Golden Years

I was in the third grade once. Although at the time is was somehow committed to guaranteeing that I would one day say I was in the third grade twice.

Grade three is where you ostensibly begin your journey into what will hopefully lead to true higher learning. You are introduced to cursive. You are introduced to complex sentences. You are introduced to multiplication tables. You are introduced into the abject humiliation of not being able to do any of these well and having them memorialized in silly displays designed to be fun and educational. Like the parachutes we made for our multiplication tables in Mrs. (but it could have been Ms.) Emmitt's third grade class.

In case your wondering what in the hell I am talking about, one day in class we had made these cool little parachutists out of construction paper, cloth and yarn (which is cornerstone of elementary school arts and crafts). I am pretty sure I thought mine was cool. He had a cloth shoot with yarn cords holding his construction paper body to it. Cool is not what I would be feeling in the upcoming days.

A day after we had completed these little guys, Mrs. Emmitt started to erect a rather ominous mural on the wall. Except it wasn't really much of anything except a bunch of horizontal lines with a number next to them. They started with a zero on top and ended with a 12 on the bottom. I left that day wondering what in the hell that wall was for. When I returned the next day I noticed that all of our little parachutists were at the top line, zero. Mrs. Emmitt then explained to us that we were to learn our multiplication tables, or times tables in the common vernacular. We would start on the zero line and as we passed the test for that level, we would descend until our parachutist hit the twelve line. Keep in mind the test were timed (no relation to "times"). Twelve would be our final test and if we passed that we would get a passing grade and a gold star. Those damn gold stars. In the third grade I would've killed a man with my bare hands for a gold star. The only thing better than a gold star was a scratch and sniff sticker. You would of thought the blueberry one had brown horse in it. In the third grade I would've fucked my priest voluntarily for a scratch and sniff sticker.

Anyways, my adolescent mind assumed that the task of these "times tables" would somehow equate emotionally with the joy that making that little parachute had brought me. So I figured, how hard can this be? We started with the zeros. Anything times zero is zero. Duh. Those were a breeze. As were the ones. The twos were really easy as well. Then came the threes.

The reality is you have to memorize the tables. I, being a somewhat bored and lazy kid, was actually just doing quick addition on the twos. The threes were not so quick to be added up. So when I got to threes my ability to add quickly fell well short of the time limit. And there I stalled. My parachutist in space.

If my little guy had been actually flesh and blood, he would have cried to the heavens for the largess delivered by a benevolent god to keep him suspended in mid-air. Scientific publications in this parallel world would have rushed to figure out the principals behind the parachutinal mid-air suspension. Time Magazine would have put one of those scientists on the cover. But my little guy was wasn't flesh and blood. He was string, construction paper and cloth. And although he was not in any danger of hitting the ground, my self-esteem was starting to reach terminal velocity as it plummeted to the cold, hard ground. And there he was. Just floating.

Most of the kids in the class eventually started to work their way down. Some did better than others. The class genius, Robbie L., was done in what seemed like hours, although I think it was a few days. I took refuge in knowing that his parachutist in that parallel universe only cursed his name as he rocketed to his impending doom. But that was little comfort as my guy hung there, suspended with fewer and fewer parachutists to take the attention off of him.

A week stretched into weeks and my guy had only managed to drop to the fours. Again, I knew I was supposed to memorize the table, but my hard-headedness only forced me into learning to add threes really, really quickly. I stalled on four. There was some company for my misery. Rex, the class... uhh... slow one had stalled out on three. At the very least I was saved the complete humiliation of knowing I finished last. But you can never hide from yourself and underneath all my self-deception I knew I sucked at math. And a lot of other things by extension. The fact that Rex's parachutist hung perilously close to mine on that wall was proof I was almost clinically retarded. At least that is how it must look to the outside world. And test after test... no dice. Until one day when I came in and those parachutists were gone. Taken away by the same force, Mrs. Emmitt, that had put them there in the first place.

I am not sure how I managed to get past that year, but somehow I pulled it out. Considering that the majority of that year's recesses were spent doing equations behind the teacher while the other kids played, jealously looking onto the playground and seeing the kids frolic while I tried to remember what five times six was. But I must have made up for it somehow and somehow I passed. And even though there was some joy in knowing I would go to fourth grade, I have always wondered what went through my parachutist's mind as he sat suspended in space and suddenly was crumpled and blown to dust by an extension of the god that had held him there for all those weeks. Because he, much like me in that recess, sat exposed.

