Air Hockey and the Male Gaze

Where was this image when I was fourteen years old?

Venice and the Moneyed Boho Elite

Spent an hour in a Venice cafe this morning waiting for K to finish her yoga-and-spinning class. Afterwards, I asked her to distill into a single human that essence of Venishness, and what that person might be like. "A rich bohemian," she said.

That's about right.

There's something to say about this, but I'm not smart enough to say it. But I think areas like Sedona, or parts of Brooklyn, or even Park City (never been there) have a similar thing going on.

I personally think there is an irreconcilable schism between these two concepts of bohemianism and material wealth, since bohemia traditionally was a theoretical place where artists and free spirits where could live and work cheaply and behave unconventionally. There was poverty, and maybe some poor hygiene as well.

Which does not describe Venice. Not anymore. So then who are these folks?

Frankie and the Bride

You might have heard that they are re-remaking the Sting/Jennifer Beals movie "The Bride." Or maybe you haven't!

Photos by Middlebrow used without permission.

The Bloggo is Blotto

Middlebrow in town very recently to celebrate the DVD release of the air hockey movie, Way of the Puck.

Discussion about blogging v. Facebooking, blogging v. essaying, blogging v. tweeting, blogging v. fishing, blogging v. drinking beer, blogging v. not blogging.

Felt twinge of something, resolved to blog more. Middlebrow, to blog even less.

All writing and actual creativity sucked out the room in the last few years by the gorilla air hockey movie. Now that that is over I hope to actually begin blogging again.

We shall see about that.

Not so happy with the Facebook, no.

Don't Hate on The Facebook

I already cannot stand The Facebook. I cannot stand The Twitter either. The good thing about the blog is that only a couple of people read it. The Facebook tends toward some kind of Friend Acquisition Contest, which I do not like. As one friend put it: "The fact that you're on Facebook isn't the most surprising thing. It's... why now????"

That is all I'm going to write because I'm trying to get more life out of life. I think this grand return to blogging by the SLC crew is a good thing, though. They say blogging is dead. Good for them. Long live The Facebook.

Chat Roulette Funny Piano Improv #1

It Wouldn't Hurt Us To Have a Nick, So Now We Do

Texas Tech's madman genius coach on why he made quarterback Taylor Potts wear a jersey with the name "Nick" on the back:

"I never had the opportunity to meet a guy named Nick Reed who was a linebacker for Kansas. And I always felt like he personified what a football player is and what a football player should be. I'd actually like to have a picture of Nick Reed.

But anyway. We decided as Potts was going through his tough times, we decided all of our players, we'd like them to be more like Nick and led by Nick would be even better. We figured it wouldn't hurt us to have a Nick, so now we do."

I love that, I really do.

It's Time For Your Close-up, Ron

So a month or so ago I’m working on a Toni Braxton video, of all things, and I’m sitting there all numb and demoralized, and I hear the assistant director calling for Ron to come to set, Ron, who will play the shirtless ripped black Romeo to Toni Braxton’s R&B middle-aged goodness.

So the love interest comes in, confused, and he is large, larger than me, perhaps, and very very awkward, and I see that Ron is, in fact, Mr. Ron Artest, former Indiana Pacer, former Sacramento King, former Houston Rocket, and the perpetrator of the largest brawl in NBA history, an incident from a few years back when he vaulted into the stands and beat the shit out of some Pistons fans and then was suspended for a year.

Ron.

This shoot took place before the NBA season had started and I didn’t know he had been acquired by the Lakers so having him just appear as the SENSITIVE LOVE INTEREST in a Toni Braxton video was just too amazing to comprehend. It is still amazing to comprehend, even knowing that he lives in LA now. The caressable pecs, the unhinged smile, the curious angularity to his face, like some flesh-and-blood gemstone.

Ron is crazy.

I was going to post links to the infamous riot, but I came across something even more incredible and offensive than that bit of thuggery. It seems he has a new rap record out and the single is called “Afghan Girl.” The video has to be seen to be believed. It’s documentary footage of abused Afghan women intercut with footage of Artest leaning on trees and rapping about how he would take care of these women and caress their hair, faces, etc.

