Welcome to the third and final part of this tale. If you missed part one and part two, go catch up. (None of this will make sense otherwise.) As always, this is a true story, although all names except my own
have been changed. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy the story
of one of the most surreal nights of my life.
My heart leaps. I jump up and open the back door. Shivering and sucking air between their teeth, they cross the threshold of my house, now a part of this most peculiar of nights.
"We sneaked out of Lainey's," Paula whispers.
"You don't need to whisper, my mom's out of town for the weekend."
"Oh. Good." She walks straight to Jacob, seated on the end of our long, sectional couch, and nestles herself under his arm.
Karen, somehow, looks stunning despite simple sweats and a pony-tail. Brandon watches her come in. Erika, wearing an orange hoodie and black sweatpants, looks adorable with her hair in pigtails. She flashes a genuine smile at us as she comes in. She and Brandon sit on the far end of the couch together. I, in turn, receive a disappointingly platonic hug from Karen and we both sit near the middle of the couch, a few feet apart.
For a few minutes we sit in near silence, the quiet hum of the music videos barely filling the space left by our lacking conversation. The Foo Fighters' Everlong video comes on. Its opening guitar riff is subtly ominous and foreboding. It sounds like a potent mystery whispering a few of its secrets.
"Hey, turn this up, I love this song!" Brandon says. I turn it up.
"Hello. I've waited here for you. Everlong. Tonight, I throw myself into...Out of the red, out of her head she sang." The volume's up just in time to catch those first lines. The video depicts Dave Grohl falling asleep and sinking into some sort of bizarre, "Elmstreet" style dream. The eerily appropriate opening lines and phantasmagorical aesthetic of the song feel somehow expected and in tune with the very night I'm living, like the soundtrack to a surreal film where the lines between reality and fantasy blur.
This all ought to feel normal, sitting on the couch in my own living room, surrounded by my closest friends, and yet it feels oddly displaced, like some sort of alternate dimension, just a shade off color from the real thing, one notch down the spectrum. It's as eery in its similarity as it is in its difference. It may be the music, it may be the dancing blue lights of the television in my dark living room, but I say there's something in the air tonight. The cows felt it. It had them on edge. I feel it now too. The feeling isn't all together unpleasant, but it's uneasy.
The song ends with the band all revealing themselves to have been costumed players in the video's narrative, and jamming together in a small bedroom. As soon as it's over, Brandon is on his feet. Fuel's Shimmer comes on next.
"Bathroom," he says, and leaves the room. He turns on a light on his way out and the spell is, at least temporarily, abated. Less than a minute later Karen gets up and leaves the room as well. Feeling awkward between the cuddling couple on my left and the now lone Erika on my right, I scoot down for a talk. She smiles at me.
"Hi." She speaks softly, not in a forgetful attempt to keep from waking an empty house, but intentionally under the music, only to me.
"Hi." I say. "I'm glad you guys came up tonight."
"We couldn't let you guys walk all the way here and not at least see you."
"Does Lainey know you're gone?"
She smiles impishly. "So are you and Kassie still going out?"
"No, we broke up a couple weeks ago."
"Oh, that's right." She looks at the television. I turn my head too, looking, but not seeing. "Why did you guys break up?"
"Ehhhh, I don't know."
She smiles.
I'm overcome with a sudden foolish desire to tell her things. I know my best friend, her boyfriend, is one room away. I know it won't accomplish anything. But her brown eyes bore into me and my words are like oil, full to bursting and demanding release.
"You know, there actually is a reason Kassie and I broke up."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Remember that day, near the end of last year, after, um, you and I broke up?"
"You mean, after you broke up with me, after one week?"
"Um, yeah, that's the one. Well, I still remember it. You were wearing pink shorts and jelly shoes."
"I still have those. I mean, of course I do, it was like five months ago."
"Yes, well, never get rid of them. Ever. Anyway, something about, I don't know, the way you looked at me, like, you weren't fazed at all..."
"Typical guy. You only want what you can't have." There's that impish smile again.
"No....well, yes. But this was different. It kind of drove me crazy. I haven't really stopped thinking about you and those...damn jellies since."
She looks back to the television. She's smiling again, a different, softer sort of smile. "Well, I'm sure-"
Whatever she's sure of, however, I never find out. She's cut short as Brandon comes noisily back into the room. Quickly I scoot over, and he sits down next to Erika.
"Oh, yes, I love this song too!" He says. It's Our Lady Peace's Clumsy. I turn off the television, throw the remote down to the other end of the couch, and walk out of the room. "Hey! I just said I like that song." Karen passes me on the way in. I go to my room and lie on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
When I come back a few minutes later, the girls are preparing to leave.
"So soon?" I ask, not looking anyone in the eye.
"Yeah, we've got to leave now or we may not make it," Brandon says. I look up at the wall clock and read 3:30.
Ten minutes later we're back in the dark cow field, once again the three lonely and haggard adventurers. Minutes ago, as the girls had gone their separate way, it felt like a long story was concluding. Now, back under the blue light of the stars and the rising moon, it feels like we're picking back up on an adventure, hopping back on a train we had abandoned one town back.
The highway that will take us north back to Brandon's street is visible far in the distance. The occasional passing car provides a modicum of perspective to what is only a fraction of the monumental task ahead. We walk in silence down the hill, and that eery, lucid feeling returns. I'm wondering internally at its possible cause when once again we're stopped by Jacob's voice.
"What is that?" For one wild moment I fear another cow attack. This time, however, he's pointing to the sky, far off toward the west. It takes me a moment, and then I see it too. "Is that a star?"
"No, that's way too bright to be a star," I say. "It looks like a really bright planet."
"It's moving," Brandon says.
"That shouldn't be moving that fast." The trepidation in Jacob's voice is utterly genuine. "It's moving toward us."
It happens quickly, a matter of seconds. The bright light, once so far as to be thought a particularly bright planet, is moving across the sky and into the foreground of our vision with otherworldly speed and complete silence. A few short seconds later, it's almost directly above us, flying low. Very low. Deathly silent. No engines, no propellers, no whirs. I hear the sound of the flashlight hitting the grass and Jacob begins a desperate and vain search for hiding, finally settling to hunch down in the weeds. It's an act of raw fear; there may be no place to hide, but he'll try.
Brandon and I stand transfixed. As the aircraft moves overhead it reveals its underside. It's the shape of a triangle with rounded points, one bright white light glaring down from each of the three points of the triangle. Slightly, it turns its underside up, as if to make sure we get a good look, makes a ninety degree turn, and in an instant is gone, speeding away north.
For a moment we stand in shocked silence, wondering if our eyes have cheated. But would they all have cheated the same way?
"I've...I've never seen anything like that," Jacob says at last.
The feeling returns to my legs and we start walking again, simply because we can think of nothing else to do. It feels like we should be calling David Duchovny or screaming in a mad fit of terror, but there's nothing for it but to keep moving.
"It was so quiet," says Brandon.
"Yes, and fast. I've never seen anything that can go from a speck to being just above our heads in a matter of seconds. I've never seen anything near that."
"Not without breaking the sound barrier or at least having deafening engines. We've seen something here. I'm convinced," says Jacob. "It felt so strange. Like, I had this urge to just be hidden, out of sight."
"I was too shocked to move," I say.
The thorough dissection of our experience and every possible explanation carries us far through the trip back, all the way up to Brandon's driveway. We never settle on anything rational, so we accept the irrational.
When we arrive, it doesn't feel like near three hours have passed since we left my house, which must surely be the case. We wonder if we've made it back in time to avoid annihilation as rumors of a coming sunrise are whispered all around the dark purple horizon. Quietly as ever, we sneak back, safely, in the front door and down into Brandon's basement bedroom.
I lie in bed, awake, the evening's multiple adventures and mysteries playing through my mind like a vivid strip of film, and I hear the sound of stirring upstairs. It seems we made it back with mere minutes to spare.
"Hey. Guys." It's Brandon, whispering. "We can seriously never tell my parents that we did this."
Our silence is our consent. I close my eyes and the next thing I know, it's nine o'clock and I'm being awakened by Brandon's mother. My mom's boyfriend is outside, waiting to give me a ride home.
"How was it?" He asks as I get in his van and close the door.
"It was fun."
"What did you guys do?"
"We sneaked out and walked all the way back to my house, almost got killed by cows on the way, hung out with girls, saw a UFO on the way home, and got back here just before sunrise."
He sits in silence for a moment. "Are you serious?"
"Completely."
The End
By Jonny Wall
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Real Life Series: The Night Walkers (Part 2 of 3)
By Jonny Walls
This is the second of what will eventually be a three part story. If you missed part one, go read it. (None of this will make sense otherwise.) As always, this is a true story, although all names except my own have been changed. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy the story of one of the most surreal nights of my life.
For a few minutes we all lie in relieved silence. The dire state of our situation is outweighed, at least for a moment, by the welcome absence of hoof prints in my temple. The matter of escape, however, remains unresolved.
"What are we going to do?" says Brandon.
"I knew we shouldn't have cut through these fields," I say.
"Hey, you came along."
"Let's just try to think of a way out," says Jacob. "We need to spook them away somehow."
"Can we throw something?" I say. "Maybe there's something in this shack." I lie flat on my stomach and peer over the edge to find that it's completely open on one side, more like a dugout than a shack. "There's not much here, just an enormous salt block."
"We could never chuck that far enough," says Brandon.
I lie back and look straight up, the startling brilliance of a billion visible stars lost in our imminent peril. "Maybe we can just wait them out," I suggest.
"No. We need to move. We'll never make it all the way there and back in time if we don't get going."
"We do have the flashlight," Jacob says.
"We can't just throw away our flashlight, I took that out of my Dad's car," says Brandon.
"What about the batteries then?"
"That's true," I say. "They're D's. Pretty heavy."
"I guess it's our only choice," Brandon says. It's unanimous, the batteries must be sacrificed to the greater cause of adventure.
Jacob turns off the flashlight, unscrews the top, dumps out two D batteries, and hands one to Brandon. "Ok, we need to make this count," he says. "We could never actually hurt a cow with one of these, but we need to make sure we spook one of them."
I sit in tense watchfulness as my comrades cradle their precious alkaline weapons, the last two grenades in a glorious final stand. It all comes down to this.
"Ok," Brandon says. "Three...two...one!"
A swoosh of fabric and they let 'em fly.
Two pathetic thuds, swallowed into obscurity by a thick layer of brush, are the only muster of our great final stand. A moment of uneventful silence confirms our failure. Not a one of the beasts flinch.
"That may have been a mistake."
Stranded, cold, and now without light, our great odyssey is dissolving right before us, doomed before it had even truly begun. In frustration Brandon slams his fist onto the metal shack. "Ssshhh, you'll wake someone up," I say.
"Let them come," he says defiantly, stomping the tin roof as that manic flash shows itself once again in his eye. People like Brandon are restless to the core, with appetites like sharks for the next wild moment. They're either swimming or sinking, never waiting.
"Wait a sec," Jacob says. He stomps his heel into the tin roof as well. A cow twitches. He stomps again, twice this time. Two or three cows fidget nervously, stepping lightly to the left and right, tossing their heads, casting around for moral support that won't come. Their nerve is breaking under the weight of unknown sounds, threatening in their volume and hint of violence. We all join in, stomping, clapping and shouting, a thunderous symphony of feigned artillery.
It works. A few skittish cows, deciding at last upon retreat rather than battle, shunt their young away from our raucous facade, and a wide gap appears in their ranks. We don't hesitate. We jump. We run (blindly) through the gap, past the cows, down the grassy hill, all the way through the enormous field.
Again I get there first. I leap over the first fence I see, this time a black wooden one, enclosing a back yard and lit house. Jacob and Brandon are close behind. The feeling of security that accompanies the other side of that fence is instantaneous. Quietly we sneak around the house and move in the general direction of the road. Once back on track, as our heartbeats return to normal and the fear of our close encounter slowly ebbs away, we realize that our desperate sprint for safety has put us directly where we had aimed in the first place, beyond the wide bend in the road.
Quickening our pace and sticking now to the safety of the asphalt, our journey continues unperturbed, save the occasional passing car, which forces us into the weedy ditch. Under an hour later we turn off of Brandon's road and onto the faster paced highway that leads south toward my neighborhood. Not risking the roads for fear of speeding traffic even at this desolate hour, we trudge through the ditches like the escaped convicts that we are, keeping good pace now to make up for lost time.
"So what are we going to do when we get there?" Jacob asks. "Should we hang around at Lainey's or try to get them to come up to your house, Walls?"
"Go up to my house I guess. I wouldn't want Lainey's dad coming down with us there. Since my mom's out of town for the weekend the empty house will be much better."
"Agreed."
"So Brandon, are you gonna keep going out with Erika?" I ask.
"I guess. I don't know."
"Well you were so gung-ho about making sure Karen will be there tonight, I wasn't sure."
"How do you know I didn't do that for you?"
"I don't know, I just severely doubt it."
"Ha. Fair enough. Yeah, I've been thinking about Karen a lot. I guess I'll just decide when I get there."
Jacob, who has been with Paula for over a year now, remains silent.
"So, if you're going to break up with Erika..."
"I said I may. I'm not sure what I wanna do yet."
A car rushes by, temporarily silencing us. The shoulder is so steep and the ditches so deep that the tires are almost level with our heads. The sound of its engine first fills the space all around us, and then disappears into the night. The conversation goes from a rumored fourth Stone Temple Pilots album to Kentucky basketball onto various other goings-on with our friends and classmates as we continue our trek. The talk is hovering somewhere around personal stories about our hilariously boisterous history teacher when we reach the edge of town. Somewhere along the way we've crossed into the city limits of my hometown, and another cowfield is all that stands between us and our quarry.
