Bruce" from here on out) had written a book called "The Predictioneer's Game," and the initial banter clued me in to the fact that the author is an expert in game theory, and that in predicting geo-political events, he is twice as accurate as the CIA (according to the CIA itself).

The author described game theory as basically creating an algorithm of self-interest based on the influential parties involved in any dispute or negotiation. I then expected the conversation to turn to doom and gloom, because as we all know, the world is coming to an end.

Instead, the interview concluded with Stewart saying, "So actually, you think some good things are going to happen in the next 10 to 20 years, right?" "Yes," replied Bruce.

What?! The last thing I would ever expect right now is a rational case for optimism (dare I say hope). I bought the book the next day. Yes, it's dense in parts, but the overall thesis is compelling (the self-interest part, that is). Here are the highlights:

- Cultural distinctions play a minimal role in resolving disputes. Through the lens of large-scale national and tribal conflict, human beings are basically the same the world over. I find this both liberating and disappointing.

- There's no such thing as a perfectly "fair" election. The most memorable story from the book relates how the author got a company's board of directors to elect the least-likely candidate as its new CEO. How? Through bribes? Tomfoolery? Dirty tricksterism? No, by engineering the election process in a way that everybody thought was perfectly fair. (Is instant runoff voting, just approved in St. Paul, better than the existing system? Yes. No. And maybe.)

- Iran will always threaten to build nuclear weapons, but it won't actually build them. The details on this escape me, but basically, we're doing the right thing there. I've always thought Ahmadinejad was just a big talker. True.

- The best way to stabilize the most serious threat to world peace (Pakistan) is by massively increasing aid to that country and sending a lot more troops to Afghanistan. Pakistan is on the verge of collapse, and no matter how you feel about politics and war, you can't deny that an Islamist regime armed with nuclear weapons is not a good thing. In light of Obama's speech this week, I think he might have read Bruce's book.

- Global warming is a self-correcting problem (this one I don't buy). In the simplest sense, the problem creates more wind, rain and fire, and the key to a more sustainable energy system is basically more wind, rain and fire. (Again, this is one area where the author falls short. The other is in arguing that corporations would be a lot more forthcoming about their transgressions if they didn't face such severe punishments for doing so. Sorry, but the threat of punishment is the only thing keeping most large corporations doing the right thing at all.)

Ultimately, Bruce's book--and game theory in general--accepts the idea of a true and locked "human nature." We are creatures of self-interest. That might be hard to accept, but it's also hard to argue from an evolutionary perspective. Keep in mind that true self-interest is a great deal more complex than the term implies. (Being selfish, after all, is not always in one's self-interest.)

But this is the crucial debate the book should promote. Are we creatures with a consistent and predictable human nature? As another author, Chris Hedges, puts it: Are we a species that can evolve biologically and technologically, but never morally? Or is it a mistake to think of a species as adaptable as homo sapiens as being "locked" and "unchanging" in any way? My friends (and clients) at The Delta Center would likely take the latter point of view.

On the moral side, I find the issue troubling and unresolved. A strong case can be made that human beings do not, in fact, progress morally. That for every emancipation there is just another enslavement to balance it out. On the other hand, any argument about humans being pre-programmed or hard-wired (at least biologically) is also easily proved wrong. Just watch as the hysteria over the uber-causal power of genes will grow more and more challenged over the coming years.

Does an adaptable and constantly changing biology, including within our brains, enable us to change (improve) morally as well? I take some comfort in the fact that Bruce is always fiddling with his algorithm.

That comfort is quickly mitigated by the fact that his algorithm is only getting more accurate.

Introducing James' New Book

2009-11-06T17:52:00.000-06:00

My Son Is Not Normal

2009-10-18T19:46:00.002-06:00

In honor of the new Bob Dylan Christmas album...

Conk Creative TV Spot

2009-10-01T15:14:00.003-06:00

Sorry for the self-promotion... this is a dual post with my professional blog, Chaos2Clarity, linking to the first Conk Creative-produced TV spot for Anytime Fitness. Concept stolen from the first Naked Gun movie...

Difference #5

2009-09-29T15:43:00.004-06:00

This is the fifth installment in an ongoing series in which I attempt, as diplomatically as possible, to shed light on the actual differences between liberals and conservatives. For previous "Differences," see below:

Difference #1
Difference #2
Difference #3
Difference #4

Introducing Difference #5, this time expressed through the wonders of Keynote, Quicktime and Blogger.

My Son Is Not Normal

2009-09-26T16:46:00.001-06:00

This is a new trend, hidden iPhone videos. The first shows him talking about the difference between Minnesota and Texas tornadoes; the second is him discussing his plans to migrate south...

The Political Hypocrisy Test

2009-09-14T18:54:00.007-06:00

Most people I know aren't mindless political ideologues. In fact, they have secret litmus tests to measure the appropriateness of their joy or outrage at the latest political event.

In light of several recent political events, I thought I'd share my top three.

Test #1: If you could wave a magic wand and make every member of the House and Senate into members of your party--as well as have the Presidency and the Supreme Court tilted your way--would you do it?

My answer is no. My party has its own whack-burger element that needs to be tempered by the opposition. Besides, majorities don't matter with Democrats; they still can't get anything done.

Test #2: If there is a heaven... or at least some place you go when you die where you can find out The Truth about everything (including where you lost that contact lens in 1987), are there any political issues you think you could be wrong about?

My answer: Yes, nearly all of them. I could be wrong on capital punishment. I could be wrong on abortion. I could be wrong that there's a happy medium between economic anarchy and European socialism. The two I know I'm right about: 1) creationism is bunk; and 2) homosexuals are 100% American and have no fewer rights than heteros.

Test #3: When you disapprove of the opposition's behavior in a given situation, would you feel the same way if the situation were reversed?

This is the most useful test on a day-to-day basis. Let me say this regarding recent events, imagining that George W. Bush were still president:

I would not question the President's birth certificate.

I would not keep my son home from school if Bush were addressing his class (in fact, I'd encourage him to be excited that the democratically elected leader of his country was speaking to him).

I would, however, take some sort of glee if a member of my party had shouted "You lie!" at Bush during a joint address to Congress. Sure, I would condemn the behavior and think it was immature and bad decorum. But truthfully, if it were in regards to Bush conflating Iraq and 9/11, denying global warming (or saying it "needed more study"), or denying that we have condoned torture, then deep down I would probably have been happy that someone, as the kids like to say, "spoke truth to power."

That I will admit.

Obama Guilty of Using First Person Singular

2009-09-08T18:08:00.008-06:00

You'd think at the age of 40, nothing would surprise me anymore. You'd think that I'd be jaded to pretty much everything--even the techniques of Political Paranistas. You'd think I would have learned my lesson by now. I haven't.

On tonight's drive home, I thought I'd check in on the epicenter of paranoia and ignorance in today's America: talk radio. Why? Because Obama had given his school speech, and by now we all knew that it was just a good old-fashioned bully-pulpit performance on the benefits of staying in school and working hard. With nothing tangible to criticize, I wondered what the wingnuts would do. Would they acknowledge the egg on their face, would they move on to the next issue, or would they revert back to the "he's a socialist" playbook?

Nothing could have prepared me for what I heard.

When I turned to AM 1280, The "Patriot" (quotes added for irony), the talk radio host was saying that Obama had a definite theme in his speech. "In fact," he said. "Obama mentioned this theme 58 times in 18 minutes. So here it is, the edited Obama speech."

They then proceeded to play an edited version of the speech that consisted of starts and stops beginning with the word "I" or its possessive. "I'm glad to be here today..."; "I did things I'm not proud of..."; "My father left the family when I was two years old..."

Their point: The president is self-centered. Why else would he use the first person singular so often? That's right. Apparently when you've reached the office of President of the United States and are giving a speech to school children who are supposed to look at you as a role model, you are not allowed to share your personal experiences. That's right, a station that calls itself The Patriot thinks that the country's democratically elected President should not speak in the first person. That's right, they're either bat-shit crazy or they've abandoned the last atom of their shame.

The irony of all this is that Obama, more than any other presidential candidate in recent memory, won by constantly invoking the first person plural. His slogan was "Yes We Can," remember? He once said, "We are the people we've been waiting for." At one point in the campaign, he was criticized for not being human enough, for not relating enough of his own experiences. By contrast, George W. Bush began the first news conference after his reelection (by a margin far narrower than Obama's victory four years later) with the words: "I've earned some political capital here, and I intend to spend it."

Shameless. Desperate. Paranoid. Cynical. Take your pick, depending on what you think of the sincerity of such anti-thought. There are no parties in America right now. There are only rational people and irrational people. So 9/11ers and Birthers, I invite you to join with the newly formed FirstPersoners. Go ahead and put up your own candidate. Just do us all a favor and get off the radio.

If Michele Bachmann Practiced Medicine

2009-09-04T12:57:00.005-06:00

Hello, my name is Michele Bachmann, and I’m here with a very special message that I think every American needs to hear.

As you know, some people are pressuring you to embrace the concept of Medicine. But as we also know, Medicine doesn’t work. It’s too big. It’s too powerful. And it’s too inefficient. I, like so many Americans, believe that we need to get Medicine off our backs. Believe me, no matter how some may try to convince you otherwise, the people who practice Medicine simply cannot be trusted with your well-being. In short, Medicine isn’t the solution; it’s the problem.

That’s why I’m desperate to be a part of this horrible, lazy, ineffective institution. I’ve always aspired to work for something I don’t believe in, and I’ve long admired the wonderful men who founded this insidious idea so many centuries ago. In fact, it’s always been a dream of mine to get up every morning, take your money for my salary, and then work hard every day to further an organization that is intrinsically ruinous to the lives of each and every American.

So in short, remember this: Medicine doesn’t work and is inherently evil. That’s why I want to be your doctor.

KEO Syndrome

2009-08-25T11:06:00.007-06:00

A family email thread and a recent summer experience have caused me to lobby for the addition of a new syndrome to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders.

The family email discussion was prompted by my alma mater's recent announcement of "improvements" to the football Saturday experience--among them, a kid-friendly area likely full of inflatable crap. (A thoughtful ND alumnus responded more eloquently than I could ever hope to to this decision. Suffice it to say, game days at Notre Dame are magical enough on their own with nothing but fall colors and the marching band.)

The recent summer experience was our temporary placing of James in a daytime program at his former preschool. We expected the program to be fun and instructive (Art Mondays and the like) for three days a week. Instead, we were immediately barraged with extra charges for trips to batting cages, Chuck E. Cheeses, baseball games, movies, you name it. Art Mondays? Kind of lame, according to the 6-year-old critic himself.

One description Anne gave of visiting the program broke my heart. One of James' kindergarten classmates was also enrolled, but he often looked dejected. He's a nice kid. He's overweight. His parents both work. They probably have no choice but to put him in some kind of day care in the summers, every day. The program is supposed to be "fun" (it's in the name), but if anything, it proves that you can't substitute entertainment for parental love and attention. It's an illusion filled with constant stimulation and junky snacks. Not what we expected, so we took James out... without a fight.

Kid Entertainment Overload Syndrome. Put it in the books. They don't need more movies and cheese balls (although come to think of it, I certainly had my share of both growing up). They need the space to let their imaginations wander. We're raising a generation of kids who are one day going to have adult birthday parties where they get drunk and jump around in inflatable castles for old time's sake.

Yes, I'm spoiled... and yes, maybe I'm being self-righteous. We're fortunate to have a creative kid regardless. But there's nothing better than the experience of last Sunday, where James and I roamed our Taylors Falls campsite with no goal in mind. The river was high from recent torrential rains, so we wandered to what we dubbed "the peninsula," the only beach left above water. I skipped rocks. James built islands in the sand and named them. At one point, I ventured back to the campsite to grab the small garden hoe in the trunk. He didn't see me returning, so I just stopped and watched him. He was busy in his own little world, talking to himself, making up rivers, countries, borderlands. Perfectly content, perfectly self-entertained. There are few better sounds in the world.