For those of you who believe in destiny, it might have been that gentle stranger who delivered what you see below. That’s right. My third grade class picture. And in it you will see a little kid in a brown shirt with a horizontal stripe. Like Charlie Brown with hair and about the same self image. But don’t let the smile fool you. It is a smile to hold back the tears that only that kid, and a particular parachutist, could truly understand.

Apparently I am Complex

Who Should Paint You: Pablo Picasso

Your an expressive soul who shows many emotions, with many subtleties Only a master painter could represent your glorious contradictions

I guess my mother wasn't lying. Or maybe she was. If I knew who my mother was.

St. Valentine, Your 'Tine not My 'Tine

Today is Valentine's day. In case you haven't been reminded by the d-day like deluge of targeted advertising, it is a day in which we buy cards with roses on them for the one person who matters the most in our life... and let's us have sex with them without pressing charges. Which is great. If you're coupled or potentially coupled. But if your not, Valentine's is simply a reinforcement of your inability to find or build or maintain love.

I have been single for about four years. Before that I was in a two year relationship to someone who in retrospect was not a good match. Which allows me to revise the figure. So I have been single for about six years. There are prevailing theories as to why and they can be generalized into three areas. The first, is general incompetence. I have never been a great dater, or pursuer for that matter. I don't know if it because I never learned this skill from anyone or my paralyzing fear of personal rejection, but the reality is that I just suck when it comes to the courtship phase. Inevitably, the sociopath who is both aggressive and pathologically charming inevitably wins. Go figure.

The second theory is that in the gene pool that is Los Angeles, I am not what you would consider a prize catch. Now I don't know whether this is true, but the great thing about living in this sunny landscape of narcissism and showy displays of assets is that it can make anyone, and I mean anyone, feel grossly inadequate. You're ravishingly handsome? Wait, there is the more ravishingly handsome guy across the coffee bean from you. You're rich? There is the guy who makes a Saudi prince look like someone who chooses his houses in sizes like double-wide. You're successful? There is the guy just bought your company and put you in a cardboard box. And the kicker? They all inevitably drive a better car than you. And it's a convertible.

The third theory is gender confusion. I don't think I am gay. I have never been attracted to men. I've never felt a sexual yearning for a same sex person. But maybe I am gay. Maybe my soulmate is a guy... in Sweden... who wears hush puppies and turtlenecks and assembles furniture with hex head wrenches. You know soulmate, that mythical creature that powers the fantasies of Harlequin readers and makes Fabio a star. And much like it's cousin the unicorn, who makes us buy plates with rainbows on them, it forces us to contemplate otherwise outre theories. Like I am gay. But hey, you never know.

I am not sure which one is probably the most true (a shrink would probably say one) but to maintain an egalitarian consistency I will say there might be some truth to all three, although I really don't think I am gay.

But anyways, the intended behavioral results of Valentine's day is to drive love mad consumers to the stores to by the aforementioned cards with roses on them in the hopes of getting laid. The unintended result is to drive us singles into the canyonlands and labyrinths of internal dialogue where we wonder "what's wrong with me?"

And maybe there isn't. And it's just the price we must pay so that another segment of society can enjoy a day of warm fuzzies before they go back envying us and our carefree lifestyles and crushing self doubt. But it certainly beats mowing the grass.

My Sister vs Batman

I recently discovered a new sushi restaurant not far from my house. Because I insist on walking as much as possible in Los Angeles, a city not noted for its inhabitants willingness to use bi-pedal motion, I am thrilled. And it's actually pretty good on top of that. So I have that going for me. At least I think.

My sister was visiting this weekend. She has a job that brings her from the East Coast to the West Coast quite a bit. So I get to see her a lot. And I figured we'll walk over to my new find, this sushi restaurant, where we only have to walk and the food is pretty good and it's not that badly priced. I don't know what happened last night, but the fish didn't swim in my stomach too good. It's not that I had to throw up or suddenly wound up hanging onto the toilet like a golden ticket in the Willy Wonka movie, but I just didn't feel so well. I figured I could sleep it off.

I took my place on the couch in front of the window in front of my apartment and closed my eyes. I should have figured something was not quiet right when I started to have some weird thoughts start darting through my head. I don't remember the specifics but they did involve in order... my business partner, a girl I went out on a date with and a colleague. Oh yeah. And my sister.

For those of you who don't know my sister, she is no pushover. My dad used to say that if he were to ever get in an alley fight he would bring my sister. Despite the immediate emasculating properties of this statement, the additional ancillary emasculating property is that I pretty much have to agree with him. And it's not like my sister is some bruiser. She is pretty, petite and not incredibly tall. It's not as if she would ever be mistaken for a lineman on the Pittsburgh Steelers. I easily outweigh her by 100 lbs. But pound for pound, she her Roy Williams to my... I don't know... Richard Simmons. She is a take no shit, get things done kinda woman. And she spent the first twelve years of my life kicking the shit out of me. Seriously.

