March Madness and Movie Magic: A Deconstruction

Jonny Walls

When I play video games, I experience thousands or millions of lines of code. There are no creatures, no characters, no spaceships, no swords, no glistening lakes, no foreign planets or magical forests. Just code.

When I read a book, I'm looking at thousands of letters grouped together in particular sequences on multiple pieces of paper. No people, no stories, no feelings, no dialogue. Just ink and paper.

When I watch a movie, I'm witnessing the result of light hitting a sensor and burning into a piece of film. No explosions, no kisses, no life or death scenarios, no sexy glances. Just film.

When I watch basketball, I'm seeing a bunch of guys I've never met, who were in elementary school when I was in college, playing a game. I'm watching them throw a rubber ball through a metal hoop, and hoping one group of kids manages to do it more than the other. No warring cities, schools, or states. There is no actual school or state pride on the line. Just kids, rubber, and metal.

These assessments may seem harsh, but they're generous by deconstructive standards. Like it or not, it's cold truth.

How about this? When I watch a basketball game and my blood starts pumping and I know in my heart that I will be genuinely disappointed if the game doesn't swing my team's way, I am knowingly basing my own happiness upon whether or not the collection of particles that make up the people who wear the collection of particles that form my team's uniforms can throw the collection of particles that takes the form of a ball into the collection of particles that is a rim more times than the opposing group of particle collections.

But that doesn't feel right, does it? That completely true description paradoxically fails to tell the truth of the life that we know. Whether it's video games, literature, film, or basketball, the elements of this life take on greater meaning than the sum of their individual parts. We "irrationally" relate to the characters on screen or the players on our favorite team because there is something in them that is also inside us, be it an eerily familiar disposition or the simple willingness to represent one's home state.

Relate to Scott Padgett or he will eat you.

Hoops and Hollywood

When a great basketball team is firing on all cylinders, it becomes like a living, organic, flowing being, greater than the sum of its parts. Each part of the organism plays its role to perfection, and the result is like Life. But we must suspend our disbelief just a touch to see it. If we don't, we'll see nothing more than boys in uniforms throwing a rubber ball.

For a film to make us forget the real world, all of the pieces must work together seamlessly: lighting, choreography, acting, sound, costumes, makeup, etc. If it fails, we see actors in front of a camera surrounded by a crew, but when it works, it becomes surprisingly easy to suspend our disbelief.

Funnily, we tend to selectively align our skepticism and liberality of belief with what most pleases us, and are quick to scoff at those who align it differently. I know people who have cried watching a person they know to be a living actor pretending to die in front of a camera as a different person, then turn around and ridicule sports fans for caring about the outcome of a sports match. I have likewise known avid sports fans to ridicule fiction and story lovers for their so-called love of escapist fantasy.

Is it really so different if a Red-Sox fan suddenly sees Johnny Damon as a different entity when wearing Yankee Blue? Is it not a similar phenomenon when a film lover sees a different Matt Damon when he's playing the angel Loki and when he's Jason Bourne?

The Answer Was Inside Us All Along

We get to be genuinely, emotionally moved by films and truly excited and elated (or disappointed, forlorn...crushed) by sports by suspending our disbelief, but neither would work if they didn't tap deeply into the intricacies of our inherent natures. Selflessness, beauty, struggle, physicality, desire, agony, defeat—these powerful aspects of life are on display in every decent film and every worthy game of basketball, so we can be forgiven when we conveniently forget that we're not actually part of the team we adore, or that Frodo is really some kid from Iowa.

Art and sports work because, literally, we have infused them with meaning. It's a certain fluid, flexible, lowercase meaning, but it's meaning nonetheless.

Look at yourself and your loved ones. A collection of separate particles, every one of you. But we have meaning because we have been infused with it. Deconstruct us all you want, down to the last quark, but almost no one would disagree that we are greater than the sum of our parts, and I say it's because we were made so.

Breaking the Fourth Wall

An important caveat lies simply in the word "imitate." Art and sports work because they imitate, but they fall short for the same reason. As ridiculous as it may sound, it's quite easy for, ahem...certain types (read: myself and most of my friends) to lose sight of the line between imitation and real life. I've lost myself in a novel or video game world for days at a time, and I've lost sleep over more than one impending UK basketball game. In fact, as UK's monumental Final Four match-up with Louisville looms, I have found myself fighting off pangs of anxiety with a steady stream of self-reminders: "It's just a game. It's just a game." In truth, it's more than a game, but it's still just a game. You know what I mean? Paradoxical, perhaps, but then again, that's life.

This weekend, if you tune in to the Final Four, go ahead and suspend your disbelief. Relate with your team and choose to get caught up in the drama. Hope your team wins. I know I will. But don't kid yourself; it's only an imitation.

By Jonny Walls


For more on basketball and life, check out my Dad's new book.

Like a Virgin: Four Routine Tasks That You Forget Were Terrifying the First Time Around

By Emily Walls

Aging is mostly an ugly, drooping process, but chief among its virtues, in fact possibly its only virtue, is the power to forget. Mothers endure labor, swear they won't have any more children, forget about the pain over time, and then pop another one of those devils out two years later. Heartbroken souls go through agonizing breakups and swear off love forever, only to fall head over heels for someone new just months down the road.

Here at Verbal Infusion, we feel ourselves duty bound to remind you of your past pain and, with any luck, make you experience it again. To that purpose, I present to you today four tasks that have perhaps become routine to you, but were once frightening, even painful, prospects. Let us never forget the anxiety of new situations and thereby fail to empathize with the young or inexperienced. Consider us your Fountain of Youth.

