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.

Bribery, Mass Shootings, and Chick-Fil-A...What Would Batman Do?

I often get wrapped up in not knowing what to write about. It's actually a rather fascinating phenomenon - not quite writer's block, but her lesser known half-sister, writer's fog. I'll read tons of articles of various themes in order to find inspirational fodder, but end up thinking that there's either an overexposure to these topics, or that they've spawned trivial conversations not worth responding to (e.g. Chick-Fil-A). It's kind of like watching a bar fight among all your friends and not knowing at whom to throw punches.

I generally don't like contributing to close-minded, limited perspectives on current events, or to heated debates on gun control, women's rights, or the apparent, secret government agenda to make people drink more milk (it's true). But at some point, we need to sift through all of the mess and tackle the issues we can actually control. And sorry to break this to you, but preventing angry, socially retarded sufferers of paranoia from masterminding murderous rampages can't be controlled.

People are going to snap whether we make movies about caped crusaders and serial killers or not; it's what happens when fragile minds in poor support systems are put in a vise. Does anyone ever wonder why mass shootings are mass shootings and not stories of white suburban kids with machetes hacking away at innocent bystanders in the food court at the mall? (A real video game I swear)

According to Dr. Stone, 96.5% of mass murderers are males with personality or behavioral disorders who harbor a severe grudge. Sound familiar? These guys are ticking time bombs, just waiting to get fired, bullied, or told that they can't have an egg mcmuffin after 10:30, before unleashing their rage upon the world.

Limiting how much ammunition one can purchase on the Internet or more stringent background checks for weapon purchases will not prevent mass murder, but they are still good ideas. Ultimately, what we should really be asking ourselves is why no one is ever jailed in corporate fraud cases. How is accepting a $15 million bribe to end a criminal investigation into bribery okay? What needs to be done to discourage and prevent war profiteering, unlimited political campaign contributions, money laundering, and risky bank investments? How many more financial melt downs and mortgage bubbles will be needed before we rise up in protest?

While people argue whether or not Chick-Fil-A should be allowed to inundate a city with their fast food and religious rhetoric, or if we should be allowed to own automatic weapons, I'm going to continue to wonder if either is relevant in the grander scheme of things. I mean really, if we can't stop men in suits from regularly committing every form of corporate crime and financial buffoonery known to man, what make us think we can combat hell-bent mass murderers?

So, forgive me for not chomping at the bit to share my opinion about a fast food chain's religious beliefs, I just happen to think that there are more pressing matters at hand. After all, if I'm going to come out of superhero retirement to kick some ass, somebody better be threatening to detonate a nuclear bomb and not threatening to boycott fried chicken.

London Olympics: Hearts of Gold

I've been watching the Olympics rather religiously. It was a tradition of sorts in my family, and it seems that the ritual has stuck. After all, who cannot appreciate the world's finest athletes competing, sacrificing, and fighting for gold. There is no lack of drama, back story, media hype, and suspense. Perfectly sculpted bodies, with laser-like focus, disciplined, and meticulously trained keep us on the edge of our seats as they run, flip, fly, dive, kick, paddle, reposte, fling, spike and shoot.

The margin for error at this level of competition can be a hair off center, a splash, an extra hop, a perry, a point, or hundredths of a second. The majesty and poetry of what their bodies are capable of doing is inspiring, jaw-dropping, and often downright unbelievable. With steeled nerves, icy veins, and expressions that indicate their minds are on parallel planes, they take their positions...gravity is defied, time slowed, and sometimes for only mere seconds, they captivate millions. On this stage, heroes are made, naysayers quieted, nations shocked, hopes shattered, careers forged, and dreams fulfilled.

The true magnitude of what these athletes can accomplish boggles my mind. Some show such resilience and perseverance, while others succumb to pressure and scrutiny. While we all love to see our respective countries victorious, I think we allow ourselves to be consumed by whether or not a medal is won. Such seductions are inevitable, easy even. However, my attention is often stolen by an athlete who is simply grateful and humbled by the opportunity to compete, tasked with carrying not only their own aspirations, but those of an entire country.