LangAlert: "Lead-Nurturing"

2009-07-30T20:52:00.003-06:00

Spotted in an e-newsletter:

Jumpstart Your Lead-Management Program
A practical and affordable plan to jumpstart your lead-nurturing program in 7-10 days!

(Wow, I didn't know leads were so sensitive. Does this include the Glengarry leads?)

A Plea from a Friend

2009-07-29T20:57:00.006-06:00

I just received this story from a friend and former colleague. Stories like this prove how inexplicably immoral our health insurance system is. Some things work better under a profit motive; others don't. Do we care more about people being healthy, or about the sacred value of being able to make a buck? Time to decide which is more "American," people.

As a wise man once said, it's time for this country to get patriotic about something other than war.

P.S. The message below is from a Republican.

* * *

Subject: Can you help?

As much as you are able, I would be so grateful for any publicity or media coverage you might generate on behalf of a friend, Linda Fields - whose sister needs long term care insurance. Any health care reform package must take this into account - and here's the reason why. Linda's story:

Linda's sister, an art teacher in Baltimore was nearly eligible for her full pension when a catastrophic illness put her in a wheelchair. She now sits at home a paraplegic (nearly quadriplegic since she has limited use of her hands), depressed and feeling abandoned by our health care system. She, like more than 10-million other Americans, needs help at home. Her doctor prescribed it. But to my horror, her insurance company, Blue Cross Blue Shield (ironically, "CareFirst" in Maryland) feels that despite her spinal cord disease, a rectal prolapse which could cause her to hemorrhage, and an impacted colon which needs cleaning daily, she does not require skilled nursing and therefore is not covered. Her case manager at Blue Cross insists the decision is irrevocable and cannot be appealed since "custodial care is all that is required". Her husband cannot do it, so she is expected to find help on her own --- if she can afford it. She cannot.

As congress considers the daunting task of reforming our nation's health care system --I cannot help but wonder if there will be any consideration for the growing number of Americans who need long-term care. The only recourse is to be wealthy (or lucky enough to be among the small minority who have an expensive long-term care policy) or be destitute, in a nursing home as a ward of the state.

Why are the long-term needs of so many ignored? Our nation's population is aging and our politicians are near-sighted!!! This needs to be examined. Howard Gleckman at the Urban Institute would make a great interview -- and Linda's sister would, too.

Veni Vidi Vici

2009-07-29T10:32:00.002-06:00

Pandora is a great thing. When I'm in a good mood and having a light day as a self-employed-in-a-recession Limited Liability Crackpot, I play Cheap Trick Radio. When I'm feeling a little more serious, I play Wilco Radio. When I need to give things some deep attention, I play Miles Davis Radio. When I'm crazed with work and trying to meet 10 deadlines in two hours, I play Mozart Radio. And when I'm on the verge of suicide, I play Gregorian Chant Radio.

Current Selection: Magnificat 6 in Tones 6 & 1 by the Tallis Scholars.

Pacific NW Music Video

2009-07-22T22:12:00.002-06:00

Tough to get it all in 4 minutes, but here it is to the tuneful strummings of the 5 o'Clock Shadows...

My Son Is Not Normal

2009-07-18T11:51:00.003-06:00

Even on vacation.

The adventure has begun

2009-07-10T15:20:00.000-06:00

One Wing

2009-07-08T21:28:00.003-06:00

We once belonged to a bird
Who cast a shadow on this world
You were a blessing, and I was a curse
I did my best not to make things worse
For you
It isn't true

I always knew this would be our fate
This is what happens when wings separate
This happens to all dead weight eventually

We may as well be made of stone
We can't be flown
One wing will never fly
Neither yours nor mine
I fear
We can only wave goodbye

One wing will never ever fly
Neither yours nor mine
One wing will never ever fly, dear
Neither yours nor mine
I fear
We can only wave goodbye

Bye bye

- Jeff Tweedy

James' 6th Birthday Music Video (2 Months Late...)

2009-07-03T09:29:00.002-06:00

Due to YouTube's new rules on copyrighted music, I had to go with a safe choice. If you're wondering, it's "Kasfiki" by the long-defunct but awesome Providence, RI band Why The Fish. (The keyboardist is my long-time friend John Spencer, now a leading learning and development guru at the University of Iowa and the Delta Center, which is a Conk Creative client. See how this works?)

LangAlert: "Presenteeism"

2009-06-29T21:21:00.003-06:00

Reading a corporate Request For Proposal today brought back a flood of unwanted corporate-speak memories: talk of "messaging" to employees, pointing to the need for a "versioned" one-page sales sheet, among others.

But you might say that one line broke new ground. Shifted paradigms. Stood on the cutting-edge of state-of-the-art revolutionarian innovationosity:

" ... [the presentation should show how the service] increases productivity and decreases presenteeism and absenteeism ..."

That's right, "presenteeism." According to the ever-reliable Wikipedia (you know the link; I don't have to provide it), presenteeism is " ... the opposite of absenteeism. In contrast to absenteeism, when employees are absent from work, presenteeism discusses the problems faced when employees come to work in spite of illness, which can have similar negative repercussions on business performance."

BBS/LangAlert Prediction: Within five years, political pundits will coin the term "presentee voters" to refer to those who actually go to the polls.

Of Mouths & Men: The Movie

2009-06-19T11:23:00.004-06:00

As produced by Kicked Off the Roof Entertainment, my 48 Hour Film Project team.
Genre: Western or Musical
Required Character: Kevin Schnabel, an expert of some kind
Required Prop: a sandwich
Required Line of Dialogue: "I hope they decide soon."

The Official Trailer...

2009-06-17T15:34:00.001-06:00

... for my team's 48 Hour Film Project flick, "Of Mouths & Men."

Let the Insanity Begin

2009-06-12T12:49:00.002-06:00

It's time for another 48 Hour Film Project, starting in four hours. Stay tuned (showing is next Wednesday at the Riverview, 9:15 p.m.).

To relive the glories, the passions, the forks ... of last year's entry from Kicked Off the Roof Entertainment, see below:

P.S. from the SCSFe

2009-06-06T14:39:00.006-06:00

I kept a running list of "learnings" from the Screenwriting Conference at Santa Fe (SCSFe) on a left-hand page in my large black notebook. These are the top 8:

1. Don't write a TV spec.
It's harder to break in, TV writers have to live in L.A., and if you're lucky enough to get an assignment, you get worked to death.

2. Don't be afraid to set something in the Twin Cities.
I've always avoided this, because some annoying voice always tells me that no one wants to buy or see a film shot in the Midwest. Problem is, I love the Midwest and I've lived 95 percent of my life there.

3. You have no choice but to do a passion project that's fun for you to write.
I'll start this in the fall after a final Deadbeat Boyfriends rewrite. I define "passion project" as something you do with no commercial aspirations. I have a basic plot for this that I developed at the conference. In keeping with #2, it's called "Twin Cities."

4. "If you don't love it without the money, you won't love it with the money."
A quote from one of the mentors. It isn't just relevant to writing; it basically applies to everything.

5. You haven't worked nearly hard enough to expect success.
Meeting working screenwriters who have written more than 100 scripts and didn't break in until #10 or so is both inspiring and humbling.

6. Put your main character where they would least like to be.
That's what forces you to figure out who this person is. (Question: What's the place I would least like to be?)

7. Conferences are a great way to break your patterns.
This is a huge realization. Perhaps no force is more powerful or harder to break than the tyranny of day-to-day inertia. If you have an interest in something, give yourself a chance to get totally immersed in it. It's a wonderful feeling.

8. You're a writer.
Sometimes I need to be reminded of this.

5 Days to Light the Fire, Part VI

2009-05-31T09:29:00.003-06:00

Final two pitches starting in 15 minutes. Shuttle coming. Home by 5:00. Fire lit.

5 Days to Light the Fire, Part V

2009-05-30T17:16:00.003-06:00

Today, the Hollywood Connection phase of SCSFe took over. This is where the educational part stops and the producers come in. First, all the writers get to ask all the producers (about a dozen all together) anything they want in an open Q&A, then you pay to pitch. Five minutes. I think it's $35 each. You sit outside a room and wait for your turn, then you go in and just start talking. It's over before you know it, with the producer either saying "send it to me" or "pass."

Luckily, I'm 1 for 1 so far (pitching Deadbeat Boyfriends). I wasn't supposed to have another pitch until tomorrow morning. But a fellow writer was kind enough to hand me his pass to a pitch happening in about half an hour, because he realized that his story wasn't right for this producer and mine is. Very nice guy. I'm starving.

5 Days to Light the Fire, Part IV

2009-05-29T15:19:00.002-06:00

Funny what happens when you actually have a chance to immerse yourself in something.

When I started answering my questions listed in the previous post, I realized that I really don't know any great stories. I know great stories from film and literature, and I know great and interesting people, and I know good story vignettes from actual people. But as far as one of those full-arc Hollywood-type stories... uh uh.

So I moved on to the list of personally embarrassing moments (this is not an original idea for mining new material, I stole it from a screenwriting book I read years ago). And this was scary. Scary because it started off slowly, then I couldn't stop. Then I realized that despite the list, which keeps growing as I think of new ones, I've actually spent a good deal of time trying my damnedest NOT to be embarrassed, which makes for a pretty dull, opposite-of- Bridget-Jones-type existence.

Then I started analyzing the list-in-progress and realized that embarrassment has several categories. There are moments where you are completely and publicly embarrassed. Then there are moments where you're embarrassed looking back on it, but you weren't embarrassed at the time. Then there are moments where you should have been embarrassed but actually weren't. And then there are moments that were "embarrassing," but you didn't actively embarrass yourself. Subtle differences, but all very important.

Then I made the list of movies I truly love. Not the best movies ever made, or the most important movies ever made, but the movies I truly love. The list is as follows, in no particular order:

1. Rear Window
2. Vertigo
3. High Fidelity
4. Rushmore
5. Dr. Strangelove
6. This Is Spinal Tap
7. Waiting for Guffman
8. Being John Malkovich
9. Annie Hall
10. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
11. It's a Wonderful Life (sorry)
12. The Commitments
13. Amadeus
14. The Dead
15. Once
16. Cinema Paradiso
17. Lost In Translation
18. Glengarry Glenn Ross

I initially wrote down Manhattan, but then crossed it off. What I really love is the freedom of Annie Hall... the way Woody Allen moves from present to past, to animation, to imagining how great it would be if Marshall McCluhan appeared out of nowhere to humiliate a pseudo-intellectual standing in a movie line. I'd like to give myself that kind of creative freedom in a script, which is such a hyper-structured (and occasionally downright oppressive) format.

I wanted to watch Annie Hall instantly, so I went on Netflix to see if it was available as a "Watch It Now" movie. It wasn't, but Manhattan was. So I watched Manhattan on my laptop, lying in bed until midnight. And I remembered why I had initially put it on my list: It's the romance of it. Not the romance of Woody Allen's relationships (I don't know how he got away with having a 42-year-old man date a 17-year-old girl... yikes with the foreshadowing), but the romance that the movie is really about: New York. The opening sequence of a struggling author tripping over his own voiceover trying to express his love for the city, moving to breathtaking black-and-white shots of Manhattan set against the score of Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue"... it's never been equaled and probably never will.

(Then I remembered that as a teenager, I once rented a 30-pound video camera, shot scenes of downtown South Bend and later edited them against the same soundtrack. Let's add that to the embarrassing moments list...)

But making these lists has done two things so far: It's made me remember why I love movies, and it's started a new idea percolating. For better or for worse.