"Ok," I say, "I don't think we should have any problems here. I haven't seen any cows in this section of the field in the last few months. I think they've got them all in the next field over right now." Still, I look warily around for signs of protective cows that may be lying in wait. In all my childhood days playing in these fields I've never had problems with them, but it feels like there's something in the air tonight. The coast, fortunately, appears to be clear. A darkened dot far off at the top of the hill, my house, looms in anticipation of our arrival. Just down the road from my house, connected to this same field, we know that Lainey's house waits as well. It's over a hill, so we can't see it, but I pray the lights will still be on when we get there. It's got to be well past two o'clock now.
Hopping the fence, we cut a diagonal line through the field, heading south and well clear of my house, toward Lainey's over the hill. The field thankfully presents nothing in the way of obstacles except more wet, tall weeds and the occasional cow dropping. Soon, we're crawling over the fence directly into Lainey's backyard.
My heart drops as we all see it: All of the lights are off. It's a cold, dark, sleepy house that waits, offering no comfort or welcome to the three weary wanderers.
"I don't believe this," Jacob says.
"I knew it," Brandon says, "I absolutely knew we would come all this way and they wouldn't even have it in them to stay awake."
"Let's not give up just yet," I say. Slowly I approach the window, unreasonable optimism fueled by a a faint glimmer of hope driving me onward. Lainey's room is upstairs, but chances are, in the event of a slumber party like tonight's, they'll be in the downstairs living room. Once again in I enter ninja assassin mode. It's become second nature over the years, the silent stealthy approach that accompanies any late night sneak-in or sneak-out. I climb onto the wooden deck and peer through the window. The condensation renders any hope of vision futile, and deciding on a whim that we've come too far to be turned away, I risk a quiet knock on the window with the tip of my index finger.
Silence. Brandon and Jacob stand a few feet back, listening intently. Nothing happens.
What drives me to take such chances when my own stake in the game is so small (bordering on non-existent) I don't know, but this time I knock a little louder, using my knuckles. A light flicks on. Instinctively, I jump back and hide behind a bush. Jacob and Brandon dart further back into the shadows of the yard. The sound of a sliding door heralds the arrival of someone, and I pray it's not Lainey's father. Cautiously, I peer over the bush and am relieved to see a small, shivering hooded figure in pajama pants.
I come out of hiding, followed by Brandon and Jacob.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey guys." Her voice is gravelly, her eyes squinting and her arms crossed tightly. Our worst fears are confirmed. Behind her on the couch and floor, numerous blanketed figures stir. I catch Erika's eyes, who looks back at us from the couch, not looking sleepy, but awake. She gives me a helpless sort of look.
"So, we came all the way from Brandon's house," Jacob says.
"I know, but we're really tired," Lainey says.
"Really, you're tired?" Brandon says.
"I can't believe you guys came all that way. But we really can't leave. And my Dad could come down at any time."
"Can I at least talk to Paula?" Jacob says.
"No, sorry guys, we've got to go back to sleep."
She closes the door. Before the light goes off Paula looks apologetically at us and shrugs her shoulders in a defeated sort of way.
"Come on, let's go up to my house," I say. It only takes a few minutes to make the trip. We settle onto the couch and I flip on the television, something to drown out the restrained frustration in the room. MTV, the one station that actually improves at night, is running music videos.
"I cannot believe this shit," Brandon says, venting openly in my parent-less house. "You'd think we hadn't just walked three and a half miles just to hang out with them."
"Seriously, I knew it," Jacob adds. "I knew this would happen."
"Well, how long should we stay? It's only 2:30. Assuming we won't have any trouble on the way back, we don't need to go for another hour or so," I say.
"We might as well just rest for a few minutes and go," Jacob says. "No point in cutting it close."
Brandon starts to respond but is cut short by a knock on the window. Starting slightly, I look to see Paula, Karen, and Erika, shivering and smiling, outside my living room window.
To be concluded...
Check back in on Wednesday for the final (and strangest) section of this story. Thanks for reading.
By Jonny Walls
This is the second of what will eventually be a three part story. If you missed part one, go read it. (None of this will make sense otherwise.) As always, this is a true story, although all names except my own have been changed. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy the story of one of the most surreal nights of my life.
For a few minutes we all lie in relieved silence. The dire state of our situation is outweighed, at least for a moment, by the welcome absence of hoof prints in my temple. The matter of escape, however, remains unresolved.
"What are we going to do?" says Brandon.
"I knew we shouldn't have cut through these fields," I say.
"Hey, you came along."
"Let's just try to think of a way out," says Jacob. "We need to spook them away somehow."
"Can we throw something?" I say. "Maybe there's something in this shack." I lie flat on my stomach and peer over the edge to find that it's completely open on one side, more like a dugout than a shack. "There's not much here, just an enormous salt block."
"We could never chuck that far enough," says Brandon.
I lie back and look straight up, the startling brilliance of a billion visible stars lost in our imminent peril. "Maybe we can just wait them out," I suggest.
"No. We need to move. We'll never make it all the way there and back in time if we don't get going."
"We do have the flashlight," Jacob says.
"We can't just throw away our flashlight, I took that out of my Dad's car," says Brandon.
"What about the batteries then?"
"That's true," I say. "They're D's. Pretty heavy."
"I guess it's our only choice," Brandon says. It's unanimous, the batteries must be sacrificed to the greater cause of adventure.
Jacob turns off the flashlight, unscrews the top, dumps out two D batteries, and hands one to Brandon. "Ok, we need to make this count," he says. "We could never actually hurt a cow with one of these, but we need to make sure we spook one of them."
I sit in tense watchfulness as my comrades cradle their precious alkaline weapons, the last two grenades in a glorious final stand. It all comes down to this.
"Ok," Brandon says. "Three...two...one!"
A swoosh of fabric and they let 'em fly.
Two pathetic thuds, swallowed into obscurity by a thick layer of brush, are the only muster of our great final stand. A moment of uneventful silence confirms our failure. Not a one of the beasts flinch.
"That may have been a mistake."
Stranded, cold, and now without light, our great odyssey is dissolving right before us, doomed before it had even truly begun. In frustration Brandon slams his fist onto the metal shack. "Ssshhh, you'll wake someone up," I say.
"Let them come," he says defiantly, stomping the tin roof as that manic flash shows itself once again in his eye. People like Brandon are restless to the core, with appetites like sharks for the next wild moment. They're either swimming or sinking, never waiting.
"Wait a sec," Jacob says. He stomps his heel into the tin roof as well. A cow twitches. He stomps again, twice this time. Two or three cows fidget nervously, stepping lightly to the left and right, tossing their heads, casting around for moral support that won't come. Their nerve is breaking under the weight of unknown sounds, threatening in their volume and hint of violence. We all join in, stomping, clapping and shouting, a thunderous symphony of feigned artillery.
It works. A few skittish cows, deciding at last upon retreat rather than battle, shunt their young away from our raucous facade, and a wide gap appears in their ranks. We don't hesitate. We jump. We run (blindly) through the gap, past the cows, down the grassy hill, all the way through the enormous field.
Again I get there first. I leap over the first fence I see, this time a black wooden one, enclosing a back yard and lit house. Jacob and Brandon are close behind. The feeling of security that accompanies the other side of that fence is instantaneous. Quietly we sneak around the house and move in the general direction of the road. Once back on track, as our heartbeats return to normal and the fear of our close encounter slowly ebbs away, we realize that our desperate sprint for safety has put us directly where we had aimed in the first place, beyond the wide bend in the road.
Quickening our pace and sticking now to the safety of the asphalt, our journey continues unperturbed, save the occasional passing car, which forces us into the weedy ditch. Under an hour later we turn off of Brandon's road and onto the faster paced highway that leads south toward my neighborhood. Not risking the roads for fear of speeding traffic even at this desolate hour, we trudge through the ditches like the escaped convicts that we are, keeping good pace now to make up for lost time.
"So what are we going to do when we get there?" Jacob asks. "Should we hang around at Lainey's or try to get them to come up to your house, Walls?"
"Go up to my house I guess. I wouldn't want Lainey's dad coming down with us there. Since my mom's out of town for the weekend the empty house will be much better."
"Agreed."
"So Brandon, are you gonna keep going out with Erika?" I ask.
"I guess. I don't know."
"Well you were so gung-ho about making sure Karen will be there tonight, I wasn't sure."
"How do you know I didn't do that for you?"
"I don't know, I just severely doubt it."
"Ha. Fair enough. Yeah, I've been thinking about Karen a lot. I guess I'll just decide when I get there."
Jacob, who has been with Paula for over a year now, remains silent.
"So, if you're going to break up with Erika..."
"I said I may. I'm not sure what I wanna do yet."
A car rushes by, temporarily silencing us. The shoulder is so steep and the ditches so deep that the tires are almost level with our heads. The sound of its engine first fills the space all around us, and then disappears into the night. The conversation goes from a rumored fourth Stone Temple Pilots album to Kentucky basketball onto various other goings-on with our friends and classmates as we continue our trek. The talk is hovering somewhere around personal stories about our hilariously boisterous history teacher when we reach the edge of town. Somewhere along the way we've crossed into the city limits of my hometown, and another cowfield is all that stands between us and our quarry.
"Ok," I say, "I don't think we should have any problems here. I haven't seen any cows in this section of the field in the last few months. I think they've got them all in the next field over right now." Still, I look warily around for signs of protective cows that may be lying in wait. In all my childhood days playing in these fields I've never had problems with them, but it feels like there's something in the air tonight. The coast, fortunately, appears to be clear. A darkened dot far off at the top of the hill, my house, looms in anticipation of our arrival. Just down the road from my house, connected to this same field, we know that Lainey's house waits as well. It's over a hill, so we can't see it, but I pray the lights will still be on when we get there. It's got to be well past two o'clock now.
Hopping the fence, we cut a diagonal line through the field, heading south and well clear of my house, toward Lainey's over the hill. The field thankfully presents nothing in the way of obstacles except more wet, tall weeds and the occasional cow dropping. Soon, we're crawling over the fence directly into Lainey's backyard.
My heart drops as we all see it: All of the lights are off. It's a cold, dark, sleepy house that waits, offering no comfort or welcome to the three weary wanderers.
"I don't believe this," Jacob says.
"I knew it," Brandon says, "I absolutely knew we would come all this way and they wouldn't even have it in them to stay awake."
"Let's not give up just yet," I say. Slowly I approach the window, unreasonable optimism fueled by a a faint glimmer of hope driving me onward. Lainey's room is upstairs, but chances are, in the event of a slumber party like tonight's, they'll be in the downstairs living room. Once again in I enter ninja assassin mode. It's become second nature over the years, the silent stealthy approach that accompanies any late night sneak-in or sneak-out. I climb onto the wooden deck and peer through the window. The condensation renders any hope of vision futile, and deciding on a whim that we've come too far to be turned away, I risk a quiet knock on the window with the tip of my index finger.
Silence. Brandon and Jacob stand a few feet back, listening intently. Nothing happens.
What drives me to take such chances when my own stake in the game is so small (bordering on non-existent) I don't know, but this time I knock a little louder, using my knuckles. A light flicks on. Instinctively, I jump back and hide behind a bush. Jacob and Brandon dart further back into the shadows of the yard. The sound of a sliding door heralds the arrival of someone, and I pray it's not Lainey's father. Cautiously, I peer over the bush and am relieved to see a small, shivering hooded figure in pajama pants.
I come out of hiding, followed by Brandon and Jacob.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey guys." Her voice is gravelly, her eyes squinting and her arms crossed tightly. Our worst fears are confirmed. Behind her on the couch and floor, numerous blanketed figures stir. I catch Erika's eyes, who looks back at us from the couch, not looking sleepy, but awake. She gives me a helpless sort of look.
"So, we came all the way from Brandon's house," Jacob says.
"I know, but we're really tired," Lainey says.
"Really, you're tired?" Brandon says.
"I can't believe you guys came all that way. But we really can't leave. And my Dad could come down at any time."
"Can I at least talk to Paula?" Jacob says.
"No, sorry guys, we've got to go back to sleep."
She closes the door. Before the light goes off Paula looks apologetically at us and shrugs her shoulders in a defeated sort of way.
"Come on, let's go up to my house," I say. It only takes a few minutes to make the trip. We settle onto the couch and I flip on the television, something to drown out the restrained frustration in the room. MTV, the one station that actually improves at night, is running music videos.
"I cannot believe this shit," Brandon says, venting openly in my parent-less house. "You'd think we hadn't just walked three and a half miles just to hang out with them."
"Seriously, I knew it," Jacob adds. "I knew this would happen."
"Well, how long should we stay? It's only 2:30. Assuming we won't have any trouble on the way back, we don't need to go for another hour or so," I say.
"We might as well just rest for a few minutes and go," Jacob says. "No point in cutting it close."
Brandon starts to respond but is cut short by a knock on the window. Starting slightly, I look to see Paula, Karen, and Erika, shivering and smiling, outside my living room window.
To be concluded...
Check back in on Wednesday for the final (and strangest) section of this story. Thanks for reading.
By Jonny Walls
Friday, November 25, 2011
So You Think You May Have Eaten Soap
By Jonny Walls
Verbalinfusion is here with some impeccable medical advice. Enjoy.
So you think you may have eaten soap. Not to worry. Take our quick and easy quiz to find out if that's lye you've been lapping or some other unknown (possibly toxic) agent.
Please answer each question to the best of your ability.
1. How would you describe the taste on your tongue right now?
a. Bland. Like an Indiana field. (My tastebuds are the soybeans.)
b. Spicy. If that was soap, it had extra chili-pepper.
c. Sudsy. It's like drinking root beer...but it tastes like poison.