A couple of nights ago, I was watching men's gymnastics and saw an unlikely competitor, an underdog from Ireland that had overcome amazing adversity. The announcers mentioned the sacrifices this young man had made simply to make it to the games in London. They alluded to the support from his family, all the bake sales and car washes, scrounging together enough funds to compete in various events. But that isn't all. He overcame countless injuries, a botched leg surgery that left him with extensive nerve damage and doctors that told him he would never walk again. Later, he suffered a brain injury that threatened his gymnastic hopes again.This too he overcame. With such a display of tenacity, resolve, and sheer will, who could not wish him the best? Who among us could not root for him?

I don't want to take away from any other athlete's success, plight, or their similarly daunting obstacles. Please revel in the dominance of the USA's women's beach volleyball tandem of Misty May-Treanor and Kerry Walsh. Cheer for the Michael Phelps's, the Dana Vollmers, and the Ryan Lochtes. I certainly did, but don't forget that the hope of some countries rests upon the shoulders of young men with torn rotator cuffs, on surgically repaired legs, and damaged brains...upon the dreams of boys so brave that they defied doctors and science, simply refusing to give up.

In my mind these are the true champions. Not the privileged with unfettered access to facilities, unlimited resources, or those endowed with impressive frames or inherent physical prowess, but those who were laughed at, ridiculed, and told no. Kieran Behan did not win a medal in this Olympics, but he won something more grand than gold: not only was his dream of reaching the Olympic stage realized, but he walked away with our hearts and knowing that he has set an example for everyone who will ever face adversity, or have to hear the unsavory echo and seemingly insurmountable weight of the word no. It is this aspect of the human soul that makes me truly awestruck and fraught with compassion. Winning an Olympic medal is undoubtedly an impressive feat, but sometimes just getting there is in a class all its own.

Bloodshed at the 1984 Olympic Trials

Because my little sister and I were closest in age, we generally were forced to entertain each other against our will. From time to time, boredom would overcome our desires to push each other off of a cliff and we would be civil enough to play a game or two, but usually our loathing was too much to suppress and we'd end up fighting, me armed with superior intellect, and her with sharp teeth.

One day my best friend Robert and his little brother David came over to play. Our driveway was at an impressive incline, which made for perfect high-speed descents in my flashy new wagon. After a while, my little sister wanted in on the action. She was obviously unaware that girls are not allowed on all men, Olympic training bobsled teams and I was certainly not budging on a hundred year old policy. In an act of misplaced female activism and defiance, my little sister marched to the pole near the bottom of the driveway and in silent protest, blocked the wagon's path. 

I issued multiple warnings as Robert and I prepared for our next run, but little sis held fast in her sacrificial stance. I figured that once she saw the wagon speeding towards her, that she would naturally move out of the way, but I truly underestimated her resolve and passion for bobsledding. True to my word, Robert and I pushed off and quickly jumped in the wagon, hunching down to maximize acceleration. Fatefully, I was at the helm, steering the red bullet as it raced down the slope, all the while expecting the deviant holding on to the pole to bale on her useless tirade at any second. Before I knew it, the handle flew from my hand and the wagon, seemingly possessed, careened towards my sister as it picked up speed. 

I fumbled to regain control, but the handle fell forward and away from my grasp, and was now shooting straight out like a spear, and a split second prior to impact, I was made aware of its target...my sister's hand. This wagon was not made from plastic, but of rugged, unrelenting iron, and it pierced through her pudgy, 4 year old flesh and sinew like butter. Before we knew the reality of what had transpired, shrieks of murder ringed in our ears and the sight of a thumb hanging on for life by a sole strand of tissue, was indelibly seared into memory for eternity. Our mother, well versed in first aid, immediately came to the rescue. Unfazed by the sight of blood, or the dangling digit, scooped up the wounded bystander, wrapping her hand in ice and towels, and rushed to the hospital.  

My initial response was, "I told you so", but after the bloodshed and horror, I was truly remorseful and upset. The whole time she was gone, I hoped that her thumb could be reattached and that the Olympic trials would eventually resume without any more hiccups. I now know the answer to the question posed by many physics teachers, "What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object?" In the end, the little brat returned bandaged and well, and so began a deep seeded hatred that gave birth to years of my little sister's vengeful wrath, and eventually another story of when she had to be rushed to the hospital after another one of my brilliant ideas.