So as I finally was able to doze into a deeper sleep, the recesses of my brain started to take me on a peculiar journey. I know so many people who really, really, I mean really, like Ultimate Fighting Championships. Even my best friend, who is a lover not a fighter and someone I would never peg as an enthusiast, and he loves the shit. He is completely mesmorized by the large hunks of meat trying to stop each other's breathing. Me? I can't stand it. For a lot of reasons, most of them being the ones that cause people to drink tea with a pinky in the air.

So as I am paralyzed in my subconscious state, I find my mind wandering into a Mexican style bullfighting ring. My sub-subconscious is wondering what the hell I am doing there. My subconscious tells it to shut up because it's in the driver's seat, and quickly maneuvers my mind in front of a fight poster. I was like any fight poster you would see at a boxing match, expect this one featured my sister with her multi-toned hair and one caped crusader with his pointy ears. A woman with a common touch and a large bat-themed champion of the common cause.

Flash and suddenly I am on the inside of this arena and now it resembles the manor in Wuthering Heights. With a lot ditches. I mean a lot of them. Hundreds. Maybe thousands. And there they are. Going at it. My sister and the big bat. And my sister is kicking the living dog shit out of this over-sized man in tights. Oh I forgot to mention that my sister was also able to fly. And they take flight and my sister continues to to unleash a torrent of living hell. And suddenly she has the bat guy down. And all I can do, in the paralysis on my dream state, is think, "Man, I gotta make this stop."

So I run up to the two of them and I realize that my sister has the dark knight's head under her heel. Which, btw, looks like a wrestler's boot circa mid-south wrestling days on the gulf coast. And I realize that there is something not right about about this and I am able to pry my sister's boot of this poor abused superhero's head. And maybe what I was really doing was rescuing my manhood from a inadvertent and nascent emasculation by my father years earlier. And then I woke up... itching. Not sure if that was my wounded pride, that had been wounded all these years or just some upholstery cleaner I was allergic to.

Hooray for Hollywood

I post to a UT sports site. The socio-political factions boil down simply into the conservatives and the liberals. The neocons (or repulitards as we like to call them) always take the position that Hollywood is polluting the country, blah, blah. Mind you, they have a very selective way of ignoring what Exxon, McDonald's and other corporate behemoths do, but the general theory is that Hollywood is a liberal cabal designed to push a liberal agenda. I got tired of hearing this pablum and responded with the following:

I work in Hollywood. You might want to even call me some level of insider. Started my career at one of the big five talent agencies (it was the big three when I started) sequed to film production/aquisitions/development. I now own a production/management company.

The thing I love to hear is people talk about the liberal agenda in Hollywood. That there is a cabal of entertainers that wring their hands and devise an agenda of counter-cultural ideas. The reality is we give the audience what they want. This is not called show friends, show agenda, show values... it's show business. Emphasis on the business. We are here to make money. Period. For every Brokeback Mountain there are 20 Starsky and Hutches. For every dysfunctional family drama there are 20 Lethal Weapons. We play to your blood lust, sexual titillation... whatever turns you on enough to sacrifice a dollar.

The reality is that if we gave you what you say you wanted, we would go out of business. If any of you guys watch The Simpsons, there is an episode where Marge Simpson gets the Itchy and Scratchy show to change their content. Instead of hacking each other to pieces they instead serve each other tea. Know what happens? Ratings plummet. It's not any different in the real world. The essence of dramatic tension is conflict. Without it, storytelling falls flat. And without the dramatic tension there is nothing to see. So if you think people would run, not walk, to the theater to see a family get along, you need to stop huffing paint.

On top of that, the major studios/distributors are owned by huge multi-national corporations. Universal by GE. Fox by News Corp. Paramount by Viacom. Warners by Time Warner. Columbia by Sony. You think any of those corporate parents give a s**t about anything other than the bottom line? Then I have a bridge I want to sell you. The average studio feature has a negative cost of maybe 50-60 million (I am guestimating that figure). Throw in marketing and you add another 20 million at least. That is 70 to 80 million dollars per picture. That is not chump change. You think movies that don't play to the red states get a green light? Hells no they don't as they like to say. They stay in the strike zone of sequels, books, pre-existing properties or chock full of the holy trinity of america (sex, violence and American hegemony). Businesses do not gamble this money. It's not good business. The reality is that for every person that talks about films that need to be more "family-oriented", they are saying that as they throw their money down for Basic Instinct. As an aside, it is not a coinkydink that the porn business is a six billion (that's right billion with a "b") business. They give the audience what it wants beyond what hollywood is able to deliver. And trust me, there are not that many DVD's in California.