2. How sanitary is your larynx?
a. Not very. It feels like an old, wet washcloth lives in my throat.
b. Kind of. I wouldn't eat off it, but I would touch it long enough to throw it away.
c. Extremely. Cleaner than a Kirk Cameron movie.
3. Let's make believe for a moment. Your stomach is the hottest discoteque in town! What's the party tonight?
a. Old west night. Mechanical bull, cowboy boots, square dancing, rampant cholera.
b. Ladies night. It feels like my tummy is full of Zima and LIT's, and is wearing a tiny skirt and backless top even though it's 40 degrees outside.
c. Foam party. Wet, wild, and extra bubbly.
4. Everyone enjoys a turn down at the local cinema house. Which classic movie character do you most relate with right now?
a. Scarlett O'Hara. I hate good-looking men who actually care for me.
b. Jaws. Not the guy with the glasses who throws the chum or the guy who gets bitten in half. The actual shark, man! The two biggest challenges of my day are breathing out of water, and resisting the urge to eat my co-workers.
c. Ralphie from that one Christmas movie with the b-b gun.
5. Let's make believe again. There's an opera in your mouth. What was the latest plot twist?
a. Some guy seems to be really mad at some woman. I think it's because she keeps singing made-up words at him.
b. I'm not sure, but there are a lot of guitars and twenty-piece drum sets. And a lot of big hair-do's.
c. From what I can best discern, the President of the United States is actually that woman's long-dead father who is also using top secret government technology to control her two boyfriends, who are both cheating on her with her mother, who is actually her daughter and her old college roommate, but is unrecognizable since the surgery after the Prague incident.
If you answered C to any of the above questions, congratulations! You've eaten soap. You can relax, have some hot water, and wait for the retching to stop.
(If you answered B to question 4, please see a psychiatrist...or go back to the ocean. Thank you.)
By Jonny Walls
Verbalinfusion is here with some impeccable medical advice. Enjoy.
So you think you may have eaten soap. Not to worry. Take our quick and easy quiz to find out if that's lye you've been lapping or some other unknown (possibly toxic) agent.
Please answer each question to the best of your ability.
1. How would you describe the taste on your tongue right now?
a. Bland. Like an Indiana field. (My tastebuds are the soybeans.)
b. Spicy. If that was soap, it had extra chili-pepper.
c. Sudsy. It's like drinking root beer...but it tastes like poison.
2. How sanitary is your larynx?
a. Not very. It feels like an old, wet washcloth lives in my throat.
b. Kind of. I wouldn't eat off it, but I would touch it long enough to throw it away.
c. Extremely. Cleaner than a Kirk Cameron movie.
3. Let's make believe for a moment. Your stomach is the hottest discoteque in town! What's the party tonight?
a. Old west night. Mechanical bull, cowboy boots, square dancing, rampant cholera.
b. Ladies night. It feels like my tummy is full of Zima and LIT's, and is wearing a tiny skirt and backless top even though it's 40 degrees outside.
c. Foam party. Wet, wild, and extra bubbly.
4. Everyone enjoys a turn down at the local cinema house. Which classic movie character do you most relate with right now?
a. Scarlett O'Hara. I hate good-looking men who actually care for me.
b. Jaws. Not the guy with the glasses who throws the chum or the guy who gets bitten in half. The actual shark, man! The two biggest challenges of my day are breathing out of water, and resisting the urge to eat my co-workers.
c. Ralphie from that one Christmas movie with the b-b gun.
5. Let's make believe again. There's an opera in your mouth. What was the latest plot twist?
a. Some guy seems to be really mad at some woman. I think it's because she keeps singing made-up words at him.
b. I'm not sure, but there are a lot of guitars and twenty-piece drum sets. And a lot of big hair-do's.
c. From what I can best discern, the President of the United States is actually that woman's long-dead father who is also using top secret government technology to control her two boyfriends, who are both cheating on her with her mother, who is actually her daughter and her old college roommate, but is unrecognizable since the surgery after the Prague incident.
If you answered C to any of the above questions, congratulations! You've eaten soap. You can relax, have some hot water, and wait for the retching to stop.
(If you answered B to question 4, please see a psychiatrist...or go back to the ocean. Thank you.)
By Jonny Walls
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Real Life Series: The Night Walkers (Part 1 of 3)
--Welcome to the second edition of Real Life Series. Since this is a rather lengthy tale, I have elected to split it into three parts. Look for the second and third on Monday and next Wednesday, respectively. As always, this is a true story, although all names except my own have been changed. Thanks for reading, and I hope you'll enjoy the story of one of the most surreal nights of my life.
By Jonny Walls
Versailles, KY, October 1997
“Shhh, shut up! It’s ringing.”
“Won’t her parents hear the phone?”
“No, she said right at midnight she’d be on the phone with the weather hotline and be able to hear us beep in…Hello? Hi.”
It’s a pretty ingenious plan, I have to admit. I take in every word as my best friend, Jacob, talks to his girlfriend, Paula, who is on the other end of the line. My other best friend, Brandon, flips through channels on the muted television.
“Yeah…ok…we’ll see you in a few hours then.” He hangs up. A rare moment of silence falls as the television is turned off and expectant looks are exchanged. “So we’re really doing it then?”
“Hell yeah,” Brandon says. “But if my parents come down here while we’re gone, my Dad will whip my ass.” Far from looking worried, Brandon’s eyes flash, and I half suspect he would invite the scenario if only for the pure chaos of it.
It’s an old drill by now. Shoes and flashlight in hand, socks caress wooden floors. Up the stairs, silent as assassins. Out the door, close it slowly. Shoes on, cross the yard. Off free, into the night, our very absence the only evidence of escape. We leave fate in the hands of unknown powers and pray against a late night intrusion from parents and guardians, lest our absences call forth unthinkable wrath.
“The girls’d better still be awake when we get there,” says Brandon as we make our way down the street just in front of his house, an isolated Kentucky back-road by any and every standard.
“I wouldn’t put anything past them,” says Jacob.
They complain, but at least they have girls waiting for them. I, on the other hand, require no siren to call me forth from comfort and sloth into the unknown. My zest for adventure stands alone, a tribute to its own existence. (Untainted though said zest may be, however, I’d still rather have a girl waiting anxiously in her pajamas on the far end of this treacherous journey.)
Three and a half miles. Each way. On foot. Across genuine Kentucky back-roads in the dead of night. This isn’t well-lit suburbia replete with wide, flat streets and comfortable sidewalks. No, these are windy, one lane roads where ditch and shoulder are intimate, flanked not by well-trimmed lawns and white fences but by trees, fields, pastures and the wild, untamed bluegrass. (You’ve seen Deliverance, right?)
That is our path. That is our mission. And we’ve got to do it all in six hours.
That is this week’s insanity.
Four neighbors, four front porch lights, and four well-lit yards create an estuary of rural civilization between the comforting light of Brandon’s bedroom and the ocean of darkness waiting to swallow us. Once past them it’s dark. Pitch dark. The lone flashlight, borne by Jacob, provides little light and even less comfort.
Ten minutes into our trek, progress is minimal and the intimidating reality of our task, self-imposed though it may be, sinks in. It’s well over two miles just to the end of this road, and from there it’ll be over a half mile along the ditches of the most dangerous road in Kentucky, followed by another half mile across a cowfield. This will lead us right to the edge of small-town civilization, the edge of the subdivision where I live, and, more importantly, directly into Lainey’s backyard, host for the evening to the girls.
“What if we start cutting through fields now?” Brandon suggests, sensing the already threatening time crunch.
I immediately imagine shotguns, the menacing, searching lights of pickup trucks and the bite of ferocious bloodhounds. “Aren’t they private property?” I say.
“Who cares? It’s late and their houses are way on the other side, away from the road. We’ll never make it at this rate, not without a shortcut.”
“I’m game,” says Jacob.
I’m hesitant, but the thought of returning after Brandon’s parents rise spurns me on to greater risk. Deciding that I would rather attempt to reason with a shotgun wielding redneck than Brandon’s angry parents, I acquiesce.
We hop the hand laid stone fence and its considerably more treacherous barbed wire lining, landing in an unkempt field of weeds and hidden terrors for the shoes. We begin a straight line through the gut of the field which will effectively neutralize the main curve of the road.
“So who all is staying over at Lainey’s?” I ask as we adjust our gaits to overcome the knee high weeds.
“Paula, of course,” Jacob says, “Erika,” he nods toward Brandon, “Marla, Andie, and I think she said Karen was there.”
Karen. This is good news. She's good-looking and, more importantly, unspoken for. Ignoring the compromise to the integrity of my conquest, I imagine a possible rendezvous. Brandon watches me. “Yeah, I made sure Karen would be there,” he says. “Told her to come myself.”
“Really? But you're with Erika,” I say. He shrugs and picks up a stick, swinging and clearing a path for himself in the increasingly wild brush which is leaving uncomfortable moisture on the knees and ankles of my jeans.
Erika floats into my mind. I remember a scene that took place less than a year before. It was the first warm day of the year, one of those days when the renewal of spring coincides with the impending death of another grade, in this case, the eighth grade. I had been decidedly cold on Erika, despite, or possibly because of, her decidedly warm feelings toward me. I had shunned her for Kassie. She had moved on to Brandon. One look at her that day confirmed this to be a mistake.
She had spotted me from the top of the stairs and smiled the way she always did, but that day it looked different. It felt different. She had come down the stairs, gliding for all I knew, her eyes locked onto mine.
“Guys.” Jacob throws out an arm and stops us.
Rudely, I’m shaken from my warm-day memory and forcibly returned to the dark field of my reality. It takes a moment to see why we’ve stopped. Jacob is pointing the flashlight toward a small cluster of cows twenty yards to our right. I’m not afraid of cows, and I’m tempted to laugh off his warning and insult his bravery. However, the insult hasn’t made its way out before I see the second cluster of cows grouping to our left, and a third in front of us, and, sure enough, a fourth at our rear. They’re moving with militant efficiency and purpose. There’s no mistaking it: they’ve created a ring around us.
“What are they doing?” Brandon says, betrayed by the quaver in his voice.
“Shhhh…they’re forming a protective ring,” Jacob answers.
“I’ve never seen cows be aggressive like this,” I whisper. A smattering of snorting and stamping hooves confirms their ominous intentions. Every eye in their circle, red in the flashlight’s beam, is fixed on us, a mixture of fear and mania evident in each pupil. Warm breath, visible in the cold night air, rolls from their nostrils. Slowly, in formation, they move closer, tightening the circle and plugging the gaps in their ranks. We have a berth of fifteen yards, at best, to each side.We stand rooted to the spot, petrified.
“Cows can be protective if they have their young nearby,” Jacob says. “We’ve got to get someplace safe. Immediately.” There’s only one option. A rickety, tin shack eight feet high by ten feet long is close and, thankfully, inside the circle with us. Silently, subtly, Jacob nods toward it like a third base coach calling for a steal. We nod. He nods.
Suddenly my legs are moving, and the shack is shakily bouncing into focus. I get there first. There isn’t a question of how or whether or not I’ll make the jump. Half expecting at any moment to feel hooves in my spine, I leap, swift and smooth as lightning in one adrenaline fueled move, catch my forearms on the roof, and pull myself up. Jacob and Brandon are split seconds behind. Increased, nervous stamping and snorting tell me that the angry wall of bovine troops is ancy for battle, but not a one breaks rank.
We, the marooned enemies in a sea of territorial aggression, all breathe deeply. We’re safe, at least for now.
(To be continued...)
Remember to check back on Monday and next Wednesday for the second and third installments of this story. Thanks for reading.
By Jonny Walls
By Jonny Walls
Versailles, KY, October 1997
“Shhh, shut up! It’s ringing.”
“Won’t her parents hear the phone?”
“No, she said right at midnight she’d be on the phone with the weather hotline and be able to hear us beep in…Hello? Hi.”
It’s a pretty ingenious plan, I have to admit. I take in every word as my best friend, Jacob, talks to his girlfriend, Paula, who is on the other end of the line. My other best friend, Brandon, flips through channels on the muted television.
“Yeah…ok…we’ll see you in a few hours then.” He hangs up. A rare moment of silence falls as the television is turned off and expectant looks are exchanged. “So we’re really doing it then?”
“Hell yeah,” Brandon says. “But if my parents come down here while we’re gone, my Dad will whip my ass.” Far from looking worried, Brandon’s eyes flash, and I half suspect he would invite the scenario if only for the pure chaos of it.
It’s an old drill by now. Shoes and flashlight in hand, socks caress wooden floors. Up the stairs, silent as assassins. Out the door, close it slowly. Shoes on, cross the yard. Off free, into the night, our very absence the only evidence of escape. We leave fate in the hands of unknown powers and pray against a late night intrusion from parents and guardians, lest our absences call forth unthinkable wrath.
“The girls’d better still be awake when we get there,” says Brandon as we make our way down the street just in front of his house, an isolated Kentucky back-road by any and every standard.
“I wouldn’t put anything past them,” says Jacob.
They complain, but at least they have girls waiting for them. I, on the other hand, require no siren to call me forth from comfort and sloth into the unknown. My zest for adventure stands alone, a tribute to its own existence. (Untainted though said zest may be, however, I’d still rather have a girl waiting anxiously in her pajamas on the far end of this treacherous journey.)
Three and a half miles. Each way. On foot. Across genuine Kentucky back-roads in the dead of night. This isn’t well-lit suburbia replete with wide, flat streets and comfortable sidewalks. No, these are windy, one lane roads where ditch and shoulder are intimate, flanked not by well-trimmed lawns and white fences but by trees, fields, pastures and the wild, untamed bluegrass. (You’ve seen Deliverance, right?)
That is our path. That is our mission. And we’ve got to do it all in six hours.
That is this week’s insanity.
