30 Days and 30 Nights

I'm not sure if I'm writing to satisfy a particular agenda, or just because I couldn't continue to bear the thought of anyone stopping by my blog and judging me solely on my last post, or the idiocy of my pet peeve because quite frankly I have many, and while being constantly mugged by my shower curtain is frustrating, I would hope the world would think me a little more sophisticated.

Then again...I'm not sure how much I really care about people who are compelled to surmise a person's intelligence, sense of humor, imagination, and writing prowess all by a singular post complaining about something, which in the grand scheme of things, is rather trivial. After all, I can't really blame anyone wanting to be all over me while I'm naked.

But then again, this is who we are...biologically and otherwise. We judge, as we always have, in order to survive, weighing risks and identifying potential threats from our environment, and those in it, in a matter of seconds. We often calculate hundreds of scenarios in fractions of seconds, make a decision, and begin initiating a plan...all in the blink of an eye.

It's rather fascinating once you think about it...your entire life is mostly comprised of impulsive, instinctual decisions you've been making since you were able to grasp the concept of your actions having consequences. People like to think that they make their decisions through a more scientific process, basing them on empirical data, analytical comparisons, and deductive reasoning, but in truth, we are looking to either justify or reverse a decision that was already made. We have a brain capable of vast conscious capabilities, but it is those of which we are unaware that are truly enumerable and infinite.

I think wisdom is the acknowledgement of this process, the embracing and acceptance of our animalistic nature, the realization that while we judge, decide, discriminate, dislike, alienate, and choose by snapshots and soundbites of the world around us...we ultimately possess the power not to act upon such diminutive and limited samples.

Gandhi once said, "Anger is the enemy of non-violence, and pride is a monster that swallows it up." Let us hope that we are endowed with the strength to fight such demons, as well as the vision to see the limitations and exclusivity of our perceptions. Time is our most precious commodity, and it would be such a shame to waste a month of it.

Pet Peeve #416

I'm not sure what distorted laws of physics, or vengeful ghosts continue to haunt my bathroom, but I'm sick of the shower curtain gravitating towards me and clinging to my leg like an overzealous, pubescent pit-bull puppy.

I even have those stupid weighted magnets at the bottom of the curtain, but they don't really help; I don't have a bathtub made of medal. If my dumbbells weren't made of iron I'd tie the curtain to those.

I already wake up in a bad mood most days, and now I have to wrestle a giant piece of Saran-wrap for real estate while I'm wet and naked? I think I may need an extra shot of espresso this morning....

Saving Private Ryan

I've often contemplated Harakiri...not on myself of course. I couldn't imagine pushing a dagger into my abdomen, and then forcefully dragging it horizontally across my torso until my insides are no longer where they belong. No, that's a little drastic, and messy. But the act of Sepuku on the blog however...is an act who's reality has become increasingly plausible with each passing day that does not see a sentence written by my hands.

I often wonder at what point a person who has dedicated his or her entire life to dancing, acting, or professional sports decide when their last audition is if they still do not achieve their goals. At what juncture does someone realize that the universe has been trying to nudge them in a different direction and decide against everything that feels right, in order to pursue a path different than the one of which they have been so sure?

I wonder if torn ligaments and crushed egos are the byproducts of greater forces imposing their will, or does coincidence, chance and serendipity ultimately decide who among us is chosen for greatness? I told a friend the other day that I was done with pursuing a career in writing, that I recognized that I didn't possess the right amount of whatever ingredients were necessary for a successful career as a writer. I'm not bitter, I will not live with regret, nor will I abandon an art that has granted me solace over the darkest years. I have simply chosen another path. I do not see this as quitting, relenting, or settling.

I've often struggled with the philosophical paradox of whether we truly possess choice, or if it is merely an illusion to which we are all slaves. I'm not sure we can have it both ways...things happening the way they are supposed to, as well as the ability to create a world by the power of our thoughts alone...or a bed to lie in as it were.