5 Days to Light the Fire, Part III

2009-05-28T16:49:00.003-06:00

As I sit through the early seminars, roundtables and presentations, rather than writing notes on what people are saying, I've been writing questions that I think will lead me to uncovering a new story. These questions have included the following:

What's the greatest story you know--about a person you actually know?

What are the most embarrassing moments you've ever had?

What are you obsessed with?

Why are you so self-conscious?

Who's the most "unexpected" person you've ever met (meaning, the person who didn't sound like they looked, or knew what you wouldn't think they would know, etc.)

What movies do you truly love?

Who's the most obsessive person you've ever known?

Why do you like satire so much, and is that a sign of weakness or a neutral trait?

When you have been under serious stress, and how did you react?

If you were to write a modern story based on a classic, which classic would you choose?

What was the most romantic moment in your life?

What's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for you?

What's the nicest thing you've ever done for somebody else?

What are 10 moments that made you cry?

I've only just begun to answer these questions, but the results are very interesting.

5 Days to Light the Fire, Part II

2009-05-27T09:23:00.002-06:00

I was kind of plunged into this conference and still haven't had time to decompress. Airport to crowded shuttle. Shuttle to hotel. Then right into the keynote speech by the guy who wrote Revenge of the Nerds.

First observation: This conference is quite a bit smaller than I had imagined, which is a good thing. So far there might be 50 people. I don't know why, but I had expected 500 or more.

Second observation: The attendees are older than I would have expected. Very few bright-eyed, fresh-out-of-college-looking types. It's a mature group, many of them veterans of this conference.

After the keynote was the Actors' Choice Awards. This is a contest where attendees submit only the first five pages of their scripts. Five winners are chosen, and a team of actors performs the scenes live on stage. I had high hopes that Deadbeats might win one of these slots, since the first five pages have always been the best part of the script (and the only part that has never changed). Plus, I now realized that I automatically had a 1 in 10 shot. But it was not to be.

The scripts that won were very good. One stole the show: A biopic on Bob "Butterbean" Love, a star with the Chicago Bulls in the '70s who has lived a rags to riches to rags to riches story. After his basketball career, he was hampered by a severe stuttering problem and sunk as low as working as a bus boy. But he worked to lose the stutter and is now the Bulls' director of community relations--and one of the country's most sought-after motivational speakers. The writer met Butterbean at a conference and just struck up a conversation. Smartly, he jumped on it. It's a story made for the screen, and I hope it gets there.

As for me, I'm in introvert mode, avoiding meeting people and reading "Long Day's Journey into Night," which unfortunately only inspires one to slit one's wrists. Busy day ahead... ironically, all about dialogue.

5 Days to Light the Fire, Part I

2009-05-26T17:27:00.004-06:00

So I’m sitting on a plane on its way to Albuquerque, about to spend five days in Santa Fe attending one of the country’s better-known screenwriting conferences. The traditional purpose of events like these is to bring together hundreds of writers to network, attend classes like “Achieving a Killer Outline in Nine Days,” and—in the case of the Screenwriting Conference in Santa Fe—to actually pitch their screenplay ideas to working producers and receive pragmatic counsel from those who have quote made it.

My purpose is a little bit larger. I’m looking for inspiration. Specifically, I’m conducting an experiment to see what happens when I force myself to be temporarily unobligated to work or family (thanks, Anne... I owe you bigtime). I haven’t had a significant side project since I started Conk Creative, and I need one to maintain my tenuous states of balance and sanity—and to continue my obsessive 25-year quest to avoid the ravages of mid-life crisis.

Will I come out of here wanting to attack yet another “Deadbeat Boyfriends” rewrite? Will I leave suddenly inspired to fully develop one of four frazzled movie and TV threads, or will a new idea hit? Will I decide to write, fund and self-produce a short film, or will I decide that I’m done with this genre... that I want to start another band, do another basement CD, start a video blog called My Son Is Not Normal, or go total obscuria and apply for a grant to write a book on the history of death rituals in Papua New Guinea?

Or will I spend my time eating guacamole and watching TV in my hotel room?

I’ve got five days to figure it out.

Why I Don't Believe in Global Warming

2009-05-21T12:53:00.006-06:00

The question is asked often: "Do you believe in global warming?" And it's recently occurred to me that my answer is this:

No, I don't.

(Excuse me while I step on top of this soap box here. There.)

I don't believe in global warming because there's nothing to believe in.

There's nothing to believe in because things that require belief are those things that you cannot see, hear, touch, smell, taste, measure, analyze, understand, predict and change.

Global warming is a fact. That human beings have and are contributing to it is a proven theory.

The pattern is established. Causation is obvious. Effects can be measured and analyzed.

Predictions are as imperfect as all predictions are, but they are revealing that reality is actually falling on the "worst case scenario" end of the accuracy spectrum.

So do I believe in global warming?

No.

I accept global warming as a fact. I take the warnings very seriously. And I support efforts to curb it before it does more damage than we want to believe is possible.

Also, please stop asking, "Will the Earth survive? Can we save the planet?" The planet will survive no matter what we do. This isn't about "the planet." It's about the survival of a species on that planet that I happen to care about.

So stop framing global warming in terms of "belief" and "saving the planet." Let's get real about how we talk about this issue so we can get real about mitigating it.

(Exit soap box.)

Thanks, Bill

2009-05-19T10:51:00.003-06:00

I was listening to an audiobook this morning that started with William Faulkner reading his speech before the Nobel Prize committee. His drawl is beautiful, but surprisingly, he reads the speech too quickly and with virtually no passion, or even inflection. Yet, the words themselves really touched me with their ... I guess you would say "deep, fully conscious optimism."

"Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only one question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat. He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid: and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed--love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice.

Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, and victories without hope and worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.Until he learns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man.

I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal because he will endure: that when the last ding-dong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.

I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet's, the writer's, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.

The poet's voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail."

Random Observation

2009-05-12T15:39:00.003-06:00

When a white man is introduced to a black man, he will always add ", man" to the end of "nice to meet you."

"Vickers, this is Jamal."
"Nice to meet you, man."

Success, Malcolm Gladwell & Daddy Issues

2009-05-07T10:58:00.004-06:00

As someone staring 40 in the face, I've been thinking a lot about success lately, and it's made me hate Malcolm Gladwell.

Actually, that's not true. Gladwell's most recent book, Outliers, has been a pleasant revelation to me in most respects. Anything that demystifies the concept of the born genius is a step in the right direction. Gladwell isn't the only one doing this these days. Book after book is pointing to the unsexy truth: People who succeed have to work really, really, really hard. They're not born with talent; they simply have more desire and a better ability to focus deeply on one goal for long periods of time.

But something still bugs me about Gladwell's thinking. Two things, actually. The first is the big intellectual elephant in the room throughout his book: the definition of "success." With no apologies, Gladwell jumps right into discussions of Mozart and Bill Gates. The success of these men can't be denied; they revolutionized their fields. But I want to know: Were they/Are they successful husbands, fathers, friends, citizens? Gladwell works from one definition of success, and it's not one that favors overall balance and happiness (because frankly, that's not as interesting).

The second is the lack of any discussion about the psychology of motivation behind the highly successful. I think about a screenplay reading I attended about three years ago. The writer was well-known and had adapted an Oscar-winning film already. Actors read the script in its entirety, uninterrupted. It was riveting. Throughout the reading, I thought about how the writer was doing things with character and dialog that I could only dream of. (On the drive home, I realized that in the end I didn't actually like it that much as a whole, but I digress.)

Then I remembered something the author had said during the audience Q&A: When asked about his inspiration for the script, he mentioned that someone had once told him they didn't trust his ability to "write women." That's it! I thought... there's a "chip on the shoulder" element to what's going on here. (See: Brett Favre possibly signing with the Vikings to stick it to the Packers...) The script is in development, and I've heard that Hilary Swank is involved.

Let's face it: The one element that's as important to traditional success as work and focus--the one crucial ingredient that Gladwell ignores completely in Outliers--is having a shoulder that can house many chips. And at least among men, no chip is bigger than the one produced by the absent or disapproving father. Look at presidents. Barack Obama: making up for an absent father. George W. Bush: still trying to please daddy-o. Bill Clinton: proving himself to his alcoholic papa. And did you know that George Washington's father was a violent, abusive opium and meth addict? Neither did I. It isn't true.

The point is this. I hate Malcolm Gladwell. I hate him because he's doing exactly what I would love to be doing: Using a highly integrative mind to form compelling master theses, interviewing fascinating people to support it, writing very interesting books, and then getting paid lots of money to speak about them.

Hey wait, that's a chip! I DO hate Malcolm Gladwell! Now if you'll excuse me, I have a book to write...

LangAlert: Redundonyms

2009-05-01T14:51:00.003-06:00

Redundonyms (a term I've invented to refer to acronyms followed by the word already represented by their last letter) have been around for years, but lately they've been proliferating faster than swine flu. Here's my running list... I encourage additions via comments.

ATM Machine
IRA Account
HSA Account
MLB Baseball
GPS System
HLN News (CNN)

My Son Is Not Normal

2009-04-28T19:10:00.002-06:00

So I found this crumpled up on the dining room table. Let's analyze. This picture means: In his spare time, my son likes to draw maps. I'm fairly confident that this map was done from his head, and it's almost disturbingly accurate. Despite this, my son found this map so riddled with mistakes... so imperfect... so horrible... that he crumpled it up in frustration.

Conclusion: My son is not normal, and we continue to be in for a world of hurt.

Slumdog Millionaire's "Hollindie Syndrome"

2009-04-23T12:38:00.009-06:00

So I finally saw this year's "Best Picture" Oscar-winner, Slumdog Millionaire. Seeing such a celebrated film so late presents a lot of problems. On one hand, your expectations are sky high. On the other hand, there's already been plenty of time for the inevitable backlash. Was Slumdog Millionaire a brilliant "feel-good" film, or was it an egregious exercise in how to depress audiences and exploit poverty at the same time?

It's hard to be objective in such circumstances, but I'll try.

The first thing that must be said about Slumdog is that it's a brilliantly structured film. As someone who has written five screenplays (including one that didn't suck), I appreciate structure. Structure is sorely lacking in many films, including, as I recently discovered, "Bee Movie" (I have a five-year old).

Organizing a film to show the distant past by playing a tape of answers to a set of questions asked in the recent past... to find out what's going to happen in the future... I'm sorry, but that's good stuff. There's a rule of screenwriting that you should avoid flashbacks. Slumdog exposes the absurdity of such blanket assertions. At least 85 percent of the movie is told in flashback, and couldn't work any better. You learn more about the characters with each question. You come to understand them and care about them. You not only want to find out if the main character wins the money, but if he gets the girl.

No doubt about it, the movie gets your attention and keeps it. And for that, any movie should earn at least a 6 out of 10. Slumdog is also well cast and well acted, so I'd raise that to a 7. It has a clear cinematographic vision that also works well, so that raises it to an 8. But unfortunately, just as the movie reached its climax, it broke my heart. In a bad way.

I would bet one-millionth of a million dollars that the original script for Slumdog had a different ending, but that the director, the studio, an executive producer or a focus group demanded that it be changed. And in the process, lowered their collective creation from the heights of brilliance down into the tepid soup of Hollindie Syndrome.

Hollindie Syndrome is when a movie is created and intended as an "indie flick," but then changes in the massive artistic and financial collaborative process into a Hollywood flick. The result is an interim solution whose identity crisis is infuriating. You may complain that dividing movies into "indie" or "Hollywood" is polarizing and unfair. Plenty of people have tried to define those increasingly murky terms. It used to be a simple matter of whether a film was financed by a big Hollywood studio or not. Now, with studios having spun off (and then shut down) indie divisions (like Big Beer getting into the "craft" brew business), the financial line is blurred.