#4 Riding Public Transportation

It doesn't matter if it's a train or rickshaw, the anxiety you feel when facing your first ride on public transportation will leave you shivering, mumbling, and soaked in your own urine. Thankfully, these are the first requirements for riding public transportation.

The main source of tension you feel is the firm belief that everyone else knows exactly what to do, and you are the only poor bastard who doesn't have a clue. Mostly, you are correct.

Buses, I think, are the worst. Trains are busy enough to mask your blunders, taxis private enough, but buses boast the greatest people:silence ratio. You can cram a bus full of passengers until the standing space is so crowded that every seated passenger pays for his comfort with a crotch to the face, and still those riders will not say word one to each other. They will, however, glare living death at you if you get the fare wrong, and let's face it, some of them will shiv you. The fare is easily the most intimidating portion of bus travel.

1. It's the first impression you make on the driver and other passengers. Do it right, they assume you're a pro and leave you alone. Do it wrong, shiv.
2. Incorrect fare means you make the other passengers wait until you get it right. You do not want to make the other passengers wait.
3. Every transit system is different, but they all share a common no-cash policy. What they use in place of cash is anyone's guess—and I mean literally you make your best guess, because instructions will be placed exactly nowhere. If you're like me, your first attempt will be payment by pigeon feathers, but you are wrong. More than likely, you need to bribe a nearby street vendor into selling you some kind of transportation card that looks almost as official as a Post-It note.
4. No one will tell you what to do with that card, so you'll have to get in line behind other people and copy what they do. Sometimes you need to tap it against a card reader; other times you need to insert it in a slot. DO NOT GIVE IT TO THE DRIVER. Bus drivers have moved beyond our realm.

So let's say you get the fare right (somehow) and land yourself a spot on the bust. You must then wade through the murky waters of seat selection and bag placement. When you have comfortably settled yourself between Mr. Shifty Eyes and Ms. Mumbles, you will be free to examine the map and schedule. Lucky for you, the map has been expertly painted for the transit system by a Jackson Pollock enthusiast. On your first ever bus ride, you will read the map incorrectly and get off at the wrong stop (if you figure out how to get off at all), but take heart. Although you are now in an unfamiliar and scary part of town, you have successfully taken a bus. The rest of your journey should be a walk in the park. Seriously, get your tennis shoes out. You're walking.

Unless, of course, you have a car, in which case you need to prepare yourself for...

#3 Pumping Gas

You fill up your tank probably 2-8 times per month, depending on your commute, and I'll bet that you don't spend ten seconds of those 2-8 fill-ups worrying about vehicle placement, nozzle type, or payment method. It is all so routine to you now that you listen to music, talk with your friends, clean your windshield, and exit the station without even noticing that somewhere in the throes of routine, you filled your tank. But remember the first time you did it? And I'm not counting the times your dad dragged you out of your cozy backseat and into twenty degree weather to teach you how to set the pump on family road trips. I'm talking about the first time you did it completely by yourself after you got your license.

Pumping gas is surprisingly intimidating because, due to the variety of pump types and payment methods, you can be thwarted by your ignorance at any moment. Some are prepay, some are not. Some use buttons, some use levers.

The first time you pull up, you assume that everyone is watching you and that they'll think you're just a stupid kid if you get it wrong. So you go through the steps and act cool and try to look nonchalant, but if for some reason you miss a step, you know that the the clerk is going to shout instructions at you over the intercom. At fragile sixteen, intercoms can only mean ridicule and shame. James Dean surely never got intercom'd.

But it's not just sixteen-year-olds who get the filling station jitters. I lived in Oregon for a year, where by law every gas station must be full service only. People born and raised there have never pumped their own gas, and I've heard a few of them say they'll drive twenty extra miles to find full service stations when they're out of state.

Most of us go through anxiety now when we have to pay exorbitant prices at the pump, but at least we no longer have to endure anxiety over the pumps themselves.

#2 Going to the Gyno

Yes, I'm going there.

My first gyno exam can't be called "intimidating" exactly, because it was a surprise. Like, "Surprise! Speculum!" At age nineteen, I went to my family doctor to find out why I had been on my period for two months. I expected her to discuss my symptoms with me, talk over desired outcomes, and prescribe me a pill. Instead, I got a surprise pelvic exam from my doc and her nurse, who I can only assume was named Helga and who looked like an exact cross between Jamie Lee Curtis and a Velociraptor. The exam was conducted with the sensitivity of a rototiller, and although my doctor did not find the problem that day, at least she answered my questions about alien probes.

And that's the thing about gynecological exams: until you have one, you don't really know what to expect. Moreover, the exam is full of paradoxes. First, you pay the doctor for her medical services, but given the circumstances, it seems like the doctor should have to pay you (or at least take you out to a fancy dinner first). Second, the exam is likely to make you tense, but you have to relax for it. And finally, you have to reconcile dual desires to make a good impression on your doctor and to be in no way memorable.

A friend of a friend, who we'll call Sally, failed miserably on this last point. In the hours before her annual check-up, Sally was at the home of her grown daughter. Wanting to freshen up a bit before her appointment, Sally rummaged around in her daughter's medicine cabinet and found a bottle of feminine spray, which she used. At her appointment later that day, everything was progressing as usual until her doctor made an uncharacteristic remark.

"Ooh. Fancy," he said.

Sally had no idea what he was talking about, but not wanting to prolong the exam or make it any more uncomfortable than necessary, she stayed silent. Puzzled, she returned home after her appointment and relayed the incident to her daughter.

"But what in the world would make him say that?" her daughter said.

"I've asked myself the same question, and I can't figure it. All I used was the feminine spray you keep in your medicine cabinet."

"Mom, I don't have any feminine spray...I do have body glitter though."

Sally's doctor, I am sure, remembers Sally.