Four neighbors, four front porch lights, and four well-lit yards create an estuary of rural civilization between the comforting light of Brandon’s bedroom and the ocean of darkness waiting to swallow us. Once past them it’s dark. Pitch dark. The lone flashlight, borne by Jacob, provides little light and even less comfort.
Ten minutes into our trek, progress is minimal and the intimidating reality of our task, self-imposed though it may be, sinks in. It’s well over two miles just to the end of this road, and from there it’ll be over a half mile along the ditches of the most dangerous road in Kentucky, followed by another half mile across a cowfield. This will lead us right to the edge of small-town civilization, the edge of the subdivision where I live, and, more importantly, directly into Lainey’s backyard, host for the evening to the girls.
“What if we start cutting through fields now?” Brandon suggests, sensing the already threatening time crunch.
I immediately imagine shotguns, the menacing, searching lights of pickup trucks and the bite of ferocious bloodhounds. “Aren’t they private property?” I say.
“Who cares? It’s late and their houses are way on the other side, away from the road. We’ll never make it at this rate, not without a shortcut.”
“I’m game,” says Jacob.
I’m hesitant, but the thought of returning after Brandon’s parents rise spurns me on to greater risk. Deciding that I would rather attempt to reason with a shotgun wielding redneck than Brandon’s angry parents, I acquiesce.
We hop the hand laid stone fence and its considerably more treacherous barbed wire lining, landing in an unkempt field of weeds and hidden terrors for the shoes. We begin a straight line through the gut of the field which will effectively neutralize the main curve of the road.
“So who all is staying over at Lainey’s?” I ask as we adjust our gaits to overcome the knee high weeds.
“Paula, of course,” Jacob says, “Erika,” he nods toward Brandon, “Marla, Andie, and I think she said Karen was there.”
Karen. This is good news. She's good-looking and, more importantly, unspoken for. Ignoring the compromise to the integrity of my conquest, I imagine a possible rendezvous. Brandon watches me. “Yeah, I made sure Karen would be there,” he says. “Told her to come myself.”
“Really? But you're with Erika,” I say. He shrugs and picks up a stick, swinging and clearing a path for himself in the increasingly wild brush which is leaving uncomfortable moisture on the knees and ankles of my jeans.
Erika floats into my mind. I remember a scene that took place less than a year before. It was the first warm day of the year, one of those days when the renewal of spring coincides with the impending death of another grade, in this case, the eighth grade. I had been decidedly cold on Erika, despite, or possibly because of, her decidedly warm feelings toward me. I had shunned her for Kassie. She had moved on to Brandon. One look at her that day confirmed this to be a mistake.
She had spotted me from the top of the stairs and smiled the way she always did, but that day it looked different. It felt different. She had come down the stairs, gliding for all I knew, her eyes locked onto mine.
“Guys.” Jacob throws out an arm and stops us.
Rudely, I’m shaken from my warm-day memory and forcibly returned to the dark field of my reality. It takes a moment to see why we’ve stopped. Jacob is pointing the flashlight toward a small cluster of cows twenty yards to our right. I’m not afraid of cows, and I’m tempted to laugh off his warning and insult his bravery. However, the insult hasn’t made its way out before I see the second cluster of cows grouping to our left, and a third in front of us, and, sure enough, a fourth at our rear. They’re moving with militant efficiency and purpose. There’s no mistaking it: they’ve created a ring around us.
“What are they doing?” Brandon says, betrayed by the quaver in his voice.
“Shhhh…they’re forming a protective ring,” Jacob answers.
“I’ve never seen cows be aggressive like this,” I whisper. A smattering of snorting and stamping hooves confirms their ominous intentions. Every eye in their circle, red in the flashlight’s beam, is fixed on us, a mixture of fear and mania evident in each pupil. Warm breath, visible in the cold night air, rolls from their nostrils. Slowly, in formation, they move closer, tightening the circle and plugging the gaps in their ranks. We have a berth of fifteen yards, at best, to each side.We stand rooted to the spot, petrified.
“Cows can be protective if they have their young nearby,” Jacob says. “We’ve got to get someplace safe. Immediately.” There’s only one option. A rickety, tin shack eight feet high by ten feet long is close and, thankfully, inside the circle with us. Silently, subtly, Jacob nods toward it like a third base coach calling for a steal. We nod. He nods.
Suddenly my legs are moving, and the shack is shakily bouncing into focus. I get there first. There isn’t a question of how or whether or not I’ll make the jump. Half expecting at any moment to feel hooves in my spine, I leap, swift and smooth as lightning in one adrenaline fueled move, catch my forearms on the roof, and pull myself up. Jacob and Brandon are split seconds behind. Increased, nervous stamping and snorting tell me that the angry wall of bovine troops is ancy for battle, but not a one breaks rank.
We, the marooned enemies in a sea of territorial aggression, all breathe deeply. We’re safe, at least for now.
(To be continued...)
Remember to check back on Monday and next Wednesday for the second and third installments of this story. Thanks for reading.
By Jonny Walls
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Take This Job and Shove It (or: Things I Wish Jim Halpert had Said Five Years Ago)
By Josh Corman
Editor's Note: My original post contained one inexplicable sentence in which no complete thought was expressed. Also, I said that Pam went away to art school in season four, when it was season five. I regret the errors, and both have been corrected, but mostly I regret that Jonny and Emily gave me unmonitored editorial control while they soaked in Ahnold's hot tub.
I was shelving DVDs the other day and stopped when I came across the cover for our copy of season one of The Office. Right under Steve Carell's feet, in big bold letters, is a blurb from Entertainment Weekly that says, "Smart, biting 9-to-5 satire!" I shook my head sadly. Once (seasons one through three), that statement described a big part of what The Office was: a snappy, focused, if not terribly inventive, mockery of the corporate workplace. Now (although I'll confess to only having watched intermittently this season, I have seen every episode of the first eight), not so much.
Look, I know it's becoming fashionable to bash The Office. Other shows have grown more hip (Modern Family and Parks and Recreation, the latter of which evolved from a lackluster copycat of The Office into the only I-have-to-watch-this show on NBC's Thursday lineup), and when Steve Carell left - or, really, when they brought in Will Ferrell for his four episode guest spot - the show basically handed its critics (especially fans who had grown restless with the show's increasingly hit-or-miss episodes) a get out of jail free card. That said, just because it's easy to take shots at the show doesn't mean that it's wrong.
So where did The Office go wrong? It isn't as simple as pointing to a single event, episode, or even season. The show has degenerated, but even now the occasional sparks of life leap off the screen, and the flaws that have turned it from "must see" to totally optional have, for the most part, worked slowly.
Let's start at the beginning.
In one of The Office's first season episodes, Jim Halpert says something to the effect of, "This is my job, not my career. If I thought this was my career, I'd throw myself in front of a moving train." What else could we do but agree with him? Life at Dunder-Mifflin was one series of awkward, unpleasant, and frustrating trials after another. This was the essence of the show's British iteration: these people hate their jobs, they don't care for each other, and their boss might be the most unlikeable human being on earth. Simply put, they are miserable. The American Office carried some of that spirit into its first episodes, as Jim's sentiment makes clear. Over time, that has changed, and the further the show has strayed from that philosophical nest, the weaker it's become.
Basically, in the show's first two seasons, Jim and Pam serve as the audience's anchors in a basically unbearable work environment. Beneath all the witty writing and finely tuned characters was a simple large-scale conflict between the drudgery of working at a place like Dunder-Mifflin and the hope that:
A. Jim and Pam would get together, and
B. Jim and Pam would then do what they really wanted to do with their lives.
See, the audience sees themselves as normal, decent, and sane. So, when they see Dunder-Mifflin each week, the idea is that the criticisms that Jim and Pam see (and that the show makes continuously, explicitly and implicitly) in their office are the very same kinds of criticisms that normal, decent, sane people would make. Jim and Pam are us, and if that's the case, a huge part of our rooting interest in their relationship is the hope that they will escape this place that they (and we) dislike so much, because that's what we would want for ourselves.
Obviously, point A happened. Jim and Pam's relationship was artfully developed for three seasons (unsurprisingly, the show's best run). Their relationship is revealed at the beginning of season four, at which point the writers had a problem to confront: with Jim and Pam together, the show's central tension was relieved, and something equally important (or as close as could be managed) would have to replace it. Cue point B: Pam goes away to Pratt in New York to chase her dream of becoming a professional artist. We root for this, because, frankly, we think Pam is "better" than her position as a secretary at a mid-level paper supply firm. Season five is wrought with authentic tension, mainly due to Jim and Pam's separation and a brief story arc concerning Pam's new friends and Jim's budding jealousy.
Then, Jim proposes. Pam accepts. A short time later, she flunks out of art school. This is where the show started to lose its way. When Pam returns to Scranton (as she had to, unless both she and Jim left the show), the whole "art school" storyline is revealed for what it was: a wholly contrived source of tension that the writers used to lead on the audience by teasing the audience into thinking that they might actually get to see one of the few characters that they could actually root for achieve her dreams. Pam then goes right back to her job as a secretary, and all of Pam's aspirations are brushed under the rug with a cursory conversation with Jim about how Pam's an artist no matter what Pratt says. By that point, I don't know if the show even bothered to hint about Jim's possible aspirations anymore.
Basically, the writers deceived the audience into believing that Jim an Pam, our office-dwelling avatars, might actually resolve their issues with Dunder-Mifflin by leaving it behind and pursuing lives that aren't anchored there.
I might be accused of callously tying Jim and Pam's identities too strongly into their jobs, and thereby missing some larger point about how sometimes things like this just happen, that people get stuck in jobs they don't love and make the best of it. The biggest problem with that criticism is that the show's entire premise is that these main characters' identities are tied into their jobs. That Jim wants desperately for this not to be the case early in the first season is proof enough of that.
Once Jim and Pam were together, engaged, and in the same place, they (by rule of the Sitcom Ten Commandments for Shows Lasting More than Five Years) had to get married and have a kid. At this point, The Office still produced big laughs, and reliably entertained every Thursday. Occasionally, you might even witness a truly hilarious moment or storyline (Jan singing "Son of a Preacher Man" to her infant daughter, or Toby's exit interview with Michael), but the dynamic of the show had strayed so far from that of it's first couple of seasons, that though it entertained, it had lost the potential to stay great.
It had been great, that much is certain. But the moment that Dunder-Mifflin's cast of characters stopped seeing their workplace as something to overcome, and merely something to humorously cope with, it became just another well-written, smart show in the vein of The Big Bang Theory. Now, when I watch Dwight grope at Jim's crotch to see if he has an erection to test his attraction to a new female co-worker, I cringe.
Am I being too hard on The Office? Possibly. It is, after all, just a TV show, a half-hour comedy that has been, for much of its time on air, head and shoulders, above almost all of its competition. But those few seasons built a foundation that the rest of the show just hasn't quite seen out. Maybe it couldn't have. Maybe I invested too much and, no matter what, I was destined to be let down.
If so, then I am in the wrong, and as I sit at work tomorrow, grinding away at the job I didn't think I'd have for more than a couple of years, thinking about what it will be like to leave that place behind, I'll try to find it in my heart to forgive Jim Halpert.
By Josh Corman
 |
| Evidently, the show was nearly reworked as Law & Order: Scranton |
I was shelving DVDs the other day and stopped when I came across the cover for our copy of season one of The Office. Right under Steve Carell's feet, in big bold letters, is a blurb from Entertainment Weekly that says, "Smart, biting 9-to-5 satire!" I shook my head sadly. Once (seasons one through three), that statement described a big part of what The Office was: a snappy, focused, if not terribly inventive, mockery of the corporate workplace. Now (although I'll confess to only having watched intermittently this season, I have seen every episode of the first eight), not so much.
Look, I know it's becoming fashionable to bash The Office. Other shows have grown more hip (Modern Family and Parks and Recreation, the latter of which evolved from a lackluster copycat of The Office into the only I-have-to-watch-this show on NBC's Thursday lineup), and when Steve Carell left - or, really, when they brought in Will Ferrell for his four episode guest spot - the show basically handed its critics (especially fans who had grown restless with the show's increasingly hit-or-miss episodes) a get out of jail free card. That said, just because it's easy to take shots at the show doesn't mean that it's wrong.
So where did The Office go wrong? It isn't as simple as pointing to a single event, episode, or even season. The show has degenerated, but even now the occasional sparks of life leap off the screen, and the flaws that have turned it from "must see" to totally optional have, for the most part, worked slowly.
Let's start at the beginning.
In one of The Office's first season episodes, Jim Halpert says something to the effect of, "This is my job, not my career. If I thought this was my career, I'd throw myself in front of a moving train." What else could we do but agree with him? Life at Dunder-Mifflin was one series of awkward, unpleasant, and frustrating trials after another. This was the essence of the show's British iteration: these people hate their jobs, they don't care for each other, and their boss might be the most unlikeable human being on earth. Simply put, they are miserable. The American Office carried some of that spirit into its first episodes, as Jim's sentiment makes clear. Over time, that has changed, and the further the show has strayed from that philosophical nest, the weaker it's become.
Basically, in the show's first two seasons, Jim and Pam serve as the audience's anchors in a basically unbearable work environment. Beneath all the witty writing and finely tuned characters was a simple large-scale conflict between the drudgery of working at a place like Dunder-Mifflin and the hope that:
A. Jim and Pam would get together, and
B. Jim and Pam would then do what they really wanted to do with their lives.
See, the audience sees themselves as normal, decent, and sane. So, when they see Dunder-Mifflin each week, the idea is that the criticisms that Jim and Pam see (and that the show makes continuously, explicitly and implicitly) in their office are the very same kinds of criticisms that normal, decent, sane people would make. Jim and Pam are us, and if that's the case, a huge part of our rooting interest in their relationship is the hope that they will escape this place that they (and we) dislike so much, because that's what we would want for ourselves.