Somebody please explain this video to me:

Oh, and here’s some great stuff of Artest battling with the Jazz from two seasons ago. Highly entertaining!

NO LAYUPS! NO LAYUPS!

Mid-century Modernism and the Spacesuits of 2001

I forgot to add a detail to my last post re: screening a 70mm print of 2001 recently. At some point in the evening it occurred to me that the three spacesuits (red, yellow, blue) on the ship Discovery looked exactly like our Fiestaware!

Instead of the puffy white marshmallow suits we’re used to, these strange and beautiful suits wore their exuberant non-primary mid-century color palettes proudly! I’d never noticed it watching the pan-and-scan VHS version of this film, but the red is more like a brick red, the yellow a mustard yellow, and the blue approaches something more of a cobalt blue. Just like our plates!

I like that each astronaut has his a different color suit; they are easy to tell apart that way. Bowman gets the red one, no doubt due to the violence and rebirth that accompanies killing off HAL. Or something like that. The blue dude died already in peaceful hibernation. Poole wears an innocent yellow before HAL cuts his breathing cord while working on the “broken” dish out in space.

These vibrant suits are an interesting choice, especially within the blank white context of Discovery. Once could say these suits have way more personality than the astronauts themselves, which seems to be much of the point of the movie (that AI computers have evolved past humans – HAL is irrational, breaks the rules, is vindictive, etc.. more human than the blank-slate astronauts). Perhaps it’s when the astronauts put on the colorful suits that they begin the transition toward (more evolved) machines?

Oh, and did I mention we have a Fiestaware gravy boat that looks like this:

Sleepy E and the Cinema of Flying Machines

K and I went to a few movies this week; kind of unprecedented, really. I also walked in on the 2^nd half of a DVD screening of Twilight, which proved divisive in our household… the debate afterword exterminated our entire evening. But we shall not focus on that.

First was District 9, which was terrific and ultraviolent and completely satisfying. “More stressful than work even!” K exulted later. We loved the economical storytelling: No time is wasted explaining why the ship from V broke down over Johannesburg or why aliens were cruising over to begin with. It also doesn’t really explain why exactly the man’s hand is transforming into something nasty (whoops, spoiler!). No time for explanations, full speed ahead! No backstory, no problem…. Bravo!

Last night we caught a screening of a 70mm print of 2001, which K had never seen. It was beautiful and impenetrable, just like in 1968, no doubt. I did some reading online afterword when Karen was relentlessly demanding a literal interpretation of the film, and discovered that Clarke’s story, “The Sentinel,” which is what 2001 was based upon, is reportedly very clear about all of the weird and opaque story elements that populate the narrative, especially the last third.

From Wikipedia: “Clarke's novel explicitly identifies the monolith as a tool created by an alien race that has been through many stages of evolution, moving from organic forms, through biomechanics, and finally has achieved a state of pure energy. These aliens travel the cosmos assisting lesser species to take evolutionary steps. The novel explains the hotel room sequence as a kind of alien zoo—fabricated from information derived from intercepted television transmissions from Earth—in which Dave Bowman is studied by the invisible alien entities. Kubrick's film leaves all this unstated.”

I love that last line: Kubrick’s film leaves all this UNSTATED. I love that.

Kubrick to the world: “Fuck you!”

Too funny.

This film would never be made today… not even close.

What I really want to write about though, is Philip Kaufman’s “The Right Stuff,” which screened at the Aero last weekend. I was twelve when this came out in 1983 and probably watched it the following year on laserdisc.

I was quite shocked to be blown away by this movie. Three hours and fifteen minutes long and never a dull moment. Terrific writing, lush long-lens cinematography, an incredible ensemble of actors, wonderful documentary and stock footage, a great score, a lyrical side and an art film side as well, and most of all, a rowdy sense of humor that I did not remember at all. Who remembers that Jeff Goldblum and Harry Shearer are in this movie? Hilarous!