The thing about these exams is that we make too much of them in our minds beforehand, particularly before our first ones. We forget that they're completely routine to our doctors and that if we have good doctors (always get a recommendation) things will be quick and painless. And now that I've divulged far too much, let's move on to a topic that men (who will never again complain about turning their heads and coughing) can identify with too.

#1 Speaking a Foreign Language

The purpose of foreign language classes in the U.S. is twofold: 1) to fill out the seventh period in what could otherwise be a mercifully short school day, and 2) to arm our youngsters' vocabulary arsenals with additional resources for possible dick jokes on college placement exams. At no point do we expect to use these languages with their native speakers, so our first experiences getting from el aeropuerto to los museos in other countries often feature us babbling in Pig Latin and gesturing with the enthusiasm of a thousand Ewoks.

We know the theory. We know that "hola" will trigger a greeting, perhaps even an introduction, but we don't quite believe it will work. There is a chance—an all-too-likely chance, if you happened to attend my high school—that we have been the subjects of an elaborate ruse that the grown-ups instigated to humiliate us in foreign countries.

Perhaps they've been lying to me for years, I think. Perhaps I've learned gibberish. Probably I've learned gibberish. There sits a smiling Bolivian concierge to "welcome" me. She's probably just waiting for me to speak so she can taunt me. SLUT. Well, I won't give her the satisfaction. I'll never say hola! I am not her pawn! "I AM NOT YOUR PAWN," I say as I storm off in the direction of the town dump.

Jonny handles his foreign language nerves with a touch more aplomb. After arriving in Mexico in 2008, Jonny and a few other friends, one of whom spoke fluent Spanish, hopped in a cab. The fluent one gave directions to the cabby, and Jonny sat for a while in comfortable silence in the passenger seat, that is, until he could no longer sit by without trying out his two semesters of Spanish vocabulary. So right there in that silent cab, he just listed off all the Spanish words he could bring to mind, and in no particular order.

"Pantalones." (Pants.)
"El gato." (The cat.)
"La leche." (The milk.)
"Sacapunta." (Pencil sharpener.)

And so on. The driver did not understand...understandably.

Even saying a foreign word to English speakers in the U.S. can be intimidating. I remember when Chocolat came out, I learned how to pronounce its title from movie trailers and award shows. I heard some idiots pronounce it like regular old "chocolate," and I mercilessly mocked them in my mind. Then came time for me to see the movie at the theater. I stood with a large group of my friends in a long line at the ticket stand, and I mentally rehearsed exactly how I was going to say it.

"One for Chocolat, please [flawless French], and here's my student ID." I thought about it and thought about it. "Ch like Sh. Silent T. Stress the third syllable. Ch like Sh. Silent T. Stress the third syllable."

I ignored conversations with my friends just so I would be prepared when the time came. I was the first of my friends to get to the ticket window. The girl at the counter said, "Hi. What movie would you like to see?"

I took a deep breath, braced myself, and shouted, "CHO-LOT, PLEASE."

I yelled the hardest Ch and sharpest T you've ever imagined at that poor woman. Two of my friends burst into laughter on the spot. My face is flushing even now as I write about it, but its color is nothing to the deep maroon it manifested that night. Worst of all, the ticket taker did not understand me and asked me please to repeat myself.

"The chocolate movie, please," I mumbled.

"I'm sorry?"

"ONE TICKET FOR THE CHOCOLATE MOVIE—THE ONE WITH JOHNNY DEPP."

And if that wasn't enough punishment for the night, I went on to watch Chocolat.

By Emily Walls

How The Sandlot Taught Me to Text

By Emily Walls

"So what do you think?"
"Did he use a period?
"What's that got to do with it?"
"DID HE USE A PERIOD?"
"Honestly, I have no idea. Let me look...ok, no, no period."
"That's a good sign. So he just said 'okay,' then. Is it all lowercase?"
"No, just a capital K."
"You didn't tell me it was just a K."
"Why? Is that bad?"
"Well, there are two options. Either he was driving and had to send something quick because he didn't want to get caught texting, or he doesn't want to see you anymore. Either way, wait ten minutes and send back, 'Whatever, smiley face.'"

As I walked away from the pair, in search of a quieter corner of the park, it hit me: clearly, the answer to modern dating is The Sandlot.

I got my first cell phone when I graduated college, and I started dating Jonny one month later. Unfortunately, because I was too new to texting and too familiar with Jonny (we had been friends for twelve years at that point), our relationship lacked those tantalizing, cryptic messages that alternately soothe and jab the emotions. Nevertheless, I have witnessed text-heavy relationships among co-workers and friends, so I've seen the effects and heard the analyses. And I get it. I understand that texting provides a barrier of protection. I understand that it allows the user to think, to strategize, and when necessary, to calm down. I understand that texting takes the edge off rejection. It saves face.

But I've also seen the bewilderment and hyper-analysis of texting. I've seen the bizarre power play of intentionally waiting to return a text. I've seen the crutch and the cowardice, the endless sources of misunderstanding. 

I don't know precisely when the genders decided to quit talking to each other, but I know that the soothsaying writers of The Sandlot prepared the world for the revolution in 1993. We thought we were watching a band of boys battle it out with a beast, but in truth, we were learning the right way to say "Do U want 2 go 2 dinner w me?" Consider the following text lessons we can learn from the mischievous miscreants of the ball diamond.