Obviously, point A happened. Jim and Pam's relationship was artfully developed for three seasons (unsurprisingly, the show's best run). Their relationship is revealed at the beginning of season four, at which point the writers had a problem to confront: with Jim and Pam together, the show's central tension was relieved, and something equally important (or as close as could be managed) would have to replace it. Cue point B: Pam goes away to Pratt in New York to chase her dream of becoming a professional artist. We root for this, because, frankly, we think Pam is "better" than her position as a secretary at a mid-level paper supply firm. Season five is wrought with authentic tension, mainly due to Jim and Pam's separation and a brief story arc concerning Pam's new friends and Jim's budding jealousy.
Then, Jim proposes. Pam accepts. A short time later, she flunks out of art school. This is where the show started to lose its way. When Pam returns to Scranton (as she had to, unless both she and Jim left the show), the whole "art school" storyline is revealed for what it was: a wholly contrived source of tension that the writers used to lead on the audience by teasing the audience into thinking that they might actually get to see one of the few characters that they could actually root for achieve her dreams. Pam then goes right back to her job as a secretary, and all of Pam's aspirations are brushed under the rug with a cursory conversation with Jim about how Pam's an artist no matter what Pratt says. By that point, I don't know if the show even bothered to hint about Jim's possible aspirations anymore.
Basically, the writers deceived the audience into believing that Jim an Pam, our office-dwelling avatars, might actually resolve their issues with Dunder-Mifflin by leaving it behind and pursuing lives that aren't anchored there.
I might be accused of callously tying Jim and Pam's identities too strongly into their jobs, and thereby missing some larger point about how sometimes things like this just happen, that people get stuck in jobs they don't love and make the best of it. The biggest problem with that criticism is that the show's entire premise is that these main characters' identities are tied into their jobs. That Jim wants desperately for this not to be the case early in the first season is proof enough of that.
Once Jim and Pam were together, engaged, and in the same place, they (by rule of the Sitcom Ten Commandments for Shows Lasting More than Five Years) had to get married and have a kid. At this point, The Office still produced big laughs, and reliably entertained every Thursday. Occasionally, you might even witness a truly hilarious moment or storyline (Jan singing "Son of a Preacher Man" to her infant daughter, or Toby's exit interview with Michael), but the dynamic of the show had strayed so far from that of it's first couple of seasons, that though it entertained, it had lost the potential to stay great.
It had been great, that much is certain. But the moment that Dunder-Mifflin's cast of characters stopped seeing their workplace as something to overcome, and merely something to humorously cope with, it became just another well-written, smart show in the vein of The Big Bang Theory. Now, when I watch Dwight grope at Jim's crotch to see if he has an erection to test his attraction to a new female co-worker, I cringe.
Am I being too hard on The Office? Possibly. It is, after all, just a TV show, a half-hour comedy that has been, for much of its time on air, head and shoulders, above almost all of its competition. But those few seasons built a foundation that the rest of the show just hasn't quite seen out. Maybe it couldn't have. Maybe I invested too much and, no matter what, I was destined to be let down.
If so, then I am in the wrong, and as I sit at work tomorrow, grinding away at the job I didn't think I'd have for more than a couple of years, thinking about what it will be like to leave that place behind, I'll try to find it in my heart to forgive Jim Halpert.
By Josh Corman
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Kevin Arnold and the Meaning of Life
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| Contrary to popular belief, the dude in the glasses is NOT Marilyn Manson |
Sometimes, God gives you a gift so unlooked for that you can hardly verbalize your thanks. That’s how I felt when I saw that Netflix had made The Wonder Years available in its entirety.
Sure, it doesn’t have Joe Cocker’s cover of “With a Little Help from my Friends” over the opening credits (soundtrack copyright complexities are the reason why the show still hasn’t seen a DVD release) and not a minute of it is in HD, but The Wonder Years was the first real television show I ever loved, and I’m thrilled to have it back.
For those unfamiliar, The Wonder Years follows a somehow world-weary eleven year-old named Kevin Arnold through his youth, starting in 1968. The show aims to be at once a nostalgic trip through the late sixties’ cultural upheavals and a sort of suburban bildungsroman. Our hero Kevin narrates the entire series from the distant future, offering the audience wry insight into his own awkward pubescent development and waxing philosophical about the nature of love, family, youth, loss, change, and fear. Every episode, at one point or another, veers frighteningly close to irredeemable cheesiness. Somehow, though, it always seems to pull it together just when it matters most, because, at the end of the day, The Wonder Years’ sincerity made up for its flaws (this sentence is exactly the sort of feel-good platitude Kevin’s adult narrator persona loved to close episodes with).
Yes, The Wonder Years taught me a lot. I learned about the Vietnam War and Buffalo Springfield in the same episode. I learned about RFK, Gloria Steinem, The Byrds, and Woodstock. But, even more remarkably, I learned that things don’t always work out the way you want them to, even on a sitcom. The series ends after Kevin’s first and truest love, Winnie Cooper, rejects him. He then loses all his money and his car in a poker game and, dejected and defeated, returns to his parents’ home. I saw this last episode when the show was in syndication, and I remember my outrage. Kevin and Winnie are meant to be together. How could this happen?
Now, of course, I get it. Not getting the girl, suffering the misery so that the good times mean so much more, blah, blah, blah. It was this sort of battered wisdom I looked forward to when I sat down the other day and knocked out a few episodes. The first two were just as I remembered: funny, a little hokey, in love with its setting. Then, I watched episode three, in which Kevin goes to work with his dad, Jack.
Basically, Kevin watches Jack come home from work, exhausted, day after day. And day after day, Jack brushes past his family, sits in the dark of the living room and watches television, where he demands peace and quiet. Wondering what makes his dad so angry every day, Kevin asks Jack about his work until Jack invites Kevin for a day at the office. Kevin watches his dad, amazed at the prowess with which he manages his employees at a manufacturing and distribution office.
Over coffee, eleven year-old Kevin asks his father when he knew he wanted to be a manager overseeing distribution at Norcom. Jack laughs and tells his son that he got an internship at Norcom one summer during college, and that he’s worked there ever since. One thing led to another and all that. Jack explains that what he really wanted to do was captain a ship. Freighter, ocean liner, tanker, it didn’t matter to him. Jack tells his son about the romance of being alone under the stars, using the sky to guide your way home and how the sea has fascinated him since childhood.
Soon after their conversation, Jack’s boss dresses him down in front of Kevin and the rest of the office, and Jack’s daily frustrations are suddenly much easier for Kevin to understand.
My dad frequently came home frustrated and distant, too. He wasn’t often in town, but when he was, he rarely wanted to rise from his recliner to play HORSE or throw around a baseball. Mostly, he wanted to be left alone after a day’s worth of annoyances and petty problems and fatigue.
I never asked my father when he decided he wanted to manage clean-up crews for his father’s environmental services company. I bet he would have answered much like Jack. One thing led to another. Like Kevin, I watched my father’s seemingly inscrutable behavior and wondered why he wasn’t a better dad. Unlike Kevin, I never understood how much of himself my father had given up by working where he did. Kevin realizes the element of greatness in his father that I never saw in mine. It’s an ugly sort of heroism, grinding away, day after day, so that your children can have different opportunities than you had, opportunities like, say, writing memoirs and contributing to websites and theology books.
The third episode ends with Kevin and Jack in the back yard, looking through a telescope at the stars. Jack points out a few constellations to his son, and Kevin peers into the telescope with a renewed appreciation for who his father is.
Kevin doesn’t verbalize what the audience must be thinking by the end of the episode, that we all wish Jack had shown the courage to shun the security of his job with Norcom and captained that ship after all. But that’s really beside the point. We’ve all made choices we can’t un-make, and we’ve all had to consider the sometimes odious consequences of those choices. In those moments, the only way to stay sane is to understand that what could’ve been is no longer in play, and our focus has to be on making sure that our next choice is a good one. In Jack Arnold’s case, the regrets are real, but they’re outweighed (at least for the audience), by the willingness he’s shown to endure what must often feel like a miserable life for the sake of his family. Whatever his flaws, he’s doing something few people have the constitution to do.
The Wonder Years wore its heart on its sleeve, but cheesy or not, there isn’t a whole lot about that show that rings false, and at the end of the day... ahh, just do yourself a favor and go watch a few episodes.
Friday, November 11, 2011
A Reading Year: Past, Present, and Future
By Josh Corman
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I’ve read a lot this year. Once I finish the book I’m currently reading (Michael Chabon’s fantastic The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay), I’ll have knocked out twenty-seven novels, two biographies, a collection of essays, and one autobiography-slash-writing memoir (Stephen King’s On Writing).
This flurry resulted from equal parts New Year’s Resolution and spousal ultimatum. My wife, around about last Christmas, had the audacity to ask me how many of the books adorning my swollen shelves I had actually even read. Incensed, aghast, and secretly ashamed, I actually marched upstairs and started counting loudly. This was an unwise strategy, as I soon found that I would be swallowing the humble pie I had been so eager to prepare through my exaggerated display. I stopped shouting when I got to twelve. By thirty-eight I was positively morose. I turned from the shelves and sulked downstairs, where I pretended to busy myself with some earnest kitchen chores (Genius, I thought, because the last place my wife would look for me would be in the kitchen, cleaning up). When Sara came around the corner, eyebrows raised in an expression of barely repressible glee at what she could only assume was my near-total humiliation, I was trapped. But, since the best offense is a good defense: “How many I’ve read isn’t the point,” I said. “Books aren’t like hamburger: you don’t buy just what you’re going to use in the immediate future. Collecting books that you know you’ll want to read later on is half the fun.”
You’ll be as shocked as I was to find that this eloquent speech made little impression on her. She simply straightened up, like a dutiful bailiff addressing a court room. “You are hereby forbidden to buy even one more book until you’ve finished reading all the ones you’ve bought and haven’t read yet.”
In a court room, so stern a verdict would cause the defendant to seek comfort from his spouse. Well, this is awkward.
Simultaneously devastated and emboldened by the verdict, I removed every unread book from my shelves upstairs and deposited them in a cabinet downstairs. Seeing them isolated like that, the task ahead of me didn’t seem so unmanageable. That very day, I pulled my most recently purchased book, David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, from its new home and started in (it says something, I think, about the nearly radioactive degree of my defiance that I chose first an 1,100 page doorstop that necessitated almost constant dips into an often insufficient dictionary).
The ultimatum gave me a kick in the pants that, in retrospect, I clearly needed. 2010 had been a lean reading year for a number of boring reasons, and I had drifted pretty seriously from my most beloved hobby. Reading and I fell back into rhythm without much hesitation, and I ripped through book after book, tracking my conquests in a little notebook I had heretofore been unable to find a good use for. I finished Infinite Jest (the best book I’ve read in a long time and well worth the challenge), The Brothers Karamazov, Light in August, two Graham Greene Novels, two National Book Award finalists (Franzen’s much-hyped Freedom and Jennifer Egan’s inventive, even masterful, A Visit from the Goon Squad.) I read Pynchon and Coetzee and Atwood, Ishiguro and Eggers and Hardy, Bolaño and Marquez and Murakami. I’ve even dabbled in Joyce’s Ulysses, although admittedly, I’m not so much reading it as parsimoniously inching through it with an accompanying podcast. In any case, I’ve read a lot.
At some indeterminate point, probably around the time we dropped cable television to save some extra money, the strict terms of Sara’s ultimatum were softened, and I began buying books again, adding to my depleted but still substantial stack in the downstairs cabinets.
The summer was, understandably, a high point in terms of consumption (an ugly word, but apt, in truth), and when I went back to work in the fall, the swoon I anticipated never occurred. I just kept going. Now, in November, I’ve read nearly 13,000 pages, about 414 pages per book. I’ll probably finish Kavalier and Clay this weekend – only 150 pages to go – and then, I’ll have another decision to make. Which book next? All year, I’ve plotted out a course, mixing contemporary and classic, fiction and non-fiction, long and short as a way to keep every book fresh. But now, ten months into my sentence, its original objective is less pressing (the cabinets are still half-full), and I feel satisfied with – if you’ll forgive the grandiloquence – my accomplishment. In fact, It’s been months since I felt encumbered in any way by the confinement of Sara’s proclamation. And so, rather than devour any more of the masses of unread books (waiting, I like to imagine, like dogs at the pound to be selected and loved), I’m going to do something I haven’t done in a long while: re-read an old favorite.
Typically, I don’t re-read (despite Nabokov’s urgings). I’m more aware than ever of how many great books there are, and how many of them I haven’t read, and it’s always seemed like re-reading cheats me of discovering something new (that all this time spent with my face buried in books could have been spent playing with my son, giving back to the community, or becoming a better husband is neither here nor there, I promise). But really, the choice between reading or re-reading is not a choice between discovery or stasis. Re-readers often claim that they catch, comprehend, and connect much more in a book the second or third time through. I have found that this holds true, even in my limited re-reading experience. Of all the books I’ve read more than once (The Harry Potter series, The Lord of the Rings, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Of Mice and Men, Fahrenheit 451, 1984, The Grapes of Wrath, The Road, High Fidelity, Watchmen, The Lord of the Flies, and Wise Blood), more than half were re-read for academic purposes - either as a teacher or student, and so only kind of count. In each of those, I was drawn to new and different elements, ideas, sentences, and phrasings. I don’t regret a minute of the process.
A good book, the way I see it, may endure a single exposure, but a great one should stand up to scrutiny time after time. Is it as engaging? As revealing? As true? If so, you’re probably looking at a personal classic – every book I listed above meets the criteria for me.