The best definition comes from famed screenwriter William Goldman, who said this: Hollywood films reinforce the bullshit; indie films don't.

In other words, it's about happy endings. Great movies can have happy endings and horrible movies can have unhappy endings. The point is whether the film's ultimate intent is or is not to give us hope. (In other words, this is a rebranding of comedy and tragedy.)

Slumdog actually had a glorious chance to find a solid middle ground, and I'll be incredibly specific about how it could have done so. For his final question, Jamal is asked, "Who was the third musketeer?" after being given the names of first two. He doesn't know. He phones his brother, Salim (who has undergone a quick and convenient transformation to the side of the good), but through another set of convenient circumstances, Latika, the woman of Jamal's dreams, answers Salim's phone.

There were so many ways to go at this point. (SPOILER ALERT)

1. The script could have called for Jamal not to phone a friend at all, but simply smile and answer the question, "Latika" (whom he has always seen as his third muskateer). "Latika" isn't even an option, and Jamal knows he's wrong, but that's his answer and he doesn't care. He loses the money, but Latika hears him say it, is touched, and they end up together. I'm glad they didn't do this. Cheesy.

2. Jamal calls Latika and she knows the answer. That would be weird and random.

3. Jamal knows the answer. Letdown.

4. Jamal calls Latika. She doesn't know the answer either. But Jamal guesses the right answer anyway. This is what actually happens in the movie. So Jamal gets the money and the girl. It was too much. In effect, love and money get equal weight. I guess that's fair if you live in the slum that Jamal comes from, but that pushed an indie-minded film firmly into Terra Hollywoodia.

5. Jamal calls Latika. She doesn't know the answer either, and Jamal guesses wrong. Jamal doesn't get the money, but he gets the girl.

This is what I would have preferred. Yes, it still reinforces "the bullshit" that love conquers all, but it doesn't toss millions of rupees on top of it.

The Curse of One-Lens-ism

2009-04-21T18:49:00.003-06:00

I suffer from ism-itis.

Every day, I'm warned about a different Ism from one source or another. I should be terrified of Islamic extremism. If that won't kill me, other forms of religious extremism will. Or maybe secular humanism is a bigger threat, I've lost track. Cultural relativism is surely a threat. As are atheism, agnosticism... or, depending on how you look at it, Catholicism and Zionism.

Mind you, this disease extends far beyond religion, and not every Ism actually has an "-ism." But the suffix is more and more implied as it pertains to any specialized though domain.

Some fellow Notre Dame alumni and alumnae are lobbying to have President Obama disinvited from this year's commencement largely due to his views on the legality of abortion and stem cell research. Others thought the same when George W. Bush was invited years ago, mostly due to his views on capital punishment and his doctrine of preemptive war. (We throw around the term "special interests," but we really mean "any interest." There are people in Washington who lobby on behalf sugar beets, for crying out loud...)

This is the problem. If you're looking for a real Ism to blame for everything wrong in the world, it isn't any of these. The real enemy of thoughtful discourse and good decision-making--the real thing we should be protesting on every street corner--is One-Lens-Ism.

Yet this intellectual disease is only growing in popularity. Why?

Because it's easy, that's why.

There are economists who see their discipline only through the lens of, say, currency valuations. Others focus on inflation. Others, employment. Others, deficits. Unsurprisingly, they rarely agree on economic policy. Some see energy policy only through the lens of fossil fuels. Others, wind and solar. Others, nuclear. Still others, biofuels. Unsurprisingly, each thinks their silver bullet will solve all of our problems (partly because they don't even agree on the problems). I'm sure veganism is a healthier lifestyle, but if I looked at absolutely everything through only that lens, it would be a disaster. And of course, we have the people who look at politics only through the lens of taxes, and they sound like children.

Think for a second about how easy this all is. We give people credit for passion and consistency when they see the world through only one lens, fighting every day for their micro cause. But we shouldn't. In fact, we should shame them. These are the most dangerous people on earth. Imagine waking up tomorrow and deciding, "From this day forward, I will see the world only through the lens of x." (Let's say it's "sugar maple trees.") We need more sugar maple trees! Sugar maples provide habitats and shade. They're beautiful, and they sequester carbon. They're way better than those stupid oak trees... they grow faster and bigger. We need more sugar maples! We need to prevent evil people from chopping them down! In fact, if someone wants to build a high-speed rail through a field that includes even ONE sugar maple tree, damn the rail line! (Even if it will keep more cars off the roads, lead to fewer traffic deaths and lower the carbon footprint more effectively than the trees...). I'm passionate about sugar maple trees, dammit, and I won't back down!

Now that's an easy way to live. You know what's hard? Looking through multiple lenses. Seeing how things are interrelated, how one thing affects another. Looking at legal issues as conflicts of rights. Looking at environmental and economic factors together, rather than assuming they're always in conflict. Looking at how high fructose corn syrup increases weight affects kids' health increases diabetes spurs greater use of the health care system increases health care costs raises insurance premiums eats away at family budgets makes parents buy cheaper food leads to their kids eating more high fructose corn syrup.

That's reality. Someone who only wants to look at one part of that chain: lazy. Someone willing to look at everything in a complex, multi-dimensional way and still try to solve problems: a leader.

Great, Then Stop Charging Me $2.50 for Making Eye Contact with a U.S. Bank ATM

2009-04-09T09:09:00.002-06:00

Questions for The Economy

2009-04-03T10:39:00.003-06:00

Dear Mr. Economy,

I have a confession to make. There are many things I don't understand about you, especially now that you're in such poor health. I was thinking that maybe if you helped me a little, we could both get better.

First, businesses like airlines, big banks, car makers and insurance companies. If these companies are all the first domino to fall in taking down a national or global economy (which is impossible by definition), and they truly do need government intervention to prop them up when they get into trouble, then why aren't they nationalized to begin with?

A follow-up question: If I'm the CEO, president or CFO at--or on the board of--one of these organizations, and I always know in the back of my head that if things get really bad in the future I'll probably get government help, then doesn't that affect my decision-making today, even in good times? In risk terms, doesn't it give me an incentive to take more risk than I should?

Next, AIG. If a single company like this is too big to fail (or more accurately, for us to let it fail), then doesn't it have a natural monopoly by definition? Isn't the competitive-rich capitalist system supposed to prevent monopoly power, and thus eliminate the "too big to fail" issue in the first place? I'm confused.

And finally, on a more philosophical note, let's be honest: Economics isn't a science; it's psychology. And value isn't real; it's a fiction. I don't care if we go back to the gold standard. Even gold has no intrinsic value. We assign it. We say "this looks beautiful and it's relatively rare and you can do things with it, therefore it has value." So if our entire economic system is based on psychological fiction, how can we go from producing and buying a ton of stuff one day to producing and buying nothing the next?

It's all just a story we've made up over time. Let's rewrite it!

Thank you for your time. I hope you get better. (Not just look better, but actually GET better.)

Sincerely,

Mr. Liberal Arts Major

Political Correctness: An Evolving History

2009-03-28T20:12:00.011-06:00

I remember the first time I heard the term "African-American." No I don't. But I do remember my reaction to it. I thought it was a fantastic development. What a great step forward to refer to people by their history rather than by their skin color. I sensed a movement underway, a step in the right moral direction.

Then, before you knew it, the backlash emerged and branded this new language as "political correctness." I in turn branded the backlash people as "respect-challenged." (Not really, but I should have thought of it.)

As time went by--and hyphens became downright fashionable--a strange thing happened: I actually started to sympathize with the backlashers. This new terminological movement no longer moved toward the truth; it obfuscated against it. I found myself increasingly receptive to the comedians who exposed it as the domain of the human nature-denying academic bourgeoisie. "Hey, let's be honest, when we make a distinction about race, we really are talking about race. Isn't it dishonest to pretend we're talking about history when we really are talking about skin color?" I had to admit, they had a point.

But then, no sooner had I joined the anti-PC crowd that I felt compelled to switch sides again. Why? Because now I realized that every true bigot and misogynist was using "PC" as a shield against their racism and misogyny. I hesitate to think about how many Life Minutes I lost listening to idiot men on sports and political talk radio preface a comment with, "Well, I may not be the most 'politically correct' guy on the planet, but..." and then follow it up with something baldly racist or sexist. From their perspective, it was a brilliant ruse: Hey, I can say and do anything I want with no accountability, simply by being all unapologetically masculine about my hatred and/or ignorance!

Now, alas, as of one week ago, I once again find myself flirting with the other side. First, I was gently chastened for using the term "normal," when apparently "typical" is the preferred word. That's okay. If I think really hard about it, I can see that the former holds more of a value judgment than the latter. Next, I was sitting in my church, which I lovingly call Our Lady of Prius, when the band struck up "Amazing Grace." Everybody knows the words (at least to the first verse), but I nevertheless decided to glance up at the screen where they flash all song lyrics. And this is what I saw:

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved someone like me.

"Someone"? "Someone"?! Excuse me, but the word is "wretch": that saved a WRETCH like me. I didn't know until now that "Amazing Grace" was written by a reformed slave trader, John Newton, and that the song may or may not have been his apologia for engaging in said profession. But it doesn't matter. Whatever this song's composer is regretting--and he's obviously writing from a state of extreme regret--he's calling himself a "wretch." A miserable person. Someone who is filled with self-loathing. It's a strong word. It's important.

You can't mess with author intent like that. You can't change self-loathing into matter-of-fact genericism. And what exactly is wrong with the word "wretch"? Is it offensive to somebody? Is there a cabal of self-proclaimed wretches out there who are both self-loathing and overly sensitive? Is there a wretch lobby that has decided to build awareness of their condition and demand more societal respect via a new microsite at www.wretch-the-fever.com?

It's ridiculous. No, it's beyond ridiculous. It's shameful. In fact, it's not even politically correct. It's just incorrect... which is a PC way of saying "wrong."

- A Wretch

Totally Random

2009-03-20T12:43:00.003-06:00

I haven't had time to keep up with this blog lately, which creates a serious lack of balance in my life. So as much as I like to make up a theme and actually put real thought into a post, right now I just need to write something besides marketing copy. Bear with me as I strike up the Randomizer.

- Tom Friedman is famous for using the term "the world is flat" in referring to globalization. What he really means is that there's a level playing field. So it's not really an original term at all. Also not original: my analysis of Tom Friedman's term.

- But speaking of that level flatness, here's what's actually flat right now: information. And it's disorienting. Go to cnn.com right now and look at Latest News. We go from Ben Bernanke to Natasha Richardson to Obama to poor people to college students getting robbed on spring break to March Madness. This is supposed to be a snapshot of what's most important right now. Is a starving Bangladeshi really on the same playing field as a pick-pocketed college kid? Is a fatal head injury to one celebrity as important as global economic contraction? It's crazy. In a world where these things are treated equally, it's impossible to take anything seriously. And in a world where it's impossible to take anything seriously, it's impossible to change the world.

- On another level, I go up to my Firefox live bookmarks half a dozen times and day and click on the RSS headlines. I go from CNN to Facebook to my friend Pat Donnelly's blog. Only rarely does it occur to me how mentally out of whack this really is. I'm saying that I care equally about world events, what my friends are doing and what just ONE of my friends is thinking (don't get me wrong, Pat, I love your blog, and I hope you're reading mine, so I guess I'm part of the problem...). In a way, that's just reality. But there's something contradictory about a web browser: By leveling the information hierarchy, it actually distorts it.

Global warming is going to devastate the food and water supply in my son's lifetime, but dude, your status update was hilarious!