Texting: The New Fence
The text message is not just a method of communication; it's a strategic barrier. You can hide behind a phone. You can lob short bursts of communication to your friends, but you're still safe behind that fence. They can't truly get to you, and you're never forced to meet them face to face. I remember a time in preschool Sunday school when, had it been available, I could have really used a cell phone. I wanted desperately to play dress-up with three of the other little girls in class. They always went straight to the dress-up corner and launched themselves into the sparkliest, twirliest skirts, and I watched them and envied them from the other side of the room. At four years old, I was painfully shy. I often played by myself in Sunday school, or the sweet teachers would sit by me and talk to me while I colored (always within the lines). But I didn't really want to color; I wanted to be a princess with the other girls. Since I couldn't successfully play with them without talking to them, I colored away my Sunday school years. A cell phone would've removed the problem for me. I could have texted them something simple (a carefully crafted emoticon, I imagine) from across the room, gradually gained their confidence, and eventually transitioned our friendship from the digital realm to real life. That would have been the goal, anyway.

But I forget that the same barrier that would have protected four-year-old Emily from having to face her classmates would have also allowed her classmates to reject her with little emotional expenditure. Perhaps I would have sent them an introductory text. In return, they could have blocked my calls, sent a "We're busy" reply, or even failed to reply at all. It would be all too easy behind the communication fence.

We first see the barrier at work in The Sandlot when the boys evaluate their foe. The Beast has claimed a baseball from them, and the boys, fearful of The Beast's fierce temper, peer at their enemy's den through holes in a fence. They're curious about The Beast. They want to see him. They want their ball back from him. But they're safe behind that fence, so they stay where they are and launch a series of ill-fated attacks from their home base.

The first retrieval attempt is feeble. The boys slide a stick beneath the fence in an effort to shove the baseball to safety. The Beast bites the stick in half. Then follows a series of more sophisticated attempts.

• A pot attached to an Erector set
• A vacuum-rigged catcher's mask
• A homemade catapult that uses every piece of Smalls's Erector sets
• An airborne attack featuring Yah-Yah and a pulley

The Beast destroys each volley. The baseball is grimier now, and the boys are no closer to their goal because they have failed to engage their foe directly. They have literally launched communication over a fence, and The Beast, with little effort, has shut them down completely.

Silence: The Power Play

The Silent Treatment: is any ploy more childish? If you are engaged in conversation with someone and out of nowhere he just quits talking to you—stops listening, stops speaking—you are going to stab that man in the kidney. No jury will convict you; the guys deserves it. But transfer that same scenario to a texting relationship, and silence becomes an accepted norm. If you don't want to hear from someone, you can turn off your phone. It's that easy. Moreover, your silence gives you power. The other person is giving information. The other person is making the request for feedback. You can answer or you can maintain silence. You have the power to choose, and the other person is left guessing and waiting until you reply.

I once spent thirty minutes of company time with my co-workers deciphering the meaning of silence. One of my co-workers was in the beginning, flirting stage of a relationship, and she had texted a casual missive to her crush the night before. He had not replied. After reviewing the entire history of the texting relationship and evaluating the guy's habits, ten people in my office gave ten different interpretations of his silence.

In The Sandlot, The Beast is the master of the silent game. The boys gather all information they can on The Beast (most of it hearsay), and then they launch the previously mentioned over-the-fence attacks. They are sending communication after communication to The Beast, and they are revealing to him their strategies and weaknesses. From their attempts, The Beast can determine that they are desperate, ingenious, straightforward, inventive, adaptable, and determined. The Beast plays defense and withholds his own information, so the boys know only that he doesn't want to give up the baseball and that he is powerful enough to stop them.

The boys are forced to be cautious and creative because their foe knows them, but they do not know him. He has all the power.

Misinterpretation Is the Norm
The day after my co-workers gave their ten interpretations of silence, the truth came out in a surprise eleventh option: it turns out the guy had fallen asleep for the night before she had sent him the last text. He responded to her the next afternoon, but not before she had suffered a night of anxiety over his silence. Texts can never substitute for face-to-face communication because they can never reveal tone and body language. They are too easy to misinterpret and manipulate. Texts come, not necessarily from the impulse of a moment (as in regular communication), but rather too often from the careful study and clever use of many moments to create the perfect 140-character message.

Entire magazine columns are devoted to dissecting the nuances of texts. For further reading, see these (but only if you're in the mood to fuel depression):

What his pronouns tell you

USA Today "I love you" over text

NY Times article about an entire relationship by text

Rules for meaningful textversations

We can visit The Sandlot yet again for practical application. The boys exhaust their money, time, energy, and goods (and mothers' goods) to outsmart The Beast, but even after all that, they do not know The Beast any better. They assume he is vicious, territorial, deadly.

The turning point only comes when Benny, through inspiration and desperation, decides to hop the fence and challenge The Beast directly. Benny prepares himself as best he can, laces up his new P. F. Flyers, and hops the fence. Only then does he understand the size and nature of The Beast, and even then, he is just beginning to learn. When the chase through town ends and the fence finally falls, Benny sees his foe up close.

The barrier is down. Silence is not an option. Misinterpretation is impossible.

Benny looks into his enemy's eyes and finds there a new friend—Hercules—who he never would have met and understood had he stayed behind the barrier.

I figure that in the changing technological world we have two choices. We can sit in safety behind the fence and launch endless campaigns of vacuums and Erector sets at each other, or we can lace up our P. F. Flyers, hop the fence, and meet The Beast face to face. Who do you want to be: Bertram or Benny?

You don't even know who Bertram is, do you?

Wes Anderson and The Uncanny Valley

By Jonny Walls


Wes Anderson's movies are the "Uncanny Valley" of film.

 The Uncanny Valley

I first encountered the concept of the Uncanny Valley  in 2006, when I was exposed to the following video game tech demo for the upcoming game, Heavy Rain. You needn't watch the whole thing, just watch from the 00:30 mark to the 00:45 mark (though you should watch the whole thing. It's pretty awesome.)