Now it’s time for a test. For years, I’ve called The Lord of the Rings my favorite book, and I’ve meant it every time. I first read it in high school – just after the initial thrill of my late discovery of Star Wars was wearing off – and again in college, right around the time Peter Jackson’s The Return of the King came out. That means it’s been eight years since I read my favorite book. That’s too long. I need to revisit Tom Bombadil and Lothlorien, Emyn Muil and the tower of Barad-dûr. After a long, rewarding year sailing the rough, thrilling seas of unread books, I deserve a chance to kick back and float down the lazy river of a comfortable, well-worn tome.
Let me go so far as to suggest that you do the same as 2011 comes to a close. Go back to your shelves (or that unruly pile that you trip over a few times a week) and take a repeat trip through a book you love. Think about it: Winter is coming (for those of you in Los Angeles, just pretend like the word Winter actually means something), and the time for hot tea, warm fires, and heavy blankets is upon us. What better time to curl up with an old friend.
The only question left is: Which book is calling your name?
By Josh Corman
By Josh Corman
Thursday, November 10, 2011
High Fidelity: A Response
By Luke Dornbush
Editor's Note- The following is a response to my piece A Beautiful Mess: The Broken Rules in High Fidelity. If you haven't read it, go check it out. In that piece, I assert that despite the fact that the film High Fidelity breaks a number of storytelling conventions, it still works. My piece focused on the rules that it breaks, leaving open the question of why it still works. Luke is here to answer that question. Enjoy.
High Fidelity. It’s unconventional and somewhat confusing. As Jonny so eloquently pointed out in his original post, there are numerous reasons this movie shouldn’t work, at least on the surface. But let’s look a little closer for a minute.
Yes, High Fidelity breaks lots of “rules” about exposition and talking to the camera, but the exposition isn’t really exposition in the purest sense. Exposition is typically defined as heavy handedly telling the audience something they need to know, usually because you are unwilling or unable to convey the important information any other way. It’s a crutch, and as a writer who has done it myself, I feel there is no excuse for it. There is always a way to tell the story without it if you can navigate it.
What happens in High Fidelity is really more like one-sided dialogue. John Cusack’s character, Rob, employs all the rules of good dialogue when addressing the camera. Subtext is rife throughout. He’s not telling us about his “Top 5 Breakups” to tell us facts about the character’s past because the writer can’t think of a better way to convey the information; he’s telling us to show us something about the character. Every story, and even the way he tells each one, tells us about the character. The way he talks, the point of view he has in the story—they reveal the character just as if he were talking to any other character in the movie.
But the real reason I believe that High Fidelity works is because it only gives the illusion of being disjointed, when in fact it is secretly and subtly following a simple, three-act structure. At first it seems like they jump in at page ten with an inciting incident. That’s what I thought the first time I watched it. But then I watched The Matrix.
At the beginning of the Matrix, we don’t know who any of the characters are or their relationships to each other. We know two things: the guys in the suits are the bad guys (because what else do bad guys wear?) and, consequently, the girl they’re shooting at is who we need to root for. We don’t know what her goals are. We don’t know why she’s being shot at. We just know she’s running for her life, and we sympathize with her.
In High Fidelity, we’re similarly thrust into the action. We instantly identify with Rob, even in the midst of a breakup for which we have no context. He’s the dumpee; obviously she’s a bitch. Over the course of the movie we learn that he’s no angel himself (one scene in particular comes to mind), but by then we’re firmly in his camp. First impressions, good or bad, are hard to overcome and can be essential to a story, especially when a writer centers his story on a particularly unlikeable character.
From there, like any other movie, we are introduced to the characters, and the plot begins to form. You may not notice it, as events sometimes seem to just happen for no reason, but your subconscious recognizes it and is able to follow it as a story. You find yourself enjoying something that should be aggravating. You’re understanding something that should be confusing. Ironically, that confuses you.
And so Act I ends when Rob decides there might be a common thread he’s missing between all of his worst breakups and embarks on a journey to find out what that might be. It’s a clearly stated goal that will take him all of Act II to pursue. He even works against a ticking clock. It’s never stated plainly, as good movies rarely are so blatant, but every viewer senses it. It’s the window he has to possibly reconcile with Laura. Rob needs to get his shit together before he loses her for good.
We know this because Rob’s problems are skillfully revealed by unconventional means. He indirectly tells us directly. In his recounting of his past breakups (and especially as more details come out in his recent breakup), the viewer can clearly see his mistakes/character flaws that doomed those relationships from the beginning, things that strangely baffle the very man who is recounting all of it to us.
It’s like listening to your confused, twenty-one-year-old friend lament her failed relationship with a drug addicted, thirty-five-year-old guitarist who lives in his parents' basement and doesn’t talk about anything except how big his band will be someday. Ok, maybe not that obvious, but you get the point. Now we know something that the protagonist is going to take the next hour discovering.
Before continuing, I feel I should point out that the breakup story with Laura is different from the rest of the “Top 5” list because Rob has to learn from his past mistakes in order to fix things with her. The couple wasn’t doomed from the start; it was his inability to learn from his past that ultimately drove them apart. We also inherently recognize this, which is why we subconsciously start rooting for them to get back together.
But this is how the movie stays two steps ahead of the viewer. We have already embarked with Rob on his journey of self-discovery and growth before the movie tells us why we’re on the journey at all. We, the audience, are Joan Cusack, who plays Laura's best friend Liz; after the fact, we are getting important information that reveals who Rob really is and why he and Laura broke up.
As Act II continues and Rob begins to internally accept that he has no one but himself to blame for his past failed relationships (from mistakes he made in the relationships to mistakes he made in picking the girls to begin with), we are sidetracked by events in the real world. Our subconscious—the one that so smartly figured out there was a story in the first place—gets it completely wrong here. It thinks this is a romantic comedy and tries to fit it into that mold. Guy loses girl, guy realizes he made a mistake, guy wins girl’s heart in the end.
But we’re wrong. High Fidelity is a late coming-of-age drama about growing up in a world that is different than we were told it would be (a story that resonates with every generation but, I feel, with X-Y in particular). It’s a story about letting go of disappointment and taking responsibility for our actions, taking positive steps for our lives. It's about pulling ourselves out of that post-youth rut and becoming adults. This is part of the reason the story looks so disjointed (but doesn't feel that way): we’re trying to fit events into the wrong picture.
When Rob admits that Laura is one of his “Top 5 Breakups,” it’s not him realizing how much he misses her and wants her back. He isn’t realizing that his past relationships can’t measure up to what he had with her. He’s realizing that he’s the problem and accepting responsibility for his part in the breakup.
It’s his growth from adolescence to adulthood. It’s his willingness to be vulnerable with himself and admit that he is hurt. Of course he still has a long ways to go before he begins to put Laura ahead of himself (where he ends up in the last scene of the movie), but it’s a major turning point in that journey. The confusion is added to at the end of the second act, however, when the drama and rom-com appear to overlap briefly. But remember what the plot is: man grows up, not man gets girl. The true darkest moment isn’t when it looks like all is lost and he runs out of the funeral for Laura’s dad. It’s when they get back together and it appears that nothing has actually changed. He’s still stuck in arrested development, doomed to repeat the same mistakes. That is the “all is lost moment,” the “dark night of the soul.” Even though he’s got the girl and seems happy, this is the hero at his lowest.
The climax is his extremely unconventional proposal in the bar. It’s at this point that all he has learned comes to a head. Rob hits on a cute girl, but it feels different this time. He knows he can’t go back to the way things were, with “one foot out the door” all the time. He is tired of his old life and wants something more. More importantly, now he knows how to get it. His closing monologue confirms the change in him and assures us that things will be different this time around.
I believe that Jonny is absolutely correct in his analysis. The movie is almost entirely about an internal conflict and self-discovery, and that’s against the rules. But, as always, rules are meant to be skillfully broken. The movie does a great job of subtly externalizing the internal conflict throughout, even when that's not its apparent intent. So why do we like High Fidelity when our brains tell us we shouldn’t? Because it’s smarter than we are.
By Luke Dornbush
Editor's Note- The following is a response to my piece A Beautiful Mess: The Broken Rules in High Fidelity. If you haven't read it, go check it out. In that piece, I assert that despite the fact that the film High Fidelity breaks a number of storytelling conventions, it still works. My piece focused on the rules that it breaks, leaving open the question of why it still works. Luke is here to answer that question. Enjoy.
High Fidelity. It’s unconventional and somewhat confusing. As Jonny so eloquently pointed out in his original post, there are numerous reasons this movie shouldn’t work, at least on the surface. But let’s look a little closer for a minute.
Yes, High Fidelity breaks lots of “rules” about exposition and talking to the camera, but the exposition isn’t really exposition in the purest sense. Exposition is typically defined as heavy handedly telling the audience something they need to know, usually because you are unwilling or unable to convey the important information any other way. It’s a crutch, and as a writer who has done it myself, I feel there is no excuse for it. There is always a way to tell the story without it if you can navigate it.
What happens in High Fidelity is really more like one-sided dialogue. John Cusack’s character, Rob, employs all the rules of good dialogue when addressing the camera. Subtext is rife throughout. He’s not telling us about his “Top 5 Breakups” to tell us facts about the character’s past because the writer can’t think of a better way to convey the information; he’s telling us to show us something about the character. Every story, and even the way he tells each one, tells us about the character. The way he talks, the point of view he has in the story—they reveal the character just as if he were talking to any other character in the movie.
But the real reason I believe that High Fidelity works is because it only gives the illusion of being disjointed, when in fact it is secretly and subtly following a simple, three-act structure. At first it seems like they jump in at page ten with an inciting incident. That’s what I thought the first time I watched it. But then I watched The Matrix.
At the beginning of the Matrix, we don’t know who any of the characters are or their relationships to each other. We know two things: the guys in the suits are the bad guys (because what else do bad guys wear?) and, consequently, the girl they’re shooting at is who we need to root for. We don’t know what her goals are. We don’t know why she’s being shot at. We just know she’s running for her life, and we sympathize with her.
In High Fidelity, we’re similarly thrust into the action. We instantly identify with Rob, even in the midst of a breakup for which we have no context. He’s the dumpee; obviously she’s a bitch. Over the course of the movie we learn that he’s no angel himself (one scene in particular comes to mind), but by then we’re firmly in his camp. First impressions, good or bad, are hard to overcome and can be essential to a story, especially when a writer centers his story on a particularly unlikeable character.
From there, like any other movie, we are introduced to the characters, and the plot begins to form. You may not notice it, as events sometimes seem to just happen for no reason, but your subconscious recognizes it and is able to follow it as a story. You find yourself enjoying something that should be aggravating. You’re understanding something that should be confusing. Ironically, that confuses you.
And so Act I ends when Rob decides there might be a common thread he’s missing between all of his worst breakups and embarks on a journey to find out what that might be. It’s a clearly stated goal that will take him all of Act II to pursue. He even works against a ticking clock. It’s never stated plainly, as good movies rarely are so blatant, but every viewer senses it. It’s the window he has to possibly reconcile with Laura. Rob needs to get his shit together before he loses her for good.
We know this because Rob’s problems are skillfully revealed by unconventional means. He indirectly tells us directly. In his recounting of his past breakups (and especially as more details come out in his recent breakup), the viewer can clearly see his mistakes/character flaws that doomed those relationships from the beginning, things that strangely baffle the very man who is recounting all of it to us.
It’s like listening to your confused, twenty-one-year-old friend lament her failed relationship with a drug addicted, thirty-five-year-old guitarist who lives in his parents' basement and doesn’t talk about anything except how big his band will be someday. Ok, maybe not that obvious, but you get the point. Now we know something that the protagonist is going to take the next hour discovering.
Before continuing, I feel I should point out that the breakup story with Laura is different from the rest of the “Top 5” list because Rob has to learn from his past mistakes in order to fix things with her. The couple wasn’t doomed from the start; it was his inability to learn from his past that ultimately drove them apart. We also inherently recognize this, which is why we subconsciously start rooting for them to get back together.
But this is how the movie stays two steps ahead of the viewer. We have already embarked with Rob on his journey of self-discovery and growth before the movie tells us why we’re on the journey at all. We, the audience, are Joan Cusack, who plays Laura's best friend Liz; after the fact, we are getting important information that reveals who Rob really is and why he and Laura broke up.
As Act II continues and Rob begins to internally accept that he has no one but himself to blame for his past failed relationships (from mistakes he made in the relationships to mistakes he made in picking the girls to begin with), we are sidetracked by events in the real world. Our subconscious—the one that so smartly figured out there was a story in the first place—gets it completely wrong here. It thinks this is a romantic comedy and tries to fit it into that mold. Guy loses girl, guy realizes he made a mistake, guy wins girl’s heart in the end.
But we’re wrong. High Fidelity is a late coming-of-age drama about growing up in a world that is different than we were told it would be (a story that resonates with every generation but, I feel, with X-Y in particular). It’s a story about letting go of disappointment and taking responsibility for our actions, taking positive steps for our lives. It's about pulling ourselves out of that post-youth rut and becoming adults. This is part of the reason the story looks so disjointed (but doesn't feel that way): we’re trying to fit events into the wrong picture.
When Rob admits that Laura is one of his “Top 5 Breakups,” it’s not him realizing how much he misses her and wants her back. He isn’t realizing that his past relationships can’t measure up to what he had with her. He’s realizing that he’s the problem and accepting responsibility for his part in the breakup.
It’s his growth from adolescence to adulthood. It’s his willingness to be vulnerable with himself and admit that he is hurt. Of course he still has a long ways to go before he begins to put Laura ahead of himself (where he ends up in the last scene of the movie), but it’s a major turning point in that journey. The confusion is added to at the end of the second act, however, when the drama and rom-com appear to overlap briefly. But remember what the plot is: man grows up, not man gets girl. The true darkest moment isn’t when it looks like all is lost and he runs out of the funeral for Laura’s dad. It’s when they get back together and it appears that nothing has actually changed. He’s still stuck in arrested development, doomed to repeat the same mistakes. That is the “all is lost moment,” the “dark night of the soul.” Even though he’s got the girl and seems happy, this is the hero at his lowest.