- I've never been one of those people who carries around a notebook and jots down novel, screenplay and song ideas. As a result, I probably lose 95 percent of my PCO (Potential Creative Output). So recently, I decided that I would use the Recorder app on my iPhone to do the equivalent thing. The damn device is practically subcutaneous at this point anyway; why not use it as a handy Dictaphone whenever an idea strikes? After two weeks, I've only remembered to do this twice. My ideas so far:

1) After seeing a billboard that implored me to "Take a YOU turn" on Hwy. 280, I recorded all those "you-ey" phrases that work in marketing because they enable navel-gazing. "Isn't it time YOU did something for YOU?" "Don't YOU need more time for YOU?" "Isn't it time people appreciated YOU for who YOU are?" These phrases make me sick, like the word "pamper." I wanted to create a fake commercial that overdid the YOU thing and made the audience share my nausea. But YOUism will never go away. (It's YOU-niversal.)

2) Two words: Bully Convention.

- There's a reason I forget about the vast majority of ideas that come into my head.

Not Normal

2009-03-13T08:12:00.001-06:00

Random Reviews

2009-03-08T12:15:00.006-06:00

It's time to spew random opinions about random things. (My ratings system is based on a scale from 0-11, just to be annoyingly and self-consciously original.)

"No Line on the Horizon": U2 : 9

The sign of a truly good album is one that you don't like the first time you hear it. Such was "No Line." The first song they put on the radio ("Get on Your Boots") sounded like "Vertigo 2.0," and the first chord of the title track just hit my ear wrong. But after a few listens, something magical happens with this album. You get used to the tone, and you start hearing all those U2 trademark sounds. Edge's classic delay. Larry Mullins' 16th-note high-hat rhythm. Adam Clayton's bulky bass. And Bono singing as well as he has in years. But here's the thing. Unlike "Atomic Bomb," which was hailed early (and erroneously) as the band's best album, this one doesn't try to be liked. "Atomic Bomb" is filled with great songs, but it tries to reach epic proportions on every track. There's no relief, and that gets exhausting. "All That You Can't Leave Behind" was a great album, but it didn't seem cohesive. "No Line" is mature and developed without being dispassionate or overly produced. It's really the best "best of" U2 collection, because it somehow combines best sounds of "October," "Unforgettable Fire," "Joshua Tree" and "Achtung Baby" while still coming across as its own thing. My advice for the Dublin lads: Keeping working with Brian Eno, and keep choosing new locations for recording (this one was recorded largely in Morocco).

"The Sound and the Fury": William Faulkner: 10

A brilliantly written novel. I have no idea what happened.

The Coffee I'm Drinking Right Now: Starbucks: 7

I might be a victim of their marketing, but the Pike Place roast that Starbucks has been barista'ing out for about a year now does seem to be smooth and well-balanced. Nothing compared to a Sumatra at Kopplin's, however.

"I'm Not There": Todd Haynes: 4

This might be one of the only movies on DVD that I don't finish. I'm a big Dylan fan. I'm fluent in his life story. After hearing an interview with writer/director Todd Haynes months ago, I liked him and was eager to see this project. But it just goes to prove how fascinating it is to watch an ambitious experiment that doesn't work. Individual performances are good. I winced the first time Cate Blanchett opened her mouth, but after that, she sold me completely. The problem is that the film doesn't know what it wants to be. Some parts are serious. Others seem satirical, especially with Julianne Moore's obvious Joan Baez character. And other parts are trippy for being trippy's sake (an animated whale sequence comes to mind), which is incredibly annoying. The idea of splitting Dylan's character is inspired. But why pretend that each character--and so many other people--have different names? The Beatles are "The Beatles," but Joan Baez is "Alice Fabian." Why? I'm sure there's a reason in Todd Haynes' mind, but it doesn't matter. Mixing reality, magical realism and trippy trippyism is a little like making peanut butter soup.

"Froggy Style": Salut: 9

Salut on Grand was a pleasant surprise. Don't confuse it for a French restaurant. This is Minnesota. But in a way, that comes as a relief. If you go, order the sweet potato wantons as an appetizer. And if you don't hate gin, order a "froggy style:" Hendrick's gin, mint, sugar and cucumber--as girly as a drink can be and still be manly.

My Son's Newest Drawings: James Kelley Conklin: 10

On Friday, he drew a serious of pictures in marker accompanied by just one word: "Famous." One shows a small muscle man holding up a huge trunkless elephant in a cage. The colors and the web-like pattern of the cage remind you instantly of Spider-Man. But there's something about the image accompanied by the word "Famous"... it's oddly fashionable. I'd put it on a T-shirt try to start a trend if I were capable of starting a trend.

"Mad Men": Matthew Weiner: 11

If I continue this "RR" series, I'm simply going to end every segment with this review. Because "Mad Men" will go down as one of the greatest shows in the history of television, and I won't rest until everybody gets hooked on it. Get Season One on DVD. Trust me.

LangAlert: "On the Milk Carton"

2009-03-02T21:25:00.003-06:00

So I was watching something pretending to be a Notre Dame basketball game tonight, in which the Fighting (hah!) Irish lost to Villanova at home, virtually guaranteed that the preseason #7 team wouldn't even make March Madness, and (most important) continued to make a mockery of my on-the-record prediction of their greatness.

One thing did make the game memorable, however, when midway through the second half one of the announcers described a player by saying, "He's been on the milk carton much of the season."

On the milk carton? It took a few seconds, but then I got it. "On the milk carton," as in "missing," as in "missing in action," as in "riding the pine," as in "sitting on the bench."

I'm usually open to a twisted sense of humor, as evidenced by one of my recent Conk Creative videos that prompted a complaint email from PETA. But "on the milk carton"? I'm sorry, guys, but that just ain't right.

Live Blogging the Oscars

2009-02-22T20:56:00.016-06:00

Caught just a part of the Jackman intro. He's good, but Billy Crystal he's not. Too much talent, not enough "we're all in this together" charm.

James is finally in bed, we're watching some TiVo'd stuff. Thank God for Ben Stiller.

Seth Rogan bit... way too long.

Fast-forwarding through German guy.

Isn't it yet another sign of America's decline that we have to hire an Aussie to host the Oscars?

Oh no, he's going to sing again. Didn't we get rid of the song and dance numbers?

Beyonce got back. Obviously lip-synching, but the butt can't be faked.

Fast-forwarding through rest of overblown song-and-dance number. Wait, is that guys in tuxes playing snare drums?

I always wondered what ever happened to Cuba Gooding, Jr. Here he is!

"Seymour Philip Hoffman!" Bravo, Mr. Arkin!

Shit, I thought that was Burt Reynolds. It was just Josh Brolin.

Walken, oh my God. What's with the back bangs?

Kevin Kline looks old.

Does anyone think Heath Ledger isn't going to win this award?

Shit, I thought that was Yul Brynner. It was just Alan Arkin.

Heath wins. I can't say anything snarky. This speech from his family is authentic.

Werner! What kind of accent is that? It's more than German.

Time for Documentary. I think Bill Maher is presenting. He already made it clear on "Real Time" that he thinks he should have been nominated. I don't think he'll be able to resist making a similar sour grapes "joke" when he appears.

Yup.

"Documentarians"? Is that a word?

I think "Encounters at the End of the World" is the only nominated movie that I actually saw. You should see it.

Upside-down Oscar trick. That's a first.

Why is it that the actual voiceovers for announcing the nominations are pre-recorded? It's always a little jarring to go from the live voice to the recorded voice. I guess actors can't be relied on to deliver their lines without screwing up.

Will Smith. You know, he could probably host sometime. He has the right energy.

"Slumdog" wins a sound editing award. America isn't hosting the show. America isn't winning the awards. (Wait, did that sound xenophobic? I just meant it to sound cynical.)

I have to say, I kind of like this year's set.

Film Editing award. I predict "The Dark Night." Nope, "Slumdog" again. Oh, a Brit.

A tribute to Jerry Lewis?! He's still alive?

Eddie Murphy. Wow, actually looking old. Jerry Lewis doesn't look half bad. Wow.

Why does Sean Penn always look like he's being uplit by a camp fire?

Very humble speech by Jerry Lewis.

Anne just said, "He is VERY fine" (re: Hugh Jackman).

Alicia Keys is very fine.

A.R. Rahman wins. This is seriously getting funny. We aren't even a super power on Oscar night! (He just said "God is great." Somewhere, Bill Maher just rolled his eyes.)

I'm not a very good judge of when people are stoned, but I think Alicia Keys is pretty much stoned all the time.

John Legend is a cool dude, no question about it.

Indians say "fillum"; the British Empire lives!

A foreigner even won Best Foreign Film! Where is the justice?!

I like Queen Latifah as much as the next guy, but why is she here every year?

I'm not liking this year's dead guy format. Too much attention on Queen L.; can't read the names of the deceased.

Michael Crichton died? Before global warming killed him?

Did they skip Heath Ledger? He died in Jan. 2008.

Reese Witherspoon. Lots of blue tonight. Unfortunately, most of it is in her eye shadow.

The director creates "one singular vision." Redundancy.

Ron Howard directed "Frost/Nixon"?!

Slumdog wins again. The Yanks are now, like 0 for the last 6.

Seriously, besides the screenwriter for "Milk," has an American individual won an Oscar tonight?

Halle Berry is the most beautiful woman in the world. Sorry, Gwyenth.

Please give it to Kate Winslet. Please give it to Kate Winslet...

Oh, Sophia. What the hell are you wearing, and what's up with your lips? Oh, you borrowed them from Angelina Jolie.

There's a peacock on Nicole Kidman's chest! (When did she go from beautiful to alien-like?)

Kate gets it. Thank God. (For the record, another non-American.)

More blue.

The dad whistle. That was cool.

Did Kate Winslet just tell Meryl Streep to "suck it up"?

(Hey, why no cutaways to a smug Jack Nicholson this year? Is there a Lakers game tonight?)

Woooowwww. Adrian Brody looks scary.

DeNiro rocks.

It's cheesy, but this peer-to-peer announcement thing works. At least for one year.

Anthony Hopkins is drunk.

Oh, Mickey! (Wait, did HE steal Angelina's lips?) Sean wins. He forgot to thank his wife. Hey, he's American! I don't mind the soap boxing, because I agree with it.

There's just no suspense for the Best Picture announcement. None at all. The only question is, will the cast and crew break into a song and dance number when they win?

There it is. "Slumdog" takes it.

Jackman: "Keep on making movies, and keep on going to them." Nice to end on a subtle hint of, shall we say, economic tension...

Thank you. Thank you all.

Who Says the Newspaper Is Dead?

2009-02-19T10:56:00.005-06:00

Introducing America's newest newspaper, created by a five-year-old. You think he's kidding? Mom took him to make 10 color copies at Kinko's last night, and after school today, he's going to stuff them in plastic bags and deliver them to select houses on our block.

(I'm waiting for the day he says, "Daddy, today I want to start a social networking site!")

PETA Controversy

2009-02-18T16:42:00.003-06:00

A few weeks ago, I embedded a YouTube commercial Conk Creative co-produced for Anytime Fitness. As anticipated, that spot has now prompted a complaint letter from PETA.

The video, the PETA letter and Anytime's response are now on the corporate Anytime Fitness Facebook page, and the company is encouraging opinions. If you'd like to take a look, here's a link to the Anytime Facebook page. You can view the video (in HD no less), and comment in the Video or Notes sections, as well as on the Wall.

Learnings from a Funeral

2009-02-16T21:09:00.004-06:00

The sad part isn't the framed photo in front of the altar, or the blue-and-green-checked cap or other assembled life artifacts. It's the looks on the faces of those who must wake without him. Unlike the sun, grief is more powerful when reflected.

Every young parent should pay special attention to the eulogies of bereft siblings. They don't reflect upon big birthday parties and expensive toys. They remember five things: long, sustained moments spent together (even in silence); the times you taught them something, anything; advice, so long as it proved wise; quirks (the stranger the better); and when you spoke lovingly of their other parent.