It's never been about how far the rabbit hole goes, but the reasons that motivated us to jump in it in the first place that truly matters. So, for now, the blog lives to see another day. Until of course, I, or fate, decide otherwise.

Skyfall

Although gadgetry, ego, and explosions are Bond staples, Skyfall was refreshingly scant on all but the latter. Mendes paid exceptional attention to detail, imbued subtlety in the too-often one line zinging hero, and allowed viewers to peel back layers of 007 where his predecessors feared merely scratching the surface.

With the exception of high stakes poker in Casino Royale, this was a much more cerebral Bond flick than its predecessors, one that kept us on edge as it explored the inner workings of both the villain and the resurrected.

Bardem embodied a virulent, violent, and crazed psychopath with a cool exterior. Motivated entirely by revenge, and possessing all the skills of a double zero agent, Silva was like an atomic bomb with a faulty detonation switch. His bleached blonde hair and overly calm demeanor were the only indicators to his underlying lunacy. The brilliance in his character was that we expected him to explode at any moment, to be overcome by his emotion as Bond so often does. But we never quite get to see Silva angry or flustered, even when his plans do not yield the expected results. As bumpy as the ride gets, the bomb never goes off; its destructive potential well known, even secretly desired.

Another refreshing element to Skyfall is that the plot does not revolve around world domination, rogue military generals hellbent on genocide, or giant freaking lazers. In fact, with the exception of a perfectly timed derailed subway train being summoned by Silva and almost crushing 007, this film appeared quite realistic. Skyfall's action sequences were plausible and plot driven, not bombastic and random.

Daniel Craig's grittier and less charismatic archetype of the historically and egregiously over-exaggerated spy is a welcome repast, and Mendes ingeniously lets audiences feast on more than merely car chases, shoot outs, and chiseled physiques. This bond is wounded, humbled and even doubts himself for a time. We learn that 007 is human after all, and as Q put it, "less of a random killing machine, more of a personal statement."

The Great Debate...and Death to Big Bird!

The presidential debate has come and gone, but the aftermath and attention continues to gain momentum. The general consensus is that Obama's challenger won the first round, a view widely accepted by both sides. Although I think that Romney presented himself confidently and well prepared, the things he said were not quite in alignment with what he's been preaching all along.

In lieu of suggesting that Obama won or lost, I'll say that what he didn't do was appear as confident or as prepared as his opponent. Perhaps he should have looked at cute puppy pictures for better concentration. Even more egregiously, what he failed to do was throw a couple of grenades back towards the wall of hypocrisy and ambiguity behind which Romney was apparently hiding...smug grin and all.

To be honest, Obama would have been criticized no matter how well he would have done, or whichever strategy he would have employed. If the concept of winners and losers can even be applied to a debate of this nature, then this was Romney's to lose all along. The president has been ahead in the polls, is generally well-liked, and as we all know, is a great orator. However, that guy never showed up.

Both campaigns have been fraught with less than scrupulous rules of engagement, but the President's biggest blunder, in my opinion, was that he didn't ensure that the American people saw the real Romney. You know, the guy that thinks 47% of Americans want and depend on government handouts. The ruthless business mogul who surreptitiously keeps off shore accounts to evade taxes. The rich man who refuses to disclose all of his income, who is a bastion for taxes that benefit the wealthy, and the man who is vehemently against education...after all, he said he would kill Big Bird. 

To be fair, I don't agree with everything the president has done, but I find it hard to be too critical considering what he inherited, and that things have been getting progressively better in regards to the economy and jobs. If the trend continues, the only bullet in Romney's rhetorical gun, will be the $95 million dollar green energy investment that he clung to the other night like a broken record player.

The president indeed looked a little tired the night of the debate, almost as if he was annoyed at having to be there even. I'm not exactly sure what people were expecting though: some magic trick, a slaying of a dragon perhaps? We got who we elected and what we were promised: a man willing to take the heat, stay the course on his beliefs and strategies, and a man who came from meager beginnings to achieve greatness; going to bat for those who are neglected, oppressed, or less fortunate.