The climax is his extremely unconventional proposal in the bar. It’s at this point that all he has learned comes to a head. Rob hits on a cute girl, but it feels different this time. He knows he can’t go back to the way things were, with “one foot out the door” all the time. He is tired of his old life and wants something more. More importantly, now he knows how to get it. His closing monologue confirms the change in him and assures us that things will be different this time around.
I believe that Jonny is absolutely correct in his analysis. The movie is almost entirely about an internal conflict and self-discovery, and that’s against the rules. But, as always, rules are meant to be skillfully broken. The movie does a great job of subtly externalizing the internal conflict throughout, even when that's not its apparent intent. So why do we like High Fidelity when our brains tell us we shouldn’t? Because it’s smarter than we are.
By Luke Dornbush
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Measured in Wins and Losses
 |
| Coach Wright with U.S. U-18 player Arin Gilliland |
by Josh Corman
I’ve missed more than 9,000 shots in my career. I’ve lost almost 300 games. 26 times, I’ve been trusted to take the game winning shot and missed. I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.
- Michael Jordan
My friends who played soccer for Kevin Wright at West Jessamine High School always gave me the impression that he was a sort of mad scientist: the most intense man in the world, obsessed with competition and conditioning to near sociopathic levels. Many times I detected ringing notes of resignation in their voices when they spoke about practices, where they would run around a quarter-mile track carrying bricks in each hand, push enormous tires up steep hills like so many exhausted Sisyphuses, and play maniac games of short-sided soccer - often with Coach Wright in the middle of the action, yelping wildly and knocking over any player who dared tangle with him.
This manic intensity manifested itself in a team slogan that displayed both the punishing quality of the work Coach Wright’s teams put into their preparations and the hardened pride that each player took in living through them: “Tough as Nails.” Coach Wright ensured that even if his players lost, they would never do so because of fatigue or a lack of toughness. Simply put, Kevin Wright hates to lose and demands the sort of fevered dedication from his players usually reserved for college football coaches in the south.
When I came back to West Jessamine as a substitute teacher, Coach Wright (who barely remembered me from my days as a student) and I quickly developed a friendly relationship founded on our respective sports fanaticism. When I subbed in the gym (a place where Coach Wright’s math classes often mysteriously find themselves), we had involved, animated discussions about pennant races, the BCS, the NCAA Tournament, and any other major sporting event we could cover.
Once, when Coach Wright requested me as a substitute, I passed the time students spent working by reading the dozens of old newspaper clippings he had laminated and hung behind and around his desk. The articles stretched from his playing days as Montgomery County’s goal keeper all the way to his tenure as West Jessamine’s girls’ soccer coach (he has coached the girls’ team since his daughter was a freshman in 2007). Many of the articles detail the sorts of exploits that a coach or player may want to remember forever, but just as many articles describe the sort of heartbreaking losses and shortcomings that most people wish they could excise from their memories altogether. Close losses to bitter rivals, poundings at the hands of highly-favored opponents, penalty shoot-out defeats in regional title games, and career-ending shock upsets are all displayed just as noticeably as the biggest successes of Coach Wright’s career.
This panorama, equal parts elation and misery, puzzled me. I’m used to hearing coaches and other motivational-types shouting about the power of positive thinking and exclaiming that the surest way to succeed in any field is by removing negativity, not dwelling on mistakes, and focusing on positive outcomes, and I guess I assumed that every coach had adopted those tenets. The flaw in this view is that by erasing failure from our memories, we lose the perspective necessary to properly appreciate success. Culturally, we come to believe that failure must be eradicated because it is painful, forgetting that failure, more assuredly than almost anything, leads us to a greater understanding of what it takes to improve ourselves.
Winning and losing are a part of sports, but it’s easy to forget that they’re a part of life, too. We need to understand that not everybody can succeed all the time, and when we fail, we need to remember what that feels like and what that failure taught us about ourselves. This is as true in government and education and business as it is in sports.
To Coach Wright, keeping these articles isn’t dwelling on negativity, it’s simple honesty - a fair sampling of the most meaningful moments of his career. His clippings - the good and the bad - are there because he wants to be reminded daily of his capabilities and his limitations, not because his wins and losses define him, but because he wants to get better, and he knows that wouldn’t happen if he didn’t pause to reflect on those sour moments of defeat as often as the sweetest moments of glory.
Last Thursday, I sat in the stands at Dunbar High School’s soccer complex, watching our girls’ team play in the state tournament semi-finals, the biggest game in our program’s history. Cold rain pelted the thousand or so spectators and bitter winds swirled through the bleachers’ cold metal skeleton as I watched West Jessamine fall in defeat to Notre Dame Academy, who would, two nights later, win the state championship. As the contest slipped away, I watched Coach Wright pace the sidelines, the frown evident on his face even from across the pitch. As sad as I was for the girls, many of whom I’ve taught, I knew that Coach Wright wouldn’t let them beat themselves up about it, and that as bad as it hurt in that moment, in ten years the ache of that defeat will be dwarfed by the profound sense of growth that comes from being a member of a tightly-knit team, suffering a hurtful loss together, and coming out stronger on the other side. I don’t know that I could say that if I didn’t know Coach Wright, if I didn’t know that on Friday morning, he bought a copy of the paper and started cutting.
Monday, November 7, 2011
The Seven Hottest Babes of the 80's and Early 90's
By Jonny Walls
The following is a response to Emily's hilarious and well received piece, Seven 80's Studs Who Taught Me How to Find a Husband.
If you haven't read hers yet, go catch up, and I'll meet you back here. Go on.
While Emily's list was strictly confined to the 80's, I, knowing that the bounds of babe-dom can't possibly be so restrained, have decided to welcome the early years of the 90's as well. I know this may seem like a bit of a cheat, but clearly, I had no choice. After all, Aladdin wasn't released until 1992.
7. Princess Jasmine- of Aladdin
Would you look at that hip to waist ratio?
I never, ever, ever went through a "girls are yucky" stage. I mean, I had my first girlfriend, complete with verbal engagement, at age three. (The engagement fell through.) But those hips woke up something new inside me. I've heard the "classy, smart" argument for princesses like Belle, but you know what? At age nine, I had no use for classy or smart. You know what I did have use for? Sexy, exotic princesses who pranced around baring their mid-driffs all day. It was Jasmine, not Britney Spears, who made the crop-top everyday acceptable. For that, I thank her.
6. Danielle Fishel- Played Topanga on Boy Meets World
We've done hips, but how about those lips?
Behold, fair readers, the best thing about Friday nights for the majority of the nineties. We tuned in for Ben Savage's nervously clumsy hijinks. We came back again (and again and again and again) for Topanga. Her nerdy-friend-turned-sexy-crush thing was irresistible, and just the thing we all dreamed of. (Cha -ching!) Thank God It's Friday? You bet your ass.
5. April O'Neil- of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles the Cartoon
April was so hot that even animals were attracted to her. It takes a special brand of sexy to trump genus grouping.
This bold, bodacious, on-the-beat babe provided the injection of estrogen that the TMNT so dearly needed. She was the paragon of sultry femininity against which the ass-kicking of the Turtles could take clearest form. And talk about low maintenance. She's a working gal who comes home tired and all talked-out from having yapped in front of the camera all day. Mind numbing shopping excursions? Forget about it. See that yellow jumper? That's it. Stock up on laundry detergent and dryer sheets and you'll be set for life. Repeat after me 'cause this is all you'll need: "No, that jumper doesn't make you look fat. That jumper makes you look amazing." You're all set, cowboy, and better yet, it'll be the truth.
4. Vicki- of Small Wonder
Vicki was a cute, brunette robot who was programmed to cook and clean. Next.
3. Stephanie Tanner- of Full House
I'm a white protestant from the Bible-belt who grew up in the 80's and 90's. To exclude Stephanie from this list would be a downright travesty. The "Michelle Twins" were still toddlers and D.J. was too busy running around with Aladdin.
But Stephanie had it going on. Stephanie had looks, character, and spunk. She was never afraid to call out rude people. And she looked kickin' in curls.
2. Princess Leia- of Star Wars
When I saw Princess Leia for the first time in her white, sheet-turned dress getup, my four-year-old curiosity began stirring like a Wompa coming out of hibernation. When we got around to Return of the Jedi, however, and I saw this...
...I was insatiable as the Rancor (and twice as confused). This may be the most obvious choice on my list, but there's a reason for that. In that dingy hole of villainy and scum, even amidst awesome things like the force, droids, and lightsabers, we all had eyes for only one thing. (Well, a few things.)
1. The One Girl From My Neighborhood- in My Life
Everyone has experienced that new girl who moves into town and knocks your socks off. But there are others, who, for some reason, it takes a little longer to notice. One such girl, when I was around fifth grade, moved into my neighborhood. I didn't see it at the time, but as I grew older and wiser, I came to realize what I was missing out on. I always wonder what became of her. Actually, isn't this just the type of thing Facebook is for? Hold on...
Here she is!
By Jonny Walls
The following is a response to Emily's hilarious and well received piece, Seven 80's Studs Who Taught Me How to Find a Husband.
If you haven't read hers yet, go catch up, and I'll meet you back here. Go on.
While Emily's list was strictly confined to the 80's, I, knowing that the bounds of babe-dom can't possibly be so restrained, have decided to welcome the early years of the 90's as well. I know this may seem like a bit of a cheat, but clearly, I had no choice. After all, Aladdin wasn't released until 1992.
7. Princess Jasmine- of Aladdin
Would you look at that hip to waist ratio?
 |
| Have you seen my Dad? My hotness literally defies physics. |
I never, ever, ever went through a "girls are yucky" stage. I mean, I had my first girlfriend, complete with verbal engagement, at age three. (The engagement fell through.) But those hips woke up something new inside me. I've heard the "classy, smart" argument for princesses like Belle, but you know what? At age nine, I had no use for classy or smart. You know what I did have use for? Sexy, exotic princesses who pranced around baring their mid-driffs all day. It was Jasmine, not Britney Spears, who made the crop-top everyday acceptable. For that, I thank her.
6. Danielle Fishel- Played Topanga on Boy Meets World
We've done hips, but how about those lips?
 |
| For the record, I'm way out of Ben Savage's league in real life. |
Behold, fair readers, the best thing about Friday nights for the majority of the nineties. We tuned in for Ben Savage's nervously clumsy hijinks. We came back again (and again and again and again) for Topanga. Her nerdy-friend-turned-sexy-crush thing was irresistible, and just the thing we all dreamed of. (Cha -ching!) Thank God It's Friday? You bet your ass.
5. April O'Neil- of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles the Cartoon
April was so hot that even animals were attracted to her. It takes a special brand of sexy to trump genus grouping.
 |
| Tonight's top story: My blouse is coming open and you love it. |
This bold, bodacious, on-the-beat babe provided the injection of estrogen that the TMNT so dearly needed. She was the paragon of sultry femininity against which the ass-kicking of the Turtles could take clearest form. And talk about low maintenance. She's a working gal who comes home tired and all talked-out from having yapped in front of the camera all day. Mind numbing shopping excursions? Forget about it. See that yellow jumper? That's it. Stock up on laundry detergent and dryer sheets and you'll be set for life. Repeat after me 'cause this is all you'll need: "No, that jumper doesn't make you look fat. That jumper makes you look amazing." You're all set, cowboy, and better yet, it'll be the truth.
4. Vicki- of Small Wonder
Vicki was a cute, brunette robot who was programmed to cook and clean. Next.
 |
| Mechanical hotness. Very ahead of its time. |
3. Stephanie Tanner- of Full House
I'm a white protestant from the Bible-belt who grew up in the 80's and 90's. To exclude Stephanie from this list would be a downright travesty. The "Michelle Twins" were still toddlers and D.J. was too busy running around with Aladdin.
 |
| That's right. This guy was "The Diamond in the Rough." |
 |
| The shoe represents kicking rudeness' ass. |
2. Princess Leia- of Star Wars
When I saw Princess Leia for the first time in her white, sheet-turned dress getup, my four-year-old curiosity began stirring like a Wompa coming out of hibernation. When we got around to Return of the Jedi, however, and I saw this...
 | |||
| When you're finished choking Jabba, could, um...I get a turn in there, maybe? |
1. The One Girl From My Neighborhood- in My Life
Everyone has experienced that new girl who moves into town and knocks your socks off. But there are others, who, for some reason, it takes a little longer to notice. One such girl, when I was around fifth grade, moved into my neighborhood. I didn't see it at the time, but as I grew older and wiser, I came to realize what I was missing out on. I always wonder what became of her. Actually, isn't this just the type of thing Facebook is for? Hold on...
Here she is!
 |
| Maybe I should give her a call? |
By Jonny Walls
Friday, November 4, 2011
He Said-She Said Episode 1: The Merits of Pleasure Delaying
Welcome to the first ever He Said-She Said. In this series, we will explore a number of issues where Emily and I have clashing points of view or two sides to the same story. We choose a topic together and then write our respective views separately from one another, having no knowledge of the other's specific focus points. Any crossover is purely coincidental (and for this particular He Said-She Said, remarkable).
Tonight's topic: Delayed gratification.
He Said:
"(Love is)...the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet."
-Vanilla Sky
I don't think there's much worth having unless it's worth waiting for. Two things often said about me (Not by me, mind you, about me):
1. I'm a pleasure delayer.
2. I don't do anything unless I can do it all the way.
Few would argue with the virtue of only doing something if it can be done right when applied to the BIG things. Would any wise person half-ass an entire film production? Of course not. As we grow and mature, we learn that instant gratification does not satisfy for anything that really matters.