Eulogies are sometimes confessions. Sons confess the moments when they felt that they couldn't live up to their fathers.

It is rare indeed when someone says, "He did not leave any unfinished business." And when they do, one must look upon that as perhaps the greatest accomplishment of all.

Obama's Most Important Bill

2009-02-10T11:19:00.002-06:00

Barack, Barack, Barack ...

I watched part of your press conference last night. Let me first say how refreshing it is to know that we're back to having a president with the guts to go on prime time and actually take (and answer) questions from the media in a partially unscripted format. But that's also part of the problem.

The shift in your effectiveness as a communicator makes a tangible clunking noise when you switch from "canned speech" mode to "off-the-cuff." It pains me, because I can actually hear the voices in your head as you formulate your answers. When a reporter asked about your lack of effectiveness in luring Republicans to your side of the stimulus debate, your inner voice said:

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with a bunch of Dittohead man-children legislators who divide the world into Evil Government vs. the Sacred and Infallible Private Sector? I mean, these people say they love America, but then despise the entity that manages it. They think government shouldn't do anything but funnel money to the private sector, which in this case has completely f***ed up. So when the people they govern have a serious problem, they just shrug their shoulders and walk away. How friggin' childish and lazy is that? What a way to view the world! What an easy job! What a self-fulfilling prophecy. Jeeeeez!"

Then you wish you could have prepared a speech to answer the question, which would have sounded something like:

"Just as we must reject the false choice between protecting our environment and growing our economy, now is the time to dismiss the myopic view of government and private sector as adversaries. To the men and women elected by the people to serve this great nation of ours, I say this. If you believe in the American promise--if you believe in serving the constituents who checked your name on the ballot--don't shrug your shoulders at their pain. Don't walk away from their suffering. Don't erode their trust. And do NOT dismiss their dreams."

But in the tug of war between these two voices, the actual voice that came out sounded like this:

"Now there are some folks... aaaand I acknowledge this... there are some folks who believe, fundamentally... thaaaaat government shouldn't intervene. Aaaaaand... I don't doubt their sincerity... but if that's... what you believe... theeeeen... I'm not sure... that's a productive view... aaaaand a view that I can work with. Aaaaaand..."

You need a little bit of The Bubba, Barack. You need to acquire the skills of an improviser. This doesn't mean anticipating every question and having a pat, meaningless answer. It means anticipating every question and packaging runs and fills that can be sprinkled throughout your answer. You do have an idea of how to respond to most questions, but first you struggle with how to say it diplomatically and respectfully, then you fall prey to temptations to digress on each element of the larger point. This has to change.

Bill was a sax player. He wasn't a great one, but he knew a few blues scales and some catchy runs and riffs. Over time, he developed the ability to improvise with the press, sprinkling his actual knowledge of the issues (a knowledge you obviously share) with images, metaphors and soundbites that got his point across while creating a clear dividing line between him and his opposition. And, unlike your furrowed-brow tone, he played this particular instrument with a mischievous smile that said, "I know this is a game, and damn if I ain't good at it. Suck it, Newt."

I know you can get there. And I hope you have eight years to hone your craft.

But what is normal?

2009-02-08T11:47:00.010-06:00

Rather than constantly making judgments about whether my five-year-old son is normal, I'm going to work from one of two premises: a) there is no such thing as normal; or 2) I have no way of knowing what normal child behavior is because James Kelley Conklin is the only child I have (and will ever have).

With that in mind, here is the Seamus Report from the weekend of Feb. 7, 2009:

* * *

Friday Morning:
Kid cannonballs onto our bed at 7 a.m. First words out of his mouth: "Mommy, is eight times eight 64?"

Saturday Morning:
Kid calls me into the bathroom where, while sitting on the pot, he asks me if I can find an "E" in the bathroom that isn't written on anything. I guess the towel rack, where two draping towels could be interpreted as a hanging sideways "E," (though admittedly lacking a third line). "No," he says, and points to the door hinge.

Saturday afternoon:
We're driving back from Northfield, playing the new Bruce Springsteen album in the car. On the opening track, "Outlaw Pete," Bruce repeatedly croons, "Can you hear me?" An annoyed response comes from the back booster seat, "Yes, we can hear you, Bruce Springsteen!"

Sunday morning:
I'm trying to get an extra half hour of sleep. James is typing at the computer, asking Anne how to spell "decided." Fifteen minutes later, he's presenting me with the newest page in his current book, "The Magic Paintbrush," which he is writing and illustrating, about a boy who buys a paintbrush at an art supply store, then discovers that everything he paints with it comes to life. (I'll share when the author deems it complete.)

* * *

Ten-odd years ago, I completed a spec screenplay called "Brain Child." It was based on a premise from two friends about a couple who have a hard time conceiving, but then when they finally do have a baby, discover that it can already talk. Among the reviews I received was one from a New York screenwriter who said, "At first, I liked the premise. The idea of a couple giving birth to a baby that is already more intelligent than they are seemed fresh and original, presenting many opportunities for interesting challenges and conflicts." He then proceeded to figuratively tear the script apart. After which point, I, humiliated, proceeded to do so literally.

I'm thinking of revisiting the premise.

My Son Is on TV

2009-02-05T11:27:00.002-06:00

I'm starting to wonder about this kid. The first Timberwolves game I took him to, he appeared on the Jumbotron. Now Anne takes him to the Science Museum and KARE-11 just happens to be shooting a segment. The boy has already used up about 35 seconds of his 15 minutes of fame.

Click here to link to the video.

Other Worlds

2009-02-02T20:56:00.008-06:00

Of the people I've read, seen and listened to recently, three strange bedfellows have emerged: Ben Folds, Werner Herzog and Hooman Majd. That's fun to say. Read those names again, really fast.

Ben Folds has released a new album, "Way to Normal," which I've devoured in my car in the post-Christmas weeks. Two nights ago I watched the newest Werner Herzog documentary, "Encounters at the End of the World," on DVD. And three months ago, I bought and read Majd's nonfiction work, The Ayatollah Begs to Differ, simply on a hunch after seeing him on "The Daily Show."

Each in its own way does what art is supposed to do: takes you to another world.

Herzog's film lacks a certain clarity, yet is visually, if not thematically, arresting. Inspired by gorgeous footage of a diver under the Antarctic ice shot by his cinematographer, Peter Zeitlinger, Herzog decides to earn a National Science Foundation grant and take a crew to McMurdo Station, the continent's largest settlement. He seems to have taken the trip with only a negative idea to guide him: "I will not make a movie about fluffy penguins." In the end, what he does is take you inside two places: 1) the minds of the cowboy researchers and explorers who are drawn to McMurdo; and 2) Antarctica's stunningly alien visual landscapes--most notably beneath the oceanic ice and inside a volcanic steam tunnel.

What's ultimately most interesting about the film is its juxtaposition of a certain DIY vibe (the people part) with a high-def reverence bordering on religiosity (the nature part). You meet a man who talks about icebergs with the smile of a new father. A woman who hitchhiked between continents while sitting inside a newly minted sewer pipe. A cell biologist who is convinced that human beings evolved from their microscopic ancestors to escape the incredible violence he studies among those creatures. A former banker who drives the Antarctic equivalent of a bus. And perhaps the world's only Bulgarian tractor-driver/philosopher. At the same time, you see ocean-floor dwelling creatures that will haunt your dreams, listen to seal calls that sound like Battlestar Gallactica, and see land- and seascapes so blue and magical, you could swear you've just entered a Yes album cover.

Hooman Majd's book is in some ways an even more deliberate attempt at transportation. As an American-born Iranian, Majd is the perfect ambassador to straddle both worlds and provide the translation. The structure and purpose of the book are simple: Majd takes a sort of Iranian road trip with the express purpose of trying to make an American audience see the complexities behind the evening news videos. Like Herzog's work, Majd's feels loose. His purpose is not to force anything; it's simply to travel, talk, experience, document, and then edit out all the boring stuff. Majd is not a particularly artful writer, but his sincerity of purpose is what matters. He seems authentic, and you trust him.

What emerges of most interest are, again, two things: the perspective of the Islamic Revolution (today celebrating its 30-year anniversary) as an escape from monarchy; and the image and symbolism of the Persian garden. These two forces strike an identifying blow, at least to this American. We tend to think of the move from Shah to Ayatollah as an odd choice for oppression. But to the vast majority of Iranians, it was the exact opposite (just because a leader wears Western clothes doesn't mean he isn't an evil monarch--perhaps the same kind of man who fueled our own Revolution). The garden is a compelling monolith-busting symbol, as Majd observes that for most Iranians, almost any rule is fine for when you're in public, but don't even think about enforcing it within the home and garden. Lord knows we also have our love of personal privacy. Iranians feel the same. In fact, their gardens provide the etymology of our word, "paradise."

And finally, Mr. Folds. No singer-songwriter has ever been as skilled at leaping from hilarious adolescent tantrum to soul-wrenching melodic sincerity. This album is certainly no exception, and might actually be his best. On first listen, it simply has plenty of both elements--on some tracks proving that the piano is, in fact, technically a percussion instrument; while on others, showing that Ben can match Elton and Billy damn near anytime he wants to.

On closer listen, I was struck by another songwriter contradiction that Folds somehow manages to transcend. His lyrics are alarmingly "on the nose"--meaning, on one level, they're so specific as to be impossible to apply to anyone else. Witness:

If I'm the person that you think I am.
Clueless chump you seem to think I am.
An errant dog so easily led astray,
Who occasionally escapes and needs a shorter leash, then
Why the fuck would you want me back?

Is there any doubt that Folds actually experienced being called "an errant dog" by his now former-wife? (If there's any doubt, he also includes a song called "Errant Dog.") Yet the title of this song is "You Don't Know Me"--a wonderfully simple universal sentiment of both bitterness and self-absorption that has probably been thought by every person at every age in human history.

Folds shouldn't be able to get away with this kind of thing (he's a sort of anti-Dylan in not providing any vague "I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it" lines to read between). Yet this song absolutely obsesses me in its tight perfection.

Unidentified F_______ Objects

2009-01-30T15:52:00.003-06:00

Watch the video to fill in the blank. (This is the first Conk Creative-produced "viral" video.) Oh, and please share it with your friends. I mean, only if you think it's funny. Or even if you don't. Because you can't force a video to "go viral," so that's exactly what I'm trying to do. Does that make sense?

P.S. It looks a little blurry and off-center in the embed. For the best-quality version, click here and choose "watch in HD."

It's a Wonderful Day

2009-01-20T12:35:00.000-06:00

What the Hell?

2009-01-19T08:47:00.008-06:00

On the eve of a (hopefully) new era in American politics, it's important to remember a certain element from the previous era. Important, because this era is not going to close; it's going to go into hibernation and reconstitute over the next 4-8 years.

The documentary "Hell House" by George Ratliff is terrifying for all the wrong reasons. It's about Trinity Church in suburban Dallas, whose leaders hatched an innovative idea in the early '90s: Around Halloween, instead of opening a traditional haunted house, create an experience that gives people a taste of what hell is like. Then, after audience members are traumatized by the experience, ask them to accept Jesus and join their Assembly of God church.

The Hell House experience they have created includes live-action depictions of date rape, abortion, someone dying of AIDS, a drunk driving fatality, suicide, family violence, and in one famous case nine years ago, a recreation of the Columbine massacre. In each case, the character who has made the wrong choice is escorted to hell by a demon. The good person, such as a devout Christian victim in Columbine, goes to heaven. (Notably absent are depictions of the hell that is wrought upon those who don't help the poor and powerless, those who do cast the first stone, and basically anyone who ignores Jesus's tenets from the Sermon on the Mount.)