I did some reading after this as well, and discovered that Roger Ebert is a huge champion of this movie and included it in his Overlooked Film Festival. Ebert also gave Terry Gilliam’s Brazil two stars, so what does that prove…

Anyway, this made me think Kaufman is some kind of genius, being the sole writer and director of this film (okay, he had some good Tom Wolfe source material to start with, but still… there was no list of 7 credited writers like you see these days). Kaufman made the exquisite Unbearable Lightness of Being but he also was responsible for Rising Sun (with Connery and Snipes), and other abominations. One can’t be perfect I guess.

I’m surprised this movie doesn’t get more respect, especially among film directors. It really is a tour de force. It’s got a huge canvas and a stable of brilliant actors and it’s epic in scope and certainly in length, way up over three hours long. One would think this movie would have inspired a generation of directors. It’s the Dr. Zhivago of the early 80s! But no. Perhaps it’s no surprise that Terms of Endearment won best picture that year.

The Pivot - or- Damn, This Is Totally Different, and Undeniably Better, Than Everything Else That Came Before It, Ever

I think I might have blogged about this before, but when I first saw PT Anderson’s Punch-Drunk Love, I was so blown away by it that I ferreted out his manager's contact info and sent a fan letter to PT. I was 31, sending a fan letter. Probably I was just ecstatic to find that I could still be moved, that I could still be surprised and amazed by a motion picture…

The fact that that movie got mixed reviews just intensified my righteous fervor.

I began thinking about how many times in my life I had viewed a film that then immediately surpassed all others that came before it, and vaulted into my number one position. When was the last time I had a different favorite film? Before that? When was the last time I left the theater, giddy with excitement because of newly revealed cinematic possibilities?

I tried this exercise with books and music and found that all of these disciplines had a half-dozen or so PIVOT POINTS, points at which I was forced to reconsider what was possible with that art form, where I was forced to say, “Damn, this is totally different, and undeniably better than everything else, ever.”

For me, observing the graph (make your own) and the timeline proves to be more interesting and revealing than the listing of the movies themselves. What can I learn from these statistics? How often did I get my mind blown? There is definitely a slowing down that occurs in the later years as I harden into my current self.

Here are the pivotal movies of my existence. I cannot think of anything I was really passionate about in the junior high/early high school years. Back to the Future, perhaps, but that was really just more of the same, hardly anything too mindblowing.

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Return of the Jedi (1983)

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Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

Miller’s Crossing (1990)

Naked (Mike Leigh) (1994)

Magnolia (1999)

Punch-Drunk Love (2002)

On the literary front, I have to start from university, because I can’t remember what I was impressed with before that. The years represent the year in which I intersected with the book, not necessarily the year it was published:

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Notes From Underground (1990)

The Information (Martin Amis) (1995)

The Dead Father (Donald Barthelme) (1998)

The Fermata (Nicholson Baker) (2003)

Like the movies listed above, these titles don’t necessarily still hang amongst my favorites (I read the Information a couple of years ago and found it to be sort of unpleasurable). But in 1995, it was exactly what I wanted to read. I was amazed to have discovered it.

So for me there seems to be about 7 or 8 pivots, per discipline, increasing in frequency during the collage years and tapering off more and more as I age.

This seems natural.

I wonder if others have 30 titles on their lists (a new favorite every 6 months)? Or 2 titles on their lists (after the Breakfast Club it’s all been downhill)? What does it say about how impressionable we are as people?

I confess, these lists are excruciating to look at. To think that as an 18-year-old legal adult, Who Framed Roger Rabbit was the ultimate expression of cinematic possibility? It's humiliating, really -- but necessary to chart one's growth into adulthood, I guess, into the human I've become.... Each pivot neatly represents a change in my life, and in my worldview.

I guess it only makes sense that these moments come more and more infrequently, if ever, these days...

Honeymooners

K and I just got back from our honeymoon in beautiful Tulum, Mexico, about 2 hours south of Cancun.