When I watched this video in 2006, I didn't experience anything unnerving. All I saw was a fantastic looking tech demo, which showed great future potential for narrative in video games. Many people, however, found (and still find) this, and animation like it, unsettling. These people are under the soul-squelching oppression of the Uncanny Valley.

The basic theory states that the closer animated human replicas come to reality, the more negative people's reactions will be. And as any good scientists would have done, the people studying these reactions made a graph to track them. The dip in the charts that represents these negative reactions is the Uncanny Valley.

It's counter-intuitive to think that the closer something comes to its source (ourselves), the more it unsettles. Instinctively, we believe that familiarity cultivates comfort, which is true for genuine familiarity (actual people) or shades of familiarity (Pixar characters or the Simpsons, which are comfortably stylized and removed from reality). But with the Uncanny Valley, it's close, very close, but not the real thing. Like a lifelike baby doll with blue eyes or that eerily realistic painting of your great-grandfather hanging in your grandmother's living room over the couch where you are trying to sleep, it's terrifying.

The Uncanny Valley doesn't seem to affect me, but I get it. I can see it.

It's in the eyes.

I'm not sure why I don't organically experience the Uncanny Valley, but I have one theory: I've grown up with, and in close proximity to, video games. While video games haven't been the only medium pushing the bounds of the Valley (consider Robert Zemeckis' animated films like The Polar Express) they have certainly been leading the charge, at least in popular culture. I think my gradual exposure has somewhat desensitized me to the phenomenon.

Wes Anderson

My first Wes Anderson film was The Royal Tenenbaums. I saw it in 2002, shortly after it came out on DVD, and though I didn't realize it at the time, I experienced something not unlike the Uncanny Valley.

I knew I had witnessed something good, possibly even great, but it unsettled me. I didn't like it per se, but I appreciated it (on some level). I remember telling my friend, "I'm glad I saw it, but I don't  ever want to watch it again." In short, I didn't get it.

It wasn't until two or three years later that I went back and watched Rushmore, one of Anderson's older films, and unexpectedly, I genuinely enjoyed it.

Thinking that perhaps I had missed something on my first viewing of Tenenbaums,  I decided the time was ripe for a re-viewing, and it floored me. I loved it. I felt like a different person watching a similar film. It's not that I had forgotten and rediscovered Tenenbaum's taste, it just fell on a wholly new palette.

What I discovered was that I hadn't even begun to truly appreciate Tenenbaums the first time around. My mind, for whatever reason, wasn't in the right place at that time. This happens all the time in the quest for art appreciation (which I wrote about at length here), and I think the reason for it, in this particular instance, was because Wes Anderson deals in his own Uncanny Valley.

Unlike the official Uncanny Valley, I didn't have years of training to desensitize and prepare me for his special brand of off-kilter pseudo-reality, and thus found myself wrong footed.

The Uncanny Wesley

Photoshop art by Graham Richardson

The brilliance of Anderson's films is the universe he has created. It's not quite reality, but it's not fantasy. Every line, every reaction, every outfit, every lavish set, every leopard shark is one shade off from the real world. Where real people in real life would deflect a harsh remark with an eye roll or a scoff, Anderson's characters will under-react and ingest them like Houdini absorbing a blow to the gut, and just when we think they're about to fall asleep, they spout off half comic, half desperate actions, like starved cats in an affluent back-alley.

I remember failing to understand the Tenenbaum children's understated reactions (particularly Margot's) to the madness taking place all around them. Why, I wondered, did everyone seem so lifeless, almost dead behind the eyes?

The answer is that there was life behind their eyes, but it was that off-brand Anderson flavor I had not yet acquired. It's a suppressed madness, a desperate spark in disguise.

Watching hyper-realistic films like Dazed and Confused or 21 Grams is like looking at yourself in the mirror, but only at your most vulnerable, eloquent, or poignant moments. Watching hyper-abstract films like Mulholland Drive or A Scanner Darkly is like watching yourself in your untamed dreams. Watching an Anderson film, contrastingly, is like taking in your reflection on a rippling pond, or staring down a computer-generated android of yourself.

If you've seen any of his films (past his debut Bottlerocket, in which his burgeoning universe had yet to take full shape), then you've seen the plush yellow hotel rooms and matching red family jumpsuits, the J.L.W. luggage and the red stocking caps. In short, you've seen the unorthodox touches that put Anderson's train just a hair off the track, one wheel squarely in the middle and the other just to the left, but moving in the same direction as the world around it.

The question is, have you ever considered that you may be looking at yourself in a slightly different universe?

The Big Difference

The big difference between Anderson's Valley and the actual Valley, is that the actual one bids to capture reality, to lock it down, and it's in its shortcomings that we are repelled. Anderson, quite oppositely, strives to break through the veil of our everyday world and take one step beyond. It feels bizarre at first, but he helps us realize that sometimes, the only way to gain a good look at ourselves is to take a step back.

Enjoy the view.

By Jonny Walls

Cultural Inoculation, Vol 1: Five Good Reasons to Read The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

By Josh Corman

Follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman

We here at the Infusion know that you want a little culture in your life. We know that’s why you listen to at least six minutes of classical music per month on that one classical station that’s kind of close to NPR on the radio dial. We know that’s why you go to bookstores and admire the covers of all those nice new Penguin editions on the “classics” table. Thankfully, you’ve got us to supplement your other, er... efforts at embiggening your inner life.