The Trinity Church Hell House is witnessed annually by some 15,000 people, about 20 percent of whom then convert or "recommit." It has inspired dozens of copycat Hell Houses across the country, and one plucky entrepreneur has even created a "Hell House Starter Kit." Students at Trinity School compete to land parts such as "Abortion Girl" and "Suicide Girl." And when the production is over, the church holds an Oscars-like ceremony to hand out awards for "Best Rape Girl."

The documentary itself is surprisingly hands-off. Unlike a Michael Moore film, the author's voice and point of view are almost completely absent. No voiceover. No introduction. No cuts to interviews with liberal academics and psychologists about why this is absolutely wrong. Not even any terribly obvious edits meant to enhance the characters' comic lack of self-awareness (as in "American Movie"). It's executed completely at face value. In fact, Ratliff even includes a truly terrifying episode in which one of the church members sees his infant son go into a seizure at the breakfast table. (The father is a sympathetic character, forced into single parenthood with four kids because his wife had an Internet affair.) I imagine the Trinity Church members who see the film would find it to be an accurate depiction.

The film's ironies are too numerous to mention, but one in particular deserves serious and sober comment. The Hell House creators have, in their mind, a simple purpose and point of view. There is a heaven. There is a hell. If you make the right choices, you go to heaven. If you make the wrong choices, you go to hell. Absolutely flabbergasting are the choices made by the HH creators themselves. In one episode, a girl goes to a rave. There, she is approached by two boys who push drugs on her. She takes the drugs and gets gang raped. And then, when she realizes what has just happened, she kills herself. As a demon goads her to take her own life, we learn that she was previously raped by her father.

So you have a father somewhere in the background who has raped his daughter. You have people somewhere in the past who have purposely created a drug meant to make it easier to rape women. You have two boys who push this drug on a girl who has been raped by her father. And then you have two or more boys who then rape the girl. And the person who made the wrong choices according to the morals of Hell House, the person who is going to hell because of all of this?

The girl.

I don't believe in hell. But if there is one, there's a special place in it for the person who made THAT choice.

My Lunch with Malcolm Gladwell and Charles Schulz

2009-01-07T09:38:00.006-06:00

I recently had the odd sensation of finishing two wildly different books at the same time: the audiobook of Malcolm Gladwell's "Outliers," and the massive 500+-page epic biography of Charles Schulz by David Michaelis.

"Outliers" is typical addicting Gladwell, who is a human intellectual synthesizer. This time, he forms a hypothesis on the real factors behind "success" (as traditionally defined, as in Einstein and Bill Gates). "Schulz and Peanuts: A Biography" is an exhaustive look at a single creative individual and how his life and his craft were fused until the day he died.

When I closed the book on Schulz at 11:15 last night, I felt like I had just had lunch with these two men, and they were both trying to tell me the same thing. Both books are about success and creativity, but both point to a truth that is traditional, unsexy and completely liberating all at the same time: creative success is about work.

One of Gladwell's biggest points is that highly successful people aren't touched by God, as we imagine Mozart and Michael Jordan to be. They have talent, sure, but they work their asses off. In fact, you can even point to a magic number of sorts: It takes 10,000 hours of focused practice for even a highly gifted person to achieve true expertise. Talent isn't what separates the mildly successful from the wildly successful. It's having the opportunity to work really hard, and actually doing it.

Schulz was talented and single-minded for sure, but his story is a reminder that creativity is messy. Charlie Brown didn't just fall from the sky. Schulz didn't wake up one day with these perfectly drawn characters in his head and say, "I'm going to do a cartoon strip about kids!" He didn't even want to draw kids. He fell into it. The early cartoons don't look like what we know as Peanuts. The strip wasn't as minimal. Snoopy was skinny and peripheral to the story. Charlie Brown looked younger. Lucy wasn't yet a firebrand. Schulz's ultimate creation came out of sitting at the drawing board every day for almost his entire life. It's a story of constant work and refinement.

This is personally instructive to me. I've struggled for years with wondering what I should be focused on creatively, and I've been plagued by the idea that I have threads of talent in different areas, but not enough in any one area to do anything great. I can write a decent song, but I can't sing it. My right hand is fast enough for solid rhythm guitar, but my left is too slow to play great leads. I can see a clear image in my head, but I can't draw or paint it. I can devise a clever movie idea and structure it well, but developing character is an absolute chore. I can write a blog or a travel journal, but not a novel or a poem.

One night in a graduate writing class, I was asked to look at a pencil sketch of a fellow classmate (someone I had never met) and write a story about who she is. I did so easily. I decided that she was two different people. She had been a traditional housewife, and then one day, she woke up and realized that she had to leave her family and start a new life out west. After class, the actual woman cornered me in the hallway, a look of astonishment on her face. "I did leave my husband and my family and move out west. How did you know that?" she asked.

(I could do this. But to this day, I can't sit down and develop a fully fleshed-out fictional character to save my life. Good grief...)

I've continually doubted my creative self-perception, and I've thought repeatedly, particularly over the last three years, "I wish I could just take a survey of everyone I know, and they could tell me what they think I'm best at, and be honest about what I'm bad at, and I'll just do what they say and forget the rest." When I should be grateful for having options--for being able to do anything creative when some people would kill for that ability--I've usually sunk into self-pity about not being good enough in any one thing, and imagining that the people I admire were touched by something I don't have. Always the Salieri, never the Mozart.

My lunch with Gladwell and Schulz opened a new door. Genius be damned. You can't think in a top-down way. You just have to work and work and work and see where your work takes you. And it might be that what you're really working on isn't any one thing in particular. It might be that you're just trying to be a balanced human being--a craftsman, a husband, a father. And that's something that takes serious practice.

My Son Made a Movie

2009-01-03T16:15:00.003-06:00

Last night, he said he wanted to make a movie. So here it is, finished this afternoon, written, illustrated and narrated by James Kelley Conklin...

Hitchens vs. Hedges

2008-12-26T09:22:00.008-06:00

A couple of years ago, I read Christopher Hitchens' "God Is Not Great" at a time when I was particularly receptive to it--a time when the word and concept of religion seemed to have been co-opted by people possessed of such an astounding cynicism, that they thought nothing of mobilizing the homophobia of a minority of their constituents in order to give power to their monetary greed.

I didn't find the book to be perfect (I wrote a too-long post in it), but I did find it to be stimulating. On the upside, I thought that Hitchens obliterated the idea that the Bible (or any religious text) is the word of God, that it is a literal document, that it is an instruction manual, even that it is a valuable historical document. What stuck with me long after I had both listened to the audiobook and read the hard copy was Hitchens' comment that in the evolution of humans, "religion represents the childhood of our species."

I had previously seen religion as one can see any sharp object: an instrument that can be used to kill, or to cut the ropes that bind. Equal parts good and bad. Like humans themselves, capable of almost infinite good or infinite evil. By the end, that view seemed naive. However, Hitchens never did convince me that religion was causal, rather than correlative, as it relates to the Crusades, Islamist terrorism or any number of atrocities committed in its name. After all, "in the name of" implies a marketing tactic, not a root cause. He also seemed to miss the point that for many (I would hope a majority) of religious people, the underlying reason for their practice is not to justify their hatred, but to express their reverence, hope and gratitude.

So about two weeks ago, I'm trolling the audiobook aisles at the Highland Park Library and notice something called, "I Don't Believe in Atheists" by Chris Hedges. I grab it, thinking that it's time to hear the religious rebuttal to Hitchens (the sleeve made it clear that Mr. Hedges is highly critical of what he dubs the New Atheists: Hitchens, Richard Dawkins and Sam Harris, among others).

I expected an unreasoned defense of blind belief from a devoutly religious, probably Christian, American male. What I got was something completely unexpected, surprisingly enlightening, intellectually refreshing and devastatingly depressing.

Hedges starts by refusing to fall into the polar trap of "religion" vs. "reason." That's not the issue to him at all. The real issue is whether or not you believe in human perfectibility, or what he would call Utopianism, in any form. In short, this is the belief that through anything--religion, science, reason, etc.--human beings can escape their natures and advance morally. Hedges does not believe in Utopianism. In fact, he compelling describes Utopianism as the toxic element behind the largest movements of evil in human history. In plain language, if you think you're right and they're wrong, and the world will only be better if you win and they lose, then they have to be killed so everyone else can advance.

On these grounds, he is equally critical of religious fundamentalism and New Atheism. He sees them as the same thing, pointing to Sam Harris' call for a preemptive nuclear strike on the Muslim world and Hitchens' staunch support of the war in Iraq. (Hedges lived in Muslim countries for years as a New York Times reporter, and convincingly exposes New Atheist ignorance on a complex religion with more than 1 billion followers.)

But while Hedges' argument is liberating on many fronts, it is also suffocatingly confining. He not only doesn't buy into human perfectibility (not a hard point to make), but staunchly refuses to believe in any form of collective human moral advancement. He might be called a New Human Naturist. He presents an image of human existence that strikes me as a morphing of the bound man of Western literature with the Narcissist of Greek mythology. We believe in our superiority even as we unwittingly commit specicide, destroying ourselves, our neighbors, and the environment we depend on for survival. We think God will save us. He won't. We think technology will save us. It won't. There's no point in removing religion, or science, or whatever you think is the barrier to improving our condition, because it can't be improved. Time is not linear. We are not on a path. We are trapped in a circular state, waiting for a Godot that will never come.

Hedges, like Hitchens, is ultimately stimulating but not (fittingly) perfect. His primary strength is in exposing the New Atheists as guilty of the same intellectual fascism that they condemn. A secondary strength lies in his nod to art and literature for their expression of the human condition. A third, related strength is his call to view the Christian Bible based on the etymology of the word "bible" ("small stories")--as a literary anthology not to be taken literally, not to be seen as a rigid instruction manual, not even to be seen as a coherent and purposeful compilation, but as stories that offer insight into the human condition. His weaknesses lie in not adequately developing his conflation of religion and art, and in his stating that we can't advance morally, yet still seeming to proscribe some kind of preferred path--which strikes me as self-contradicting (what's the point in seeking intellectual or spiritual advancement if it has no bearing on moral advancement?)

I appreciate both of these thinkers a great deal. In the end, they offer an exercise in discovering what you view as intellectually void or valid. For Hitchens, any belief in religion requires a shutting off of inquiry, which is destructive. For Hedges, any belief based on nothing but science and reason also requires a shutting off of inquiry, which results in a different kind of ignorance, also destructive. These two men, and their views of life, are fascinating because each sees the other as intellectually lazy, and both are right, and both are wrong.

Read them both, and draw your own conclusions.

My Son Is Not Normal

2008-12-21T18:55:00.007-06:00

My son is five and a half, and his three favorite things in the world are sports, geography and drawing. These three elements can only converge in one possible way: logos. So this morning (apparently tired of drawing existing sports logos based in something called "reality"), he decided to start making up his own teams and their logos. As with most things, the exercise started with a Realist vibe and evolved quickly into Expressionism. Or Abstraction. Or Post-Modernism. Or something.

See below.

Best. Ad. Ever.

2008-12-19T09:34:00.001-06:00

I have no idea what the connection is with the company at the end, but in this case, I just don't care.

The Most Addictive Substance On Earth

2008-12-16T12:59:00.004-06:00

Scholars throughout the centuries have debated which is the most addictive substance known to man. Or, at least they've done so for the purpose of me starting this post using a somewhat erudite tone.

The ancient Persians (and their modern-day Iranian ancestors) both feared and revered opium. Afghani scholars and dead rock stars cast their vote for that poppy paradise called heroin. Colombian harvesters lobby for cocaine, while their clever refiners abroad point to the superior addictive qualities of crack. Meanwhile, Wasillians cry for methamphetamine, while many other researchers put a spotlight on two of the only legal drugs in most societies: alcohol and cigarettes.