I never thought I would have enjoyed such a stereotypical honeymoon -- white sand beaches, mojitos, hammocks, and lounging. Lots of lounging.

Our days consisted of reading, and eating, and swimming, and eating, and reading, and walking on the beach, and reading, and napping, and reading, and drinking.

It is easy to be cynical about our little resort, which had eco-spa pretensions and Gilligan's Island-chic architecture. We loved it, however.

It was a thirty-minute bike ride from our cabana to the little town of Tulum. In Tulum there was a cash machine, pistachio ice cream, taxis, and an honest-to-goodness supermarket!

It was pretty stifling, but on the beach the cool-to-the-touch white sand and perpetual ocean breeze made it quite comfortable. Out on the main road, however, there was no cool-the-touch white sand beach or perpetual ocean breeze. Instead, you got mosquitoes and rank sweat and butt bruise... 

But a little punishment always makes the good times so much better... I can make a mean mojito now, in case anyone is wondering.

Our rehearsal dinner in Los Angeles took place at a little Yucatan place near MacArthur Park called Chichen Itza. During our honeymoon we rented a car and drove to the real Chichen Itza, the ruins of a Mayan city two and a half hours away. We came very close to running out of gas in the middle of nowhere - thanks mostly to... well... my male stupidity.

We did not run out of gas. Look at how exuberant we are!

Married? Yeah, married! Sheesh!

Not a lot of time to file a complete report on the events of last weekend. Let's just say it was an exuberant wedding. Dr. Write read a villanelle written for the occasion and Middlebrow gave a wonderful speech.

The weather cleared up and a fine time was had by all. Ross tweaked his back doing spastic pop-locking on the dance floor. More to report when we return from our honeymoon in Tulum, Mexico.

Here is my only picture from the event (so far):

Great Old Photos #2

This is a photograph of my mother's mother and father. Grandma died when I was young; I can only recall her as a stern (and sturdy) farm lady who yelled at me for running around in her little  house. I remember her chastising me for not knowing how to tie my shoes and for needing her help in doing so. In my memory, she comes at me with the "Give a man a fish, feed him for a day; teach a man to fish, feed him for a lifetime" parable, and forces me to fumble with my laces until I can do it by myself. It is likely that this "teach a man to fish" dialogue has been retroactively inserted into the memory, but that is the way scene plays out in my mind. I remember it like it was yesterday, standing in their unpaved driveway, the midday Eastern Washington sun beating down, the muscular walnut tree and postage stamp yard off to the left, the rusty horseshoe marking the entrance to the small garage behind (filled with a museum of old farm tools), the pulse of sprinklers irrigating the surrounding corn fields, the buzz of dragonflies in the air. I'm sure this is romanticizing it; my cantankerous grandmother would probably have something to say about this kind of sentimentality. 

The picture tells a different story, however. It is hard to believe that my grandmother and this handsome young woman in cute shoes are the same person.

I love this picture so much that a few years back I included a passage about it in "Baleen," a short story about an old man who transmogrifies into a right whale. Some of the details have been fudged, just like in my memory.

"In the picture Gramps and Grammy were standing up against a Twenties-model Ford, the kind with running boards below the doors. They looked so young that it startled him. Gramps was skinny and cocky, with a long nose and pointy jaw just like Kevin. His mouth was open in a laugh and the hat on his head was tilted at an angle, like a fashionable Scandanavian gangster.

"Grammy looked like she wasn’t even twenty years old. Her hair was dark and curly and longer than he'd ever seen before. She was strange and beautiful at the same time. She had her right foot on the running board and her left hand on Gramps’ leg, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"You could tell she thought she had a pretty good catch."

Great Old Photos #1

K and I are currently in the process of creating a wistful, comic "growing up" slideshow to play at our wedding and get the guests all weepy. Let's play get the guests!

I've going through thousands of old photographs and come across some real gems. It's not always the content of these pictures that is spectacular (although the content is often remarkable), but it's something else, something invisible that makes these pictures really stand out for me.