Our first cultural inoculation (little known fact: Cultural Inoculation was in the running for this site’s name, but its lack of tea-centric humor cost it dearly) involves one of the greatest works in American literary history. Now, before we get started in earnest, let me set your mind at ease. This isn’t senior English, and I’m not giving a pop quiz. Quite the opposite, in fact. There exists a very real dilemma in the lives of astute/educated/culturally aware/bookish people: we legitimately have an interest in the canon. Whether films, books, albums, paintings, sculptures, sonnets, limericks, or soup cans, we want to know what all the fuss is about regarding all those supposedly great things we see listed in magazines or blogs as “The Greatest of All Time.” Our interest in these things creates a problem because we know that we can’t possibly get to it all. Sad, but true. I mean, I’d love to spend more time watching Truffaut films or listening to Woody Guthrie recordings (seriously), but I’ve got enough on my plate keeping up with Wes Anderson and Josh Ritter. I know Truffaut is hugely influential, but what if I watch The 400 Blows and it, well, blows (if you're thinking, 'Corman's better than that joke,' you're wrong)? Then I’ve wasted valuable capital that can’t be refunded. “That’s right!” I hear you saying. “If only I had someone who I trusted implicitly to guide me through the mine field of Important Cultural Decisions (ICDs).” Well, here I am! You’re welcome, Mom (sorry, but until it’s proven to me that someone besides my mom is reading these...).

Today, I’d like to answer just one question that will make your cultural life that much easier: Should you read Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?

Well, yes, you should. And I’ve got five simple reasons as to why.

1. Hemingway’s right, you know.

Hemingway (or Owen Wilson, if you follow Woody Allen’s version of history) famously called Huck Finn the apotheosis of the American novel. Being Hemingway, he used shorter words, but you get the idea. Point is, he’s right. Think about it: the novel is set on America’s greatest body of water, it offers commentary on one of our most important moral episodes, and was written by perhaps our most recognizable and quintessentially American author.

Now, some of you might counter my Hemingway with a seemingly appropriate Twain quote: “A classic is a book which everyone wants to have read, but no one wants to read.” The problem with using Twain as a defense in this case is that you would have to do it ironically, but since the quote itself is ironic, it cancels out, just like two negatives in that one branch of math I remember almost nothing about.

2. Huck is the Most Significant Character in the History of our Culture.

Bart Simpson. Marty McFly. Ferris Bueller. These are the great-grandchildren to Huckleberry Finn. We love the precocious, street-smart youngster who has to outwit the establishment in the name of adventure, and Huck provides the blueprint. He’s arrogant, more than a little selfish, ballsy, but ultimately can’t help doing the right thing. Sound familiar? Let’s add another character to that list, shall we: Han Solo. Bam! What red-blooded American could resist taking an adventure with the spiritual great-grandfather to Ferris Bueller and Han Solo? So what if a raft replaces the red Ferrari (so choice) and the Millenium Falcon? So what if a runaway slave named Jim replaces that whiny malcontent Cameron and Chewbacca? Abe Frohman, Sausage King of Chicago, and the captain of the ship that made the Kessel Run in less than twelve parsecs would be disappointed in you for worrying about sexiness over substance. So go forth, hop aboard the raft with Huck, and spend a couple hundred pages with a mostly naked, nearly illiterate thirteen-year-old who smokes like a chimney. (Wait, did I just undercut my case? Moving on.)

Getting a copy with the original illustrations is worth it.

3. All Other Literary Sins can be Forgiven if You’ve Read Huck Finn.

Let’s imagine that dinner parties were still things. What’s that, you say? Really? They are, huh? Weird.

OK, so let’s imagine that you’re at an actual dinner party, which is allegedly still a real occurrence. Somebody brings up Crime and Punishment, The Grapes of Wrath, The Great Gatsby, Pride and Prejudice, or one of the other few hundred novels that people wear like talismans around their necks once they get around to finishing them. You say, “You know, I’ve never actually read (insert classic here), but I read Huck Finn not too long ago, and it was fantastic; I don’t know how anyone’s ever called that a story for children." This accomplishes two vital goals: one, it immediately makes everyone around you forget that you haven’t read some other book whose title they can’t even recall at the moment, and two, it puts the pressure on everyone else listening to either ‘fess up to not having read this most seminal American work or find something very interesting across the room that they must attend to suddenly. Remember, they’re called the Culture Wars, and you need to win.

4. It’s Just So Much Fun

Let me get something out of the way: Huck Finn is not A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or even Slaughter-House Five. It is, however, better than both of those books and nearly as funny. But this isn’t about how funny the book is; it’s about how much fun the book is. Its cast of characters rivals (and probably trumps) anything Dickens ever put to the page, and its plot (don’t tell Twain you were looking for one) is simultaneously thrilling, frightening, hilarious, and suspenseful. For all the value I place on putting in the (sometimes difficult) work necessary to enjoy great art, Huck Finn, rich though it is, requires surprisingly little effort to enjoy. This doesn’t mean it’s simplistic, just that Twain so expertly executes his purpose that as you kick back on your porch (if you don’t have a porch on which to read Huck Finn, I suggest you engage in some minor trespassing, just to ensure the full effect), Twain’s wit and charm lift literary revelations right off the page and lay them at your feet, ready for your chewing pleasure.

Warning: If you attempt to read this novel on a summer evening while smoking a pipe, reclining near a body of water, or chewing on a stem of wild grass, you may collapse in a fit of sheer pleasure.

5. If Nothing Else...

- You need to know what all this n-word hubbub is about. That scoundrel from Auburn who’s aiming to censor Huck (and make a tidy profit from his own edition of the novel) deserves to be yelled at, but only by people who know why they’re yelling.

- It’s hundreds of pages shorter than other works that your friends have been pestering you to read. The $2.00 Dover Edition runs 220 pages, unabridged. 

- I nearly drowned a certain unnamed friend of mine in a certain famous river in a certain major British city because he admitted to never having read Huck Finn. Protect yourself from nut-jobs like me and read the damn book already.