In Hollywood, we are business people, and pretty good ones at that, and we give the audince what it wants. If it wanted Jill and Jeremy go to Bible Camp, you would get seven sequels for it. But you don't. Because the audience doesn't want it. And that's the facts. By the way, here is the top box office for 2005 and I don't see a gay cowboy anywhere. But I do see a lot of dead bodies.

1 Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith
2 Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire
3 The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
4 War of the Worlds
5 King Kong
6 Wedding Crashers
7 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
8 Batman Begins
9 Madagascar
10 Mr. & Mrs. Smith

The response to this was the typical obfuscation and subject changing. The next assault (after failing to address any of my points) was to talk about how the Liz Taylor's of the world being on the public stage are corrosive to american society. The unstated thesis is that these qualities are the purview of liberals (or the Loony Left as we are called). My response follows:

The serial marriage/anti-social behaviour has less to do with the political inclinations of people in this business than the personality types it attracts. This business is filled with thrill seekers, risk takers, insane artists and attention seekers. You might want to call it "colorful" personalities. Do liberals predominate in Hollywood? Yes. I would be lying if I said they didn't. But the rightwingers out here, and there are rightwingers out here, exhibit the same social pathologies as the lefties. Trust me, the same people voting for Bush are not missing the Party Train when it leaves the station. And with that said, you would be surprised at the number of stable married people here in Hollywood. Most of my friends are married (I am thirty four for the sake of disclosure). Observationally I have noticed that on average people in this biz get married later, not fresh out of high school, and have a tendency to be highly educated. My old roommate (one of the producers of the movie "The Ring") went to Duke and has a law degree from UT. That is more typical than atypical.

Now with all that said, let's talk about actors. They are a breed unto themselves. Generally emotional. Very fly by the seat of their pants. Constantly inhabiting different personas. This is not a person you should look to for long term stability. Now throw in the personality traits from above and it's a miracle most actors are married three weeks much less thirty years. There is a certain amount of narcissism that propels you infront of a bunch of people. That type of narcissism however, also makes you a lousy mate. And that is irrespective of profession. But to complicate matters even further throw in fame. I have seen the taste of fame make people do stupid s**t. And if anyone tells me they would be different, I call bulls**t on that. The people who always talk about how level they are, are the first to push their grandmother in front of the bus to get the spotlight.

Ok, so where is this all going... politics. What happens in DC is not so different than what happens here. It's is just a more message controlled business. But all the stuff that Hollywood gets accused of happens in DC, left and right, because it attracts the same personality types. When I hear politicians rail against this business, all I can think is "The lady doth protest too much."

This response led to a more microscopic examination of Liz Taylor. What Liz Taylor has to do with globo-political intrigue I am not sure. The typical attack pattern of the cons is to engage in an ad hominum attack. In this case it is about Liz Taylor's inadequecies as a role model. My response:

Is she an Icon of liberal Hollywood? You can make the case that she is an entertainment icon, but for my leftie friends I guarantee (sp?) that I have yet to walk into an office or room or whatever and see the liberal tiger beat pin-ups of her on anyone's wall.

Here is the issue, why are Hollywood celebs held to a different standard than any public figure? I can make the argument that sports stars, some politicians, pundits are more in the public eye than most celebs. If I went to rural Texas I am willing to bet that more people know and listen to Rush Limbaugh than Alec Baldwin. And Limbaugh is a opiate addict (oxycontin is not that far of an extension from heroin). So what does that say?

Again, I love the idea of this liberal Hollywood agenda. You know why we know so much about Liz? Because she was a strong actress/box office draw for many more years than the average movie star. (Wanna do a fun exercise, count the number of stars whose careers span more than 15 years as driving box office) Being in the public eye for so long causes people to want to feel intimate to her. Hence they want to know about her life. And the more we know about her private life, they realize that she is a little nutty. And tempetuous. And we love it. So want to want to hear about it. And subsequently she sells gossip rags. And that aint a bad thing for the magazines. And for some there is the argument that any publicity is good publicity. And you know who buys those gossip rags? The people b****ing about the dissolution of marraige. Now with that said, I have never witnessed a divorce that was caused by Liz Taylor nor have I heard of an addict who started gulping Oxycontin becuase Rush did it.

So what's my point? The great American prediliction is to look for simple solutions to complex problems. Blaming Hollywood celebs for the weakening of the social fabric is as useful as, to borrow a phrase, dancing about the architecture. There are many reasons for this degridation of our social/family cohesion. Liz Taylor isn't one of them.