I'm starting a short series in order to wrestle with these photographs.

Here is Great Old Photo #1

The scan of this picture doesn't really do it justice. The blacks look kind of washed out and the whites are dirty. Try to view the screen at an angle to really bring the contrast back to make the whites sparkle and the blacks black.

I love this photo for a lot of reasons, mostly because of its noiry starkness. Mom and Dad are so young here (I think it is 1965, probably Christmas by the look of the Christmas cards attached to the wall) -- Dad would be 29, Mom 25. They would have been dating for about three months at this point. It looks like a house they are in, and not an apartment, which could make it the house of Dad's brother-in-law, Uncle Louie. Or perhaps it is the house of some random couple hosting a party. It is hard to say.

The first thing one notices is the bright flash perfectly positioned in the mirror on the far wall. This is what makes the picture so wonderful. Imagine if the flash did not exist. It would still be a decent photograph but it would lose its interrogative shock. We see the very thing that is causing Mom to open her mouth in protest, a bright flash illuminating their secret (risque?) embrace. She is in his lap and his tie is rumpled. The rest of the house is dark and quiet. Dad's smirk puts him in league with the faceless photographer, but Mom's mouth is forming the shape of admonishment. She has seen the photographer approaching and is yelling at him to stop. This sense of fun is what takes the picture out of the realm of Weegee, although the aesthetic is the same. They are up to no good, and so is the photographer.

I love the beautiful square frame, something usually reserved for portraits and medium-format photography. Mom's face, which is foregrounded and receiving the glare of the flash full-on, is in the virtual center of the frame. They have too much headroom and the camera is tilting dynamically to the left. Do we feel tense because we have seen Orson Welles movies and others like it and we have learned that angled frames are a harbinger of bad things to come? Or do we innately feel tense because vertical lines are not vertical anymore and all is not well and right with the world? There is no time to set up this shot; the photographer is moving forward and the horizon is jostled. It is not so much composed as it is aimed. I imagine the camera continuing to tip counter-clockwise, becoming more and more dutched. Mom's head remains in the very center of this image as the stark world whirls chaotically around her.

A conical lamp hovers above her. It looks like a party hat that has just popped off her head, due to the sheer force of her surprise.

The Cinephile & the Megalopolis

For many years I have chalked up my decreasing interest in cinema to my decreasing interest in my movie industry job. I am watching fewer movies per year than at any other time in my life. I’m getting older, of course, and when one gets older he has less time to fritter away watching movies and reading novels. It isn’t totatly fair to compare the cinephile I was in college with the busy curmudgeon I have become. Look at all the free time I use to have… We all used to have.… Sheesh.

But something strange has been happening over past couple of days. I’ve been in the Northwest visiting the folks and I looked in the paper to see what was playing at the local art house theater. I hadn’t heard of any of the films, actually, but I was curious about what they were and actually expressed an interest in finding out. Strange behavior for someone who never watches movies anymore.

Some easy explanations:

 1. Of course I’m interested in filmgoing again while up in the NW. I have a ton of free time and no perpetual work-related stress. Let’s go to the movies! Why not?

 2. I am experiencing some kind of flashback behavior here. My mind associates the NW with the pleasure of heavy filmgoing, so it, of course, assumes that that is what happens when I’m up here. It rains, the Seahawks lose, Eric goes to the movies.

 3. I don’t have to battle murderous crosstown traffic for 45 minutes in order to see the film in question. Here in Tacoma the lines are short and the commute even shorter. I was telling Middlebrow how much I envied his life in the SLC. The SLC is tiny compared to Los Angeles or Chicago or NY, but it is large enough while still remaining small. Everything culturally relevant comes through the SLC… You may not have any Puppetry of the Penis or fringe stand-up acts or roller derby, but you get everything else and everything else is way more accessible! Do the Flaming Lips come to Salt Lake? Okay!