By Josh Corman

Follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman

Five Easy Fixes for Your Everyday Bad Grammar

by Emily Walls

I've had a request for a little grammar workshop on the ol' Infusion. Obviously, I am going to fulfill this request because 1) grammar has only ever improved my social life and 2) someone talked to me! Because the breadth of the subject is so great, I have decided to limit this post to common errors and easy slip-ups. For a comprehensive study, see these:

1. The Chicago Manual of Style: my style guide of choice, my dear companion, and my overdue library book
2. The Grammar Girl: great online resource for your grammar queries
3. The Elements of Style by Strunk and White: tips for everything having to do with writing; this book belongs on your shelf and in your glove compartment (for emergencies)

#5 It's its.

It's is a contraction of the words It is. Its is a possessive pronoun that means [blank] belongs to it. I know these two are tricky—really I do—but you can master them if you slow down while you're writing. Do this: mentally place a little red flag by each of the words. Are your little red flags waving? Excellent. From now on, you'll see your red flags waving whenever you write the words, and you'll stop to evaluate your usage. Here's our practice sentence:

"It's a beautiful day to burn down the enemy garrison," said the minotaur to its companion.

The first is a contraction of the words It is, so we use an apostrophe. The apostrophe basically says, "Hey, there used to be a space and an i here, but I beat the crap out of them and took their place."

Its, in the second part of the sentence, tells us that the companion belongs to the minotaur. Now, here's where our minds mess with us. We know that to make any noun possessive, we add 's to the end (e.g., my sister's bangs, my enemy's rotting corpse, my fish's sparkling personality). It is logical to us to do the same for it, but WE ARE WRONG. It is a pronoun (meaning a generic word used in place of a specific noun), and pronouns are tricky. Possessive pronouns do not use apostrophes. This is easy to remember with words like hers, his, and ours. Those look weird with apostrophes. If you saw "The house is our's" on a page, you would immediately see the problem. It might help you to remember that possessive its does not use an apostrophe if you can remember that its belongs in the same family as hers, his, and ours.

More than likely, however, you'll remember the contraction it's as a replacement for it is. Imagine the apostrophe as a militant terrorist who wants to exterminate all twenty-six letters of the alphabet. The apostrophe isn't strong enough to take out entire words, but it can assassinate a few letters at a time. If its campaign is successful and it murders letters A to Z, our future Verbal Infusion posts may become a bit...dull.

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''.

  

#4 Spell Definitely

Split it into three parts: de-finite-ly. Remember that your trouble with spelling definitely is not infinite; it is finite. If you can remember that the middle of the word is finite, then you won't be tempted to throw in a wayward a. Try it.

#3 Jonny and I took a picture. This is a picture of Jonny and me.

I'm going to be specific here because this is the error I see daily on Facebook.

Correct: This is a picture of Jonny and me.
Incorrect: This is a picture of Jonny and I.

Everybody knows the easiest way to work through it is to drop the other person's name and read the sentence with only the personal pronoun. This is a picture of I sounds absurd; therefore, it must be me. Bam. Problem solved.

But sometimes it sounds wrong both ways. Take this sentence:

Jonny and I are spicing up our marriage with a steamy read-through of the California driver's manual; it's not going well.

If you take out Jonny, it reads, "I are spicing" or "me are spicing." Both sound infantile, so you must look beyond the sound test for your answer. Ask yourself a few questions:

1. Are you the subject of the sentence? In other words, are you the one doing the action?
2. Is the action being done to you, not by you? (A dead giveaway is a preposition like of, to, or for before the pronoun.)

If you are doing the action, the correct pronoun is I. In our practice sentence, I am the one spicing up my marriage (i.e., doing the action), so I is the right word to use.

If the action is being done to you, the correct pronoun is me. For example:

A representative of the DMV issued a cease and desist to Jonny and me, demanding that we halt production of our highly anticipated marriage counseling book, Take Your Sex Drive into the Fast Lane.

Because the action (issued) is being done to me, not by me, the correct pronoun is me. To top it all off, the sentence also includes the preposition to, which is a great big flashing light that tells you me is the way to go.

#2 Then/Than
Then is used to give a measure of time. "We'll quash the Great Western Rebellion then. For now, let's drink."
Than is used for comparison. "Our benevolent new masters of the Great Western Rebellion are far more magnanimous than their humanoid predecessors."
If it helps, remember that then has an end and than has an and (as in, you're comparing this and that).

#1 Dangling Participles
A participle is an adjective that looks like a verb, and it usually ends in -ing or -ed. For (a completely fictional) example:

Panting with the effort of his sprint toward freedom, fifteen-year-old Steven congratulated himself on his victory over the Fuzz and his escape into the night.

Perturbed by their friend's easy getaway, Adam and Jonny immediately surrendered the name of their accomplice to their arresting officers.

Panting and Perturbed are participles that spearhead the participial phrases beginning both sentences. You'll notice that immediately following the phrases, the subjects of the participles are identified. Steven is panting; Adam and Jonny are perturbed. When a writer fails to identify the subject directly following the participial phrase, he creates a dangling participle, the bastard child of a capricious sentence.

Consider an alternative:

Perturbed by their friend's easy getaway, the arresting officers listened as Adam and Jonny surrendered the name of their accomplice.

See what I did there? I made it look like the arresting officers were perturbed, because I placed them directly after the introductory participial phrase. But why would they be perturbed? Their job is being done for them. THE SENTENCE MAKES NO SENSE. And that is the cry of every person who reads a dangling participle.

Don't dangle your participles in front of your readers. It's rude.

Some Nights

By Josh Corman

Stealing titles is so much easier than inventing them!

Follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman

What I know:

I brought a bitter, windy cold with me to Grantham, Pennsylvania. As Ben, my friend of fifteen years, and I sat huddled on freezing metal chairs outside the Messiah College Student Union, I was reminded of Lewis Black’s rant about how much he hates the cold. You can’t even hold a thought in your head, he says (or shouts, really). Of course, the reminiscence, true to Black’s word, didn’t stick around for long.

Eventually, the powers that be opened the Union doors at about a quarter after seven. The six hundred of us who waited in line were ushered into the warmth, where we were handed rubber bracelets and directed towards the open area in front of a small stage, packed to its edges with guitars, horns, keyboards, and a drum kit. Ben and I planted ourselves in a space just a few feet from the stage’s right side (much, I’m sure, to the chagrin of anyone on that side of the room under six feet tall). Arms folded, backs straight, toes still numb, we endured an underwhelming opener (sample lyrics: Her name is Kendall/She’s an ordinary girl) as enterprising - and mostly female - college students jockeyed for position nearer the front. Then again, I’m not six-four and 230 pounds for nothing. We weathered the siege, the openers left the stage, and the massive clock hanging on a wall left of the stage ticked on. Its second hand may as well have been a barometer, spinning like Clark Griswold’s electric meter on Christmas Eve. With each one of its short jumps, the room grew warmer, nervier, more volatile.

The lights dimmed. Eyes turned to the closed off balcony behind us where four men and a red-headed whisper walked in a single file, all smiling as they took a staircase down to ground level, behind a lengthy divider, and strolled onstage.

Over tinkling piano, Fun.’s (for legal reasons, always spelled with that period at the end) lead singer, Nate Ruess, sang to the hushed throng: “Some nights, I hold to every note I ever wrote/Some nights, I say, ‘fuck it all,’ stare at the calendar/Waiting for catastrophes, imagining they’d scare me into changing whatever it is I’m changing into.” He raised his eyes then and almost hissed, “You have every right to be scared.”

And just like that, Nate Ruess held six hundred people in his sweating palm. About an hour later, he had every voice singing with his the chorus to Fun.’s wildly popular (top of both Amazon’s and iTunes’ mp3 downloads) song, “We Are Young.” From what I could tell, nearly everyone in the room knew every word. The album had been out for four days.

At some point near the show’s end, Nate thanked the crowd. It was the first show of the tour, he told us, and “...this is just-” but he didn’t seem able to find the words.

What I think:

I think that in less than twelve months time, Fun. will have played Saturday Night Live.

I think that “We are Young” will win the award for best song at next year’s Grammys.

I think that the work that Fun. is doing (and that Ruess’ old band, The Format, did before them) is as good as any music I’ve heard in the last decade.

I think that I saw a band on the brink of stardom.

I think that when Nate Ruess stopped short as he addressed the crowd at Messiah College, it was because in that moment, but not before, he thought all of this too.

The new record, Some Nights, is largely a record about duality. Its opening lines (the same which opened the show) hint at as much. Some nights we want to be held, some nights we can imagine only being alone. Some nights every choice works out, some nights we can make only mistakes. Some nights we know what we’re doing, some nights we haven’t a clue.

None of this is groundbreaking territory, as far as rock musicians go. But the duality which Fun. examines most closely is a rarer bird. Go back and look at those opening lyrics. Some nights I believe in my vocation, my art, and essentially myself, some nights I look for any excuse I can find to rid myself of the burden that being an artist has put on me. How much longer, he asks, can I reasonably do this before I hang it up? Will there come a time when six hundred people in a college Student Union will mean defeat rather than success. Has that time already come?

The songs on Some Nights ask these questions again and again. Ruess sounds, for all the world, like a man giving professional musicianship one last run, to see if it’ll finally stick.

I think that he got his answer last Saturday night.

What I Believe:

I believe I’ve got some talent as a writer. I also believe that talent is only a small part of success in any given field (just think about how often we see it easily squandered). After Ben and I left the show, I wondered about those very same dualities Ruess wrestles with in his lyrics. Any writer will tell you that on some days when you stop working you feel so good about what you’ve created that you’d challenge Hemingway to a duel, fifteen paces at dawn. Other days, you feel like you’re a shame to Stephanie Meyer’s profession (cheap shot, I know, but I’m working out some demons here). It’s just the nature of the artistic beast.

I read somewhere the other day that writing is awful, but having written is wonderful. That is perfectly true. For about five days. Then the dreaded "other side" of a writer’s life rears its head. Query letters, rejections, agents (or worse, the lack thereof), publishers (see last parenthetical), and the prospect of each day waking up to write words that no audience might ever read are so much more daunting than deciding whether or not the third paragraph on page thirty-eight really needs that last sentence.

There’s a great line in High Fidelity where Rob (John Cusack’s character) says in voiceover, “Only people of a certain disposition are frightened of being alone for the rest of their lives at the age of twenty-six. We were of that disposition.” I feel like, if modified slightly, those lines would describe me only too well. Only writers of a certain disposition are frightened of remaining unnoticed for the rest of their lives at the age of twenty-six. I am of that disposition.

This is, admittedly, not a good sign. Tons of great writers don’t have any notable publishing success until they’re in their forties. Twelve houses passed on Harry Potter. A half-dozen record labels passed on The Beatles. So what happens when (the word “if” would be absurdly naive) months or perhaps years have passed and I’m essentially right where I am now. Am I prepared to stay committed? To trust that as long as I put in the work on my end that some form of validation will arrive? Will I have the guts to keep pushing myself like Nate Ruess has done?

Some nights I believe I can do it, but some nights I just don’t know.

By Josh Corman

Follow me on Twitter @JoshACorman

P.S. - Do yourself a favor and give Fun. a listen here.