Balderdash, I say. You're all wrong.

Speaking as someone who has(n't) ingested all of these illegal substances, I say the answer is clear. For my money, the most addictive substance ever devised by humanity is Sesame Blues corn chips from the Garden of Eatin'.

Stop me when I'm lyin'.

Tool.

2008-12-09T22:35:00.001-06:00

The Mirage

2008-12-06T19:47:00.010-06:00

Some 17 years ago, while on a massive post-college roadtrip out West during the summer of 1991, my friends and I stopped in front of the Mirage Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. We would have to drive through Nevada that day, but we couldn't avoid stopping to do a little gambling--because we wanted to be able to say that we did.

I locked my wallet in the glove compartment and took in with me exactly one quarter.

Once inside, I turned down the three drinks placed under my nose within the first 10 minutes (not because I was a prude; I just didn't realize that they were free). I dropped my quarter into a slot machine and promptly won 50 cents. I inserted another quarter and won another 50 cents. Then I lost it all, taking comfort in the fact that "all" was 25 cents. I had rigged it that way, because something told me I might need to.

Fast forward to 2008. While we slide down the abyss into what might well become the worst economic meltdown in American history, I've come to a stark realization. We are not capitalists; we are gamblers. Our nation's capital should not be Washington, D.C.; it should be Las Vegas. The Capitol building itself should not be the immaculate Grecian building we all know; it should be The Mirage.

A liberal arts-level understanding (all that I am capable of) of the financial services practices and products that have contributed to our demise, such as "naked short selling" and "credit default swaps," reveals a common element: gambling. Suffice it to say, what our economy became over the last three decades was a blackjack table. The smart bad guys created products that allowed greedy bad guys to make money on assets they didn't actually own. The good guys were unknowingly complicit, also making money by seeing their IRAs and 401 (k)s rise at a steady clip.

We financed it all on the First Bank of China credit card, and then the casino said "enough."

But it's not just financial services that reveal our true nature. Our health care and insurance system is a gamble: We'd rather gamble that we can afford the insurance that gives us stellar health care than have less shiny facilities and open the doors of access more equitably. We gamble on borrowing money for the best education, assuming that law school, med school and that MBA will pay off relatively quickly. We have generally practiced what might be called "consumption without consequence" on nearly every front, and it's crumbling before our eyes.

The thing I remember about that summer trip better than the sunny depression of Las Vegas in the daytime was something just outside the city: the Hoover Dam. It's an apt metaphor if one replaces the image of the water on one side with stacks of bills representing our nation's gambling debts. The question is, now that the dam has broken, and we know that our gambles will no longer pay off, what do we do?

Notre Dame's Impending PR Nightmare

2008-12-02T13:47:00.006-06:00

Much will soon be written by people with no connection to Notre Dame and whose opinion already lies along a spectrum from indifference to contempt. I'm writing this as a loyalist... someone who grew up two miles from the Dome, who received a top-notch education there and who criticizes out of love, not hate.

I can't believe you're about to keep Charlie Weis.

This decision is not only wrong on moral and professional grounds; it's a PR cataclysm in the making. Here's why:

- I was actually one of the alumni who was fine with the decision to fire Ty Willingham. Someone who knows the football program from birth knows when a coach is on the right or wrong track. Willingham received the first-season boost that nearly all new ND coaches get, and then the deterioration was obvious. His unfortunate lack of success at Washington vindicates that decision.

- Weis' track record, until this year, has been harder to decipher. He got the first-season boost in a big way, nearly beating a dominant USC program with Matt Leinart and Reggie Bush. The second season felt more or less the same, a no decision. The third season was an absolutely stupefying decline, but Weis' previous success--not only at ND, but everywhere he's been--as well as his highly rated recruiting classes-- allowed one to hope that the season was anomalous.

- This season proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Weis is no better a college football head coach than Willingham. He can't prepare. He can't motivate. He can't educate. He can't hire good assistants. All he can do is recruit, and recruiting means nothing if you can't bring out and build on the natural talents of your players.

- The decision to keep Weis, therefore, logically has to be motivated by one of two things: proof of institutional racism, or a purely financial decision due to an alleged buyout package that is as large as Weis' already-stapled stomach.

- I believe it's the latter. One could argue that this decision is actually justified by pointing out the horrors of the current economy, and how keeping Weis actually keeps more university money where it should be: getting great students, hiring great faculty, building great facilities.

- Balderdash. The PR nightmare that this decision will unleash will cost the university far more than Weis' buyout. If ND refuses to admit that it is driven by the latter motivation, it will be hopelessly vulnerable to accusations of the former. And those accusations will stick.

- This, I'm afraid, will do more to harm ND's reputation than anything else in its history. And an institution that genuinely does more right by the student-athlete than any other in its class will see most of that brand equity disintegrate before its very eyes.

- (The paranoid in me sees ND already laying the groundwork for this decision by saying that Weis' buyout will not affect its decision, as well as sending an email to students, faculty and staff encouraging them to look for ways to save money. This does not mitigate the decision to keep Weis; it merely puts the university in a box.)

- Please don't do it.

Sports! Sports! Sports!

2008-11-26T09:24:00.006-06:00

I normally don't delve into sports on this blog for several reasons. One, at last count there were 1,083,221 sports blogs in the United States. Two, most people refuse to believe that I have an interest in the subject, which I try not to take as an assault on my manhood.

But rather than spout off every time I have something to say, I thought I'd just let it all out in one lightning round. Here goes.

- Charlie Weis can recruit, and that's it. He should be fired at the end of the season, no matter what happens.

- Notre Dame needs to do some serious soul-searching to figure out why the sport that subsidizes all others on campus is the only one not doing well (see: men's basketball, women's basketball, women's soccer, hockey, fencing...).

- Tim Brewster is a thinner Charlie Weis.

- This is the most exciting ND basketball team in my lifetime, and that dates back to Digger Phelps' best teams of the '70s. Regardless of what happens tonight against UNC, this team is one for the ages.

- You said "Tavaris Jackson." Survey says... no.

- You said "Brad Childress." Survey says... no.

- The three best live sporting events I've ever seen are: 1) the 1977 ND thumping of USC; 2) the Minnesota Kicks (of the ill-fated NASL) defeating the NY Cosmos 9-2 at Met Stadium in a driving rainstorm; 3) the Minnesota Twins' comeback this past season against the dreaded White Sox (before handing them the division title by choking against the Royals).

- Little-known fact: ND has not had a consistently good team since signing the NBC deal. Coincidence?

- Michael Floyd is the best receiver to ever wear an Irish uniform. He will transfer or go pro after next season.

- Current ND football players with Ryan Grant Syndrome (they look mediocre while at ND; they will do well in the NFL): Jimmy Clausen, the entire secondary, most of the offensive line.

- Lacrosse is actually a fun sport to watch.

- The Wild are riding a hot goaltender. This bubble too shall burst.

- The hapless Timberwolves are better than their record. Must be a coaching thing.

- Luke Harangody is Tim Kempton on steroids, cocaine and meth.

Happy in Theory

2008-11-19T17:17:00.005-06:00

It's in my nature to take silver linings and look for clouds. So I must do so with the impending Obama presidency. This is a man I strongly supported, whom I voted for with glee, and whose judgment I've instinctively trusted since his now-famous DNC speech in 2004 almost had me standing and saluting in the living room.

There must be something wrong with the guy.

Here's my theory (and I use that word for a reason). You have an American male in his 40s, with a beautiful wife and two healthy, adorable daughters. He's Columbia and Harvard-educated, obviously smarter than 99.9 percent of humanity--which is exactly what you want in a president--but also focused and pragmatic enough to have beaten the Clinton Machine and won an election in an electoral landslide... despite being (truly) African American, having a "funny name," etc. etc. He's being compared to FDR and Lincoln even before taking the oath of office, and in fact he's a student of said former presidents.

This is the problem. Can you be as good as people simply by studying them? I'm not an FDR expert, but I know he lived with the debilitating effects of polio (or Guillain-Barré Syndrome, as some now believe). Lincoln was in many ways a mess, a man plagued by severe bouts of depression and who saw two of his children die before reaching their teens. Abe and FDR went through a LOT more than Obama has before leading their country.

In a bigger sense, I worry that each American generation, by virtue of our wealth and success (the last eight years not withstanding), has grown farther and farther removed from the deep and tragic hardships of its predecessors. Most of us expect to live long. We don't expect our children to die. We have drugs to mitigate every pain we might encounter, if we can afford them. The necessary self-denial of our individual and collective mortality is at an all-time high, because it's simply easier than ever before.

Is having some of those experiences a pre-requisite for good leadership and judgment? One can argue that they might hinder more than hurt, and that I'm glorifying pain, disease and depression in an almost tasteless way. I'll just say this: If Obama were exactly who he is, but had also weathered Joe Biden's (or John McCain's) personal and family tragedies, I'd feel reassured.

How terrible is that?

Subconscious Retro Sentimentality Disorder

2008-11-17T13:04:00.007-06:00

So I'm driving a friend's car last week, and he has satellite radio. After getting my fill of Sinatra tunes on what must have been called Martini Radio, I switched over to the final preset, which must have been called "Marc Conklin's Formative Teenage Years Radio."

The song: "Shakin'" by Eddie Money. You know the tune...

Shakin' (Whoh-oh-oh-oh-on)
Snappin' her fingers (Whoh-oh-oh-oh-on)
She was movin' up and down
Round and round and round
That girl was shakin'
Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-she was shakin'

In an instant, I was transported back to 1982. South Bend, Indiana. 1235 Longfellow. Basement. Plaid couch. Off-brand Korean TV. Planter's Cheese Balls, bottle of Coke. Eyes full of MTV. Head full of LA Looks hair gel.

The odd thing was, this wasn't a song I particularly liked when I was 13. But now, 26 years later, as I headed toward the traffic light (and approached the halfway point), it struck me as not that bad, really. Quite good, in fact. God-awful lyrics, sure. But hey, Eddie had a fairly unique voice. The guitar riff was first rate. Good beat. Great hook. What's not to like?

So the question is, what has happened in my brain during those intervening years? The song is the same--it's the constant in this experiment. But I'm different. Is it a sudden change triggered by hearing the song again, or has my subconscious been slowly, meticulously making every song from my youth seem better over time?

Either way, the truth of the matter is this: More and more songs that I hated from this period now seem to range from "not that bad after all" to "downright good." Most embarrassingly, this phenomenon even applies to "I Ran" by A Flock of Seagulls and virtually anything by Duran Duran. Let me be clear: I DESPISED these bands at the time, choosing instead (in part because I was learning to play guitar) an allegiance with what is now called "classic rock," worshiping the virtuoso musicianship of Jimmy Page, Pete Townshend, all of the Beatles and two out of three of Rush. Now, it's as if taste has flown out the window.

I've decided to call this disease SRSD, or Subconscious Retro Sentimentality Disorder. SRSD is a nervous condition that causes you to respond to songs not with your head (which still shuns them), but with your heart, which glorifies that fleeting time in life when hours could be devoted to nothing but the art of listening to music. When you could close the door to the room you shared with your brother, reach into the vinyl treasures in the Peach Tree Records crate, pull out The Cars' eponymous first album, slip on those soft, cavernous Pioneer headphones, lie back in the beanbag chair and just close your eyes.

I still love music, and I embrace the iPod age fully. I listen to Pandora on my iPhone at work all the time. I still play a little guitar, and I'm helping my son learn to play piano. Last weekend, I stood for three hours watching The Hold Steady and Drive-By Truckers at First Avenue in Minneapolis. But at some point, music ceases to be the soundtrack of your life, and it takes on a smaller, sadder, more auxiliary role.

Eddie Money taught me that.