But I actually think something else is going on. Sometimes I like to fantasize about moving from LA and starting over in a small town somewhere… I like to think that I would get involved in the Film Society of this fictional town. That I would get involved in the community and help to program films from all of the world. That I would get directors and writers and other guest speakers to come and program live Theramin accompaniment to old silent films, etc…And then I would recapture my passion for the cinema.

Up here I feel people are way more committed to film and literature and music. They consume more and discuss it more – their love of it is pure. They consume it for its own sake. They love the cinema because they love the cinema – not because they are filmmakers and they are watching a film because they have to or because they are looking to steal ideas from this film.

Perhaps I’m just being contrarian. I don’t watch movies in LA because that is all everybody ever talks about. Movies and the movie business. It really drives me away. I don’t want to compete with these people – I don’t want to have another discussion about Quentin Tarantino or Ron Howard. I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t even want to think about movies. I want to do things nobody is interested in, even me.

Living in the Northwest makes me want to study cinema again. Living in Los Angeles makes me want to write novels. 

Folding Up Shop (Long)

Some time ago I started feeling the pull to make another documentary film. I was getting over my production hangover from the first one (“It wasn’t that bad, was it?”) and wanted to put my newfound skills to use. How great would it be to not have to encounter every situation for the first time? To not have to muddle through every decision? To actually build on all of this suffering I endured making the first film? To not make another film seemed irresponsible, wasteful almost -- analogous to plowing away through law school and then deciding not to take the bar exam.



The subject? Something even more esoteric and impossible to market than air hockey: folding. I was interested in technical “professional” origami, knot theory, pop-up books, real-world packaging applications – basically the intersection of art, math, and science in regards to folding.



Even stuff as mundane as tie tying, flag folding, and fitted sheet folding seemed interesting—maybe this was fertile territory, perhaps there was something culturally significant going on there as well. There were countless examples—here is a crocheted version the hyperbolic plane.



Middlebrow was one of the few people who supported this idea. I’d already given up on trying to find funding for this; it would be a passion project. Who would finance a documentary about folding? Everyone I pitched the idea to out here in Los Angeles looked at me funny. Perhaps my pitch was lousy. Maybe there was no clear protagonist and no clear goal so it was hard to see the point of it all. I was making a film about ideas, ha ha!



I continued to believe in this project, however. More than anything, the subject was interesting to me--something I could immerse myself in for over a year, which is the most important thing of all when doing a film, I believe. Even more important than marketability. That feeling of danger, that feeling of not knowing what you’re going to get. Feeling like you are going to discover many wonderful things along the way instead of going out on the road and trying to find sound bites to plug into your pre-written piece.

Well, today I discovered this:



Looks like somebody beat me to it!

I feel legitimized and very very sad at the same time. “See!” I said. “This movie won awards all over the place! I knew it was a great idea!” And then, “Shit!”

I’m sure this has happened to everyone. What do you do when you realize your beautiful little baby has already been done and done better by someone else already? I never thought I would see this happen with this particular documentary project, though. Out of all my ideas, this is the one I never thought anyone would ever be interested in.



Sure, one could argue that it’s probably a very different film than the one I would make, but the vibe of the trailer seems eerily similar. A friend of K’s has a movie called “Children of Invention” that is making festival rounds. It’s about two Asian kids who are abandoned by their mother for a short time and have to fend for themselves. Well, it just so happens there is another movie also making the rounds called “Treeless Mountain” which seems to be eating up more of the oxygen in the room. “Treeless Mountain” is also about two Asian kids who are abandoned by their mother for awhile and have to fend for themselves. Both of these films owe a huge debt to the Japanese film “Nobody Knows” (which is only 5 years old), but that is another story..

K said “Children of Invention” had trouble getting into some festivals because “Treeless Mountain” had already been accepted, and the films were too similar in tone and plot and character for the festival to program both.

So, there you go.

Here’s a link to the nice trailer of “Between the Folds”:

http://www.greenfusefilms.com/

Acupunctured!