This leads to dissertation on the reach and span of Hollywood into the general cultural fabric. Now the Cons are trying to have it both ways. Hollywood is not that influental but they are when I don't agree with them. Whoever them may be:

Again, we get back to the basic equation. You keep saying that Hollywood has a significant impact on American culture. I say Hollywood is a significant reflection of American culture. I am not saying, that we have no impact. I am just saying that the impact is mostly overstated. Again, if the market won't tolerate it, we won't give it what it doesn't want.

Where did this racism argument angle come in? I have never touched that subject as it doesn't have anything to do with my general thesis. It's like suddenly an alien saucer landed in this wheatfield. Racism in Hollywood is another subject and one, that much like this one, is not as obvious as it seems.

And Scot, does the consumer have any power? If you don't want to watch it on TV... Turn it off. If you don't want to see it in a theater... don't go. If you don't want to have your kids be raised by the TV... don't let it. Take your kids to the park. Tell them why what they see is wrong and monitor their viewing habits. You had kids, raise them.

These are all very emotional responses, but frankly there is not a lot of substance to them. It's not like their is a 'bloid fairy putting issues of US Magazine and People Magazine under people's pillows. Or a large bunny dressed in a pink cowboy hat and a**less chaps forcing people to watch Brokeback Mountain at gunpoint. These are all consumer choices. You vote with your dollar. We see it everyday. This is a consumer driven business.

Back to the impact argument. Again, I am not saying Hollywood has no impact. But it is way back in the order of pivotal influences. Show me a racist and I will show you racist parents. Show me a wife-beater and I will show you someone who grew up in that environment. Show me a criminal and I will show you someone who learned that behaviour from their immediate surroundings, not watching episodes of CSI.

And finally, I am trying to avoid marketing terms. Marketing terms are generally charged and elicit a desired behaviour or emotional response. In an earlier post I used the word Tempetuous. (I was accused of clever wordplay by one of the respondants) You called it a marketing term and inserted Vainglorious Bitch. Which one of these terms is charged?

Again the response is a dogged persistance in maintaining Hollywood is responsible for weakening American marraige. My response:

Hollywood led the way with the disposable marriage attitude that is now mainstream. To make this type of statement there seems to be a few suppositions:

1) America was a pristine landscape of spousal fidelity until Hollywood came along and showed us how to cheat on our spouses and make leaving them acceptable.

2) America is a victim to the depraved forward thinking leftist agenda aimed at under-mining the cultural mores that pre-existed Hollywood.

3) Hollywood is the predominate moral leader in the USA.

There is such an amazing tennent of paternalism underneath all of this coupled with an emotionally based appeal. Like America is being preyed upon by the lowlifes in Hollywood. Are Americans self-determinant or not? This position strains credibility to say the least. Following this logic, did husbands and wives sleep in separate beds until Hollywood decided to put spouses in the same bed and the rest of America followed suit? When June Cleaver wore high heels when cleaning the house, were all American women wearing high heels? Again, Hollywood reflects American values. It doesn't set the table.

Divorce is acceptable in the mainstream for many reasons, none of them having to do with Hollywood. People in Hollywood get divorced. It gets documented in the press. But that doesn't force Americans to run, run like the wind, to their lawyers to get this new-fangled divorce:

Int - Lawyer's Office - Day

An auto-mechanic, clothes stained with car grease, runs breathlessly into his Lawyer's office. The lawyer sits at his desk and looks up. The mechanic runs up and leans over him.

Man
(breathless)
I just saw Movietone news and that Liz Taylor just got this thing called deee... umm... duhhh... Veee...


Lawyer
That would be a divorce... pronounced "d-vors". And it's all the rage in Hollywood. In fact, let me hand you this pamplet put out by the Screen Actors Guild and the American Civil Liberties Union. There is even a testimonial on the back by Ronald Reagan. You should get one for yourself. I think you're gonna like it.


I am not trying to be a smart-a** (ok, maybe a little bit) but the reason divorce became acceptable has everything to do with the rising social changes coming out of World War 2. Women hit the work place. Husbands dissappeared overseas. Then you have birth control. And so on and so forth. I mean the list is multitudinous (sp?), but Hollywood is not the reason. To blame Hollywood as being the instigating factor in the decay of marraige is intellectually lazy because the reasons are many and complex.

Anywho, you get the gist. I am all for trying to do better. But the way to do better is to get to the real issues and the real reasons. Following the path of least resistance or making unsubstantiated leaps of logic is not the way to get to the roots of any situation. They say the path to hell is paved with good intentions. And I maintain that its road signs are written in the blood of straw men.