But what about the menial? The everyday things, like eating, showering, watching television?
For example, if I buy a new video game that I've been dying to play (which usually means I've already been waiting months, if not years, for it to come out), I'll come home, put it aside, and make sure I've finished everything else that needs to be done that day before I break it out and play. That way, I can think about it all day and build my anticipation to a fever pitch, and then when I do finally give in and play, I won't have any nagging responsibilities floating around, subtracting from my enjoyment.
A younger, less wise person would no doubt burst in the door and rip open the package and park himself right in front of the television for hours, putting off things like multiplication tables and chores (because only a child would behave this way) until later. Maturation and wisdom teach us that my way makes the pleasure even better when it comes.
This is where Emily and I differ. I say a healthy dose of delayed gratification can lift the minutia of the everyday grind into a host of little pleasures.
Let's start with a pretty obvious one. Around Thanksgiving of '09, due to our busy schedules, we got behind on watching The Office and 30 Rock, two shows we both love. (Also, I know watching television isn't exactly part of "the grind," but it's a good example to start with.) Rather than just pick up with the show after the Christmas break when our schedules had slowed down, I insisted that we wait until we had caught up on all missed episodes first.
"But I want to watch it NOW!" Emily raged, sounding more than a little like Veruca Salt.
She Said:
He’s doing it again. We’re headed down the snowy roads of Western Kentucky on our way to his family’s Christmas celebration in Bowling Green. We’ve had a delightful, four-hour, Christmas carol-filled drive from my parents’ place in Indiana, and now we’re ticking off the last few miles to his aunt and uncle’s neighborhood. Any minute now we’ll be wrapped up in blankets and sipping hot chocolate on the couch with family all around. Any minute now we’ll be warm and cozy. Any minute now we’ll be happy. Right now, however, the windows are down, snow is blowing into the car, the heat is off, my teeth are chattering, and Jonny is grinning maniacally.
Is he a sadist? I wouldn’t go that far.
Did I do something that requires polar discipline? Not even close.
Is Jonny planning to carve ice sculptures with his hardened nipples in some sort of radical, experimental art project? Probably not.
Is he out of his mind? This is my best guess.
The reason the windows are down, the snow is blowing in, the heat is off, my teeth are chattering, and Jonny is grinning is because he is so excited to use his uncle’s enormous, steamy shower (a whole room unto itself) that he plans to increase the pleasure of his bathing experience by prolonging the pain of pre-shower existence. The colder he is now, the more he’ll enjoy the shower, the theory goes.
I would be ok with this, I suppose, if he did it on his own time far away from me—if, say, he were to tell me about it over breakfast along with Premier League soccer transfer news while I divide my distant thoughts between my cereal and Lavar Burton.
That would be an acceptable living situation. Right now, he’s dragging me into his twisted world, and I’m finding deep wells of sympathy within myself for Lorena Bobbit. This is life with a pleasure-delayer.
Consider: When I take a shower, I turn on the water full blast for a good 20 seconds before I get in, just to ensure that the initial cold water from the pipes has time to drain completely. I close the window and door and trap the steam into my den of comfort. I keep myself wrapped in blankets until the last possible second; then I throw them off and step into the stream of water in one, fluid motion. I turn up the heat a few more notches. Since I prevent myself from getting cold before the shower, do I fail to appreciate the warmth? Are my showers miserable and laborious? Do I count down the seconds until I can get out? No, sir! I enjoy the shit out of my showers, and I submit my father’s 1993-2002 water bills as corroborating evidence.
Jonny calls his little disorder “delayed gratification” and likes to pretend that it’s an issue of patience, as though if I could get over my MAJOR character flaw of preferring comfort to discomfort, raindrops of gold would fall from the sky, water my fields, and produce gold corn and potatoes in harvest time. I know better. It’s not about patience at all. If it were, perhaps Jonny would exercise a bit more of his treasured virtue when he waits for me to curl my hair before parties. Perhaps he wouldn’t purchase a little birthday gift for himself just TWO DAYS before his real birthday instead of waiting to see if perhaps someone close to him might have already purchased that particular item for him and was excitedly waiting to give it to him. EVERYONE ON THE PLANET knows that you don’t buy anything for yourself in the entire month leading up to your birthday. Patience? Please. Ask any woman who has ever willingly (and inexplicably?) united herself with a Walls man if her situation requires a touch more patience than that of her peers. Walls women are paragons of patience.
No, the real issue is this: must we be miserable before we can be happy?
Jonny says yes. I say he’s insane.
I get where he’s coming from though, what with that string of girlfriends he went through before me (zing!).
All the same, Jonny, you’ve got a real point there. After all, you never listen to Nevermind without first going through Staind’s greatest hits. You wouldn’t dream of biting into a succulent lobster tail without downing a bowlful of your detestable baked beans beforehand. You regularly watch Bicentennial Man and Bicentennial Man: Special Edition back-to-back before going to the theater for a new movie. Oh wait, you don’t do those things? You mean you avoid Staind, baked beans, and Bicentennial Man because you don’t see the point in willingly wasting even ten seconds of your life on worthless tripe? Hmm.
The seconds of our lives tick by. Right now, I have fewer seconds than I had before I started arguing with Jonny about pleasure-delaying. I won’t freeze myself before a hot shower, I won’t eat steamed cabbage before chocolate, and I won’t spend another minute defending a position that is so obviously correct. There are too few seconds out there to go around purposely squandering them on discomfort. Uncle Tom’s shower be damned, I’m rolling up the windows.
Tonight's topic: Delayed gratification.
He Said:
"(Love is)...the sour and the sweet. And I know sour, which allows me to appreciate the sweet."
-Vanilla Sky
I don't think there's much worth having unless it's worth waiting for. Two things often said about me (Not by me, mind you, about me):
1. I'm a pleasure delayer.
2. I don't do anything unless I can do it all the way.
Few would argue with the virtue of only doing something if it can be done right when applied to the BIG things. Would any wise person half-ass an entire film production? Of course not. As we grow and mature, we learn that instant gratification does not satisfy for anything that really matters.
But what about the menial? The everyday things, like eating, showering, watching television?
For example, if I buy a new video game that I've been dying to play (which usually means I've already been waiting months, if not years, for it to come out), I'll come home, put it aside, and make sure I've finished everything else that needs to be done that day before I break it out and play. That way, I can think about it all day and build my anticipation to a fever pitch, and then when I do finally give in and play, I won't have any nagging responsibilities floating around, subtracting from my enjoyment.
A younger, less wise person would no doubt burst in the door and rip open the package and park himself right in front of the television for hours, putting off things like multiplication tables and chores (because only a child would behave this way) until later. Maturation and wisdom teach us that my way makes the pleasure even better when it comes.
This is where Emily and I differ. I say a healthy dose of delayed gratification can lift the minutia of the everyday grind into a host of little pleasures.
Let's start with a pretty obvious one. Around Thanksgiving of '09, due to our busy schedules, we got behind on watching The Office and 30 Rock, two shows we both love. (Also, I know watching television isn't exactly part of "the grind," but it's a good example to start with.) Rather than just pick up with the show after the Christmas break when our schedules had slowed down, I insisted that we wait until we had caught up on all missed episodes first.
"But I want to watch it NOW!" Emily raged, sounding more than a little like Veruca Salt.
Skip to 45 sec. to hear Emily.
"But Emily, my dear, you see, if you just wait and catch up on what we've missed first, the rest will be so much more rewarding. We'll appreciate these more if we have the full understanding of what came before them and led up to them. This is something that adults learn: if you wait and do things right, the experience is so much better."
She threw a tantrum, but I held fast, and she thanked me in the end.
Another example that one would think would be confined to our childhood days is the classic, time-tested, "Don't spoil your dinner." Emily's "philosophy," lacking the refinement and depth of appreciation possessed by me, is: "If I'm hungry, I should eat NOW." So what if we're about to have a delicious and expensive dinner in just under an hour.
"But I'm hungry NOW."
"If you just wait for dinner and eat it on an empty stomach, you'll enjoy it so much more. Embracing your hunger will only increase your appreciation for what you have."
"I don't understand these words. Me hungry. Me eat."
A steak eaten on a partially full stomach simply cannot be fully appreciated.
Let's take it a little further out there. I'm a shower man. (I don't mean this in the not-a-bath-man sense, I love a good bath too.) What I'm saying is, I love showers. It's quite possibly my favorite time of the day. This is why I fantasize not about having a mansion with vaulted ceilings and several Mercedes in the driveway, but rather about having a large, wide-open shower room with multiple, warm and wonderful shower heads.
There's literally nothing like a hot shower after a cold day. There's no other feeling quite like it. I like to go out of my way to create and enhance this experience, if possible. If it's cool, I'll sit around in my underwear for awhile and get nice and chilled before finally surrendering to a hot shower. It makes showering, what is otherwise a menial task, a wonderful experience. Harnessing all I can of my God-given physicality, I am able to take something menial and turn it into something pleasurable. It's what makes showering in the winter so much better than in the summer.
Emily, on the other hand, would just rather never be cold. She has no use for even a moment of discomfort. She'll stay bundled up right to the very ledge of the tub. She'll run the hot water before getting in to make sure there isn't a second of cold time between being dressed and being in the water. If she has to stand in the cold bathroom for even ten seconds, she acts like a cat held over water. I mean, I get it, it's uncomfortable being cold, but Emily, you can never appreciate a good hot shower like I can.
These are only a few examples, but I think my point is clear. By embracing the fringes of our physicality (read, our humanity) even in everyday situations like eating and showering, we can highlight and increase the potency of pleasure in our lives. It takes some small sacrifices, but it's worth it.
She Said:
He’s doing it again. We’re headed down the snowy roads of Western Kentucky on our way to his family’s Christmas celebration in Bowling Green. We’ve had a delightful, four-hour, Christmas carol-filled drive from my parents’ place in Indiana, and now we’re ticking off the last few miles to his aunt and uncle’s neighborhood. Any minute now we’ll be wrapped up in blankets and sipping hot chocolate on the couch with family all around. Any minute now we’ll be warm and cozy. Any minute now we’ll be happy. Right now, however, the windows are down, snow is blowing into the car, the heat is off, my teeth are chattering, and Jonny is grinning maniacally.
Is he a sadist? I wouldn’t go that far.
Did I do something that requires polar discipline? Not even close.
Is Jonny planning to carve ice sculptures with his hardened nipples in some sort of radical, experimental art project? Probably not.
Is he out of his mind? This is my best guess.
The reason the windows are down, the snow is blowing in, the heat is off, my teeth are chattering, and Jonny is grinning is because he is so excited to use his uncle’s enormous, steamy shower (a whole room unto itself) that he plans to increase the pleasure of his bathing experience by prolonging the pain of pre-shower existence. The colder he is now, the more he’ll enjoy the shower, the theory goes.
I would be ok with this, I suppose, if he did it on his own time far away from me—if, say, he were to tell me about it over breakfast along with Premier League soccer transfer news while I divide my distant thoughts between my cereal and Lavar Burton.
 |
| Yummy |
That would be an acceptable living situation. Right now, he’s dragging me into his twisted world, and I’m finding deep wells of sympathy within myself for Lorena Bobbit. This is life with a pleasure-delayer.
Consider: When I take a shower, I turn on the water full blast for a good 20 seconds before I get in, just to ensure that the initial cold water from the pipes has time to drain completely. I close the window and door and trap the steam into my den of comfort. I keep myself wrapped in blankets until the last possible second; then I throw them off and step into the stream of water in one, fluid motion. I turn up the heat a few more notches. Since I prevent myself from getting cold before the shower, do I fail to appreciate the warmth? Are my showers miserable and laborious? Do I count down the seconds until I can get out? No, sir! I enjoy the shit out of my showers, and I submit my father’s 1993-2002 water bills as corroborating evidence.
Jonny calls his little disorder “delayed gratification” and likes to pretend that it’s an issue of patience, as though if I could get over my MAJOR character flaw of preferring comfort to discomfort, raindrops of gold would fall from the sky, water my fields, and produce gold corn and potatoes in harvest time. I know better. It’s not about patience at all. If it were, perhaps Jonny would exercise a bit more of his treasured virtue when he waits for me to curl my hair before parties. Perhaps he wouldn’t purchase a little birthday gift for himself just TWO DAYS before his real birthday instead of waiting to see if perhaps someone close to him might have already purchased that particular item for him and was excitedly waiting to give it to him. EVERYONE ON THE PLANET knows that you don’t buy anything for yourself in the entire month leading up to your birthday. Patience? Please. Ask any woman who has ever willingly (and inexplicably?) united herself with a Walls man if her situation requires a touch more patience than that of her peers. Walls women are paragons of patience.
No, the real issue is this: must we be miserable before we can be happy?
Jonny says yes. I say he’s insane.
I get where he’s coming from though, what with that string of girlfriends he went through before me (zing!).
All the same, Jonny, you’ve got a real point there. After all, you never listen to Nevermind without first going through Staind’s greatest hits. You wouldn’t dream of biting into a succulent lobster tail without downing a bowlful of your detestable baked beans beforehand. You regularly watch Bicentennial Man and Bicentennial Man: Special Edition back-to-back before going to the theater for a new movie. Oh wait, you don’t do those things? You mean you avoid Staind, baked beans, and Bicentennial Man because you don’t see the point in willingly wasting even ten seconds of your life on worthless tripe? Hmm.
The seconds of our lives tick by. Right now, I have fewer seconds than I had before I started arguing with Jonny about pleasure-delaying. I won’t freeze myself before a hot shower, I won’t eat steamed cabbage before chocolate, and I won’t spend another minute defending a position that is so obviously correct. There are too few seconds out there to go around purposely squandering them on discomfort. Uncle Tom’s shower be damned, I’m rolling up the windows.
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