The three-month beatdown in Philadelphia left me hobbled. Knee inflamed, limited range of motion, arthritis symptoms. Surprisingly, my doctor immediately referred me to an acupuncturist first, with the idea that if my lab results came back suspicious (which they did), then I would see a western specialist at the same time.

I admit, I like the idea of experiencing firsthand the different approaches western and eastern medicine use to treat the same problem. It hasn’t been a totally fair fight, however, since the western representative was fairly useless and I’m in a line waiting to see another.

But I’m not quite sure what to make of the acupuncturist, either. I’ve been three times and haven’t seen significant improvement. The common sense things he has prescribed (detox my diet, eating herbs, light meditation, choosing stretching/yoga over pavement ball and running, etc) are very beneficial, sure, but they really have nothing to do with acupuncture.

The jury is still out on all of the needles.

I’m really not quite sure what to make of it, especially when he is targeting every pressure point on my body EXCEPT the problem knee. Is this new-age sorcery? He even bled the back of my inflamed knee; is that medieval hokum or what?

Perhaps I am just being close-minded…Acupuncture has worked for thousands of years, after all. Does it matter if it’s a placebo if the placebo is effective?

The world is a mysterious place; I can’t claim to understand it all.

Beyond Complaining

Law Abiding Citizen is finally coming to a close and I will be returning home in a week and a half after three long months of filming in Philadelphia. We have been working 80-85 hour weeks as the producers try desperately to stay on schedule. This week we may hit 90. It has been cold and it is miserable and disorganized and there is much to complain about.

I say this to explain (but not justify) the blogging shortfall that has once again plagued my annual promise to blog more, but also to say that the complaining on set is out of control.

We complain because we have been served up some perceived injustice and we are powerless to do anything about it. We are impotent. And so we complain. And that makes us feel better. At least for a while.

But what happens when listening to this chorus of complaining becomes more intolerable than the injustices that cause the complaining in the first place? It continues, week after week, month after month, ramping up in pitch and shrillness and urgency. Be silent, I think. You’ve known things were going to be like this since after Week 1. You know where things stand: Either you accept them and stay and reject them and leave. But things will not change so it is absurd to whine so.

I am trying to move past this, to get beyond complaining. To try and remain silent. To set an example of restraint, of stoic impenetrability. To fool myself, to turn it into a game, to play past it, to relish getting yelled at because it means my enemies are unhappy deep inside. Perhaps this is why religion exists. Or therapy. To create a vessel into which one can thrust his or her unhappiness and throw away the key.

Of course, life on this movie is frustrating, but it is nothing compared to actual hardship. We are without disabilities. We have loving families. We are the employed ones, after all. Every week I get a few calls from California camerapeople looking for work. It is very slow out west, but we are busy here in Philadelphia. Most would kill for the bonanza of overtime we are getting now. I remember a roommate in college who told me that his grandparents got filthy rich during the Depression because they owned a bunch of public swimming pools and swimming was a cheap form of recreation that people resorted to during that time. He told this story with gusto, almost glee.

I wonder if his grandparents felt guilty. Every day I feel guilty that I do not fully appreciate my good fortune of being on this movie during a recession.

So I am getting better about complaining. I am learning to stifle it.

The need to complain does not go away, however.

It is right over here, at arms length, watching.

Pandora and the Music Genome Project

Those little “wow” moments in life come fewer and farther between every year, but the Internets continue to astonish. It took me a long time but I finally got an iphone and started using the wonderful and brilliant Pandora application.

Pandora deconstructs songs using hundreds of minute criteria (from angsty lyrics to wet mixes), and by doing so is able – given any song/songs or artist/artists as a starting point – to spin off recommendations for similarly constructed songs.

I’ve barely even scraped the surface, but already I’ve been exposed to dozes of fantastic musicians I’ve never even heard of. Pandora learns about your tastes and so gives more and more accurate predictions the more you use it and teach it using a simple thumbs-up, thumbs-down interface. And that is beautiful.

I believe there’s an online version that anyone can access. And it’s free.

How cool is that?