Yes, I would have been happier with a better closing statement, more vociferous and animated responses, and truthfully, a more rigorous defense of our beloved Big Bird. I don't know about you, but if there is one more attack on Sesame Street, one more careless attack on one of the cornerstones of our educational upbringing, then there will be blood my friends....and I'll bring the Count to keep track of the bodies.

Study: Cute Pics Improve Work Skills

Study: Cute Pics Improve Work Skills

Seriously? People invested time and money on this ridiculous study, while people die of cancer and battle a litany of chronic ailments. Doesn't Japan have more pressing matters to attend to like whale poaching, tsunamis, and, oh I don't know, nuclear radiation leeching into their food and water sources?

Here's a brilliant idea, instead of wasting company resources by surfing the web and looking at pictures, how about getting back to work. How about that?

Alright, so maybe the kitten's cute, and maybe there's some microscopically inexplicable link to looking at cute pictures of babies or other portrayals of random cuteness, and temporarily improved dexterity on an operation game set. But I doubt we need actual surgeons ogling over puppies right before surgery in hopes of enhancing surgical performance. I'd rather they stick to reading my fucking medical chart and x-rays, but that's just me. I can be a little picky at times.

The study also concluded that cute features induced careful behavioral tendencies, "which is beneficial in specific situations, such as driving..." Driving? How the hell did they test that? It didn't seem to prevent the girl with the little Dachshund in her lap from texting and subsequently swerving into my lane (twice) during rush hour traffic this morning.

Then again, I did manage to write an entire blog post today. Shit, maybe it does work...

Writing Samurai

I'm on a mission to master the craft of writing. Of all the literature I've read that was designed to guide one on this path, there is a salient piece of advice that I've found as a common thread among them: to be a better writer, you have to write everyday. A nugget of wisdom of which I was suspiciously afraid.

To master a craft a person must spend 10,000 hours of his or her lifetime dedicated solely to practicing this one activity. Malcom Gladwell revisited this theory in his book "Outliers", outlining how professional athletes and people considered to be gurus have reached, or exceeded this magic number.

Unfortunately, I'm not always motivated to write, and even when I am, it isn't guaranteed that I'll be able to pin point a worthy topic of which I'm proud enough to share. At other times, my environment sabotages my intentions with barking dogs, email, and you tube videos. Handling distractions long enough to get into any type of rhythm is an art in and of itself.

I've read articles that share iPad apps in the form of productivity tools that assist in time management, provide various reminders, and others designed to help you focus on writing by preventing you from logging in to other programs. We've come a long way from post-it-notes and tying rubber bands around our fingers.

We're probably all too familiar with distractions these days. With the ubiquity of social media, and our growing fear of being left out of the know, we have conditioned ourselves to constantly peruse Facebook, perking up at notification sounds and text messages in Pavlovian fashion. And even with my Herculean strength, the gods and their mischievous ways often prevail. Social networking, news, and an instantaneously searchable universe of information...all at the tip of our fingers make it virtually impossible to concentrate.

Some articles suggest finding your most productive time to write, others proffer more technical tips, and yet others attempt to take you on some spiritual journey of discovery and introspection. While I find all of these methods to be insightful, and helpful in getting the most out of the time you do spend writing, I have yet to find the key to unlocking the doors that lead to the core of my imagination. The tranquil ocean of creativity that silently stirs, waves of inspiration slowly forming, eventually crashing upon the sandy shore. It is here that I want to walk barefoot, picking up exotic sea creatures and feeling the cool water blanket my feet.

So, yes - writing is about practice, productivity, and everything in between. My task is to not try to hit a home run every time I come up to bat, but just get a base hit. Forget about the perfection of the art, the rituals, the ceremonious sharpening of the blade or purging of evil. Sit down, take a deep breath, and let the words flow...like the exhaling of your breath, or the retreating tide upon that special beach.