What I talk about when I talk about love, and facial hair

               In case you were wondering, I’m still at that McDonalds on Prospect.  And in case you were wondering, I may or may not have a crush on the manager with the long, dark, wavy hair.  She’s a manager, so she gets to wear a fancy white dress shirt rather than the boring blue Polos given to the non-managerial staff.  She has a head of black hair that’s definitely been treated with one of those curling iron things, which incidentally are ridiculous.  You take a giant waffle iron and burn your hair so it stays straight.  Actually, that’s a straightener.  I have no clue what a curling iron is, but I’m sure it works on a similar principle and I’m sure it’s equally ridiculous. 

               I’m not complaining, though, given that this mysterious “curling iron” makes your hair look like the cresting and breaking of waves on a balmy Atlantic shore rather than the boring old uniformity of a stagnant pond.  The pond in this analogy is straight hair.  Anyway, this mysterious McDonalds manager’s hair is definitely of the surfable variety.  She looks like Catherine Zeta Jones from The Mask of Zorro except wielding a deep fryer instead of a rapier.  But alas, we can never be.  Star-crossed lovers doomed not to tragic, Shakespearean, mutually assured destruction but to not go out.  And it’s all because of my facial hair.    

               There aren’t too many things I’m bitter about.  I would say in general I’m not resentful.  Most of the time I don’t hold grudges for long.  Normally I’m a perfect picture of half-asian demurity.  Polite and mild mannered to a fault, respectful of authority, and deferent to age.  But I’m bitter about my facial hair.    

               I think being half-white, half Chinese, and fully racially ambiguous made me especially conscious of ways my appearance and behavior diverged from the cultural norm.  I remember in third grade I realized that kids were wearing long, knee-length shorts while I wore faded jean shorts that only went halfway down my thigh.  I immediately realized my wardrobe had to change to fit in, so change it did.  My M.O.—don’t stand out, keep your head down, blend in, do whatever it takes to ingratiate yourself to the native inhabitants. 

               So when I got to high school, I noticed a strange thing: my male contemporaries started growing weird, moss-like clumps on their chins and cheeks.  Wanting to fit in, I checked my reflection each morning for the strange moss to show up on my face.  Days turned into weeks, weeks to months, months to years, years to decades, and I still can grow nothing remotely resembling cool facial hair. 

               I’m half white with at least some polish on my dad’s side.  Polacks are hairy.  I imagine they have to be to survive the frigid arctic climate of Poland.  So I should be hairy.  On the other hand, Chinese people are generally not hairy.  For the most part they don’t grow hair on their chest, arms, legs, or face.  So I shouldn’t grow hair on my chest, arms, legs, or face.  As it is, I’m stuck somewhere in the middle.  About half the usual quadrants for hair growth on my face are devoid of vegetation.  The other quadrants grow a sickly, half-hearted crop.  It’s like my face started to produce a beard but, upon realizing hair growth in such a barren soil was hard work, threw in the towel.  So I’m left with a little bit of scruff here and there.  A weedy patch of hair on my chin.  A couple lonely tufts poking out around the temples.           

     

               In high school I thought the ideal American man was a mix between Indiana Jones and Sean Connery.  And 93% of their status as the ideal man hinged on their facial hair which magically grew, without grooming, into a stylishly trimmed Ryan Gosling half-beard or a Hugh Jackman five o’clock scruff.  Of course you won’t find many Asians who can grow such magnificent facial hair, and so I worry that no one will ever think of a half-Asian as an ideal man.  You know that whole Yellow Fever phenomenon that was popular on the internet a while back?  It’s not just that white guys go for Asian-American girls, it’s that Asian-American girls go for cool facial hair.   

               In my estimation, approximately 93% of male attractiveness is dependent on facial hair growing ability.  Inversely, why is Shia Laboef always cast in roles like his one as the effeminate sidekick to Indiana Jones in the series’ superlative fourth installment, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull?  Why will Shia Laboef be cute but not hot?  Good looking but not a man? It’s his lack of facial hair. 

               I understand that facial hair isn’t a deal breaker.  I remember this one time there was this girl I had a crush on who told me that “I like guys with a bit of scruff,” and that “if a guy can’t adequately grow facial hair it’s a deal breaker.”  In that case it was a deal breaker. 

               Joan Brumberg, in her book The Body Project, wrote about a series of skin bleaching products targeted towards African-American women.  Brumberg said of one product, Nadinola, that “[Nadinola] claimed not only to light and brighten skin that was ‘dark and unlovely’ but also to loosen, remove, and clear up blackheads and pimples” (Brumberg, 78).  The wide assortment of those skin bleaching products testified to their high demand in the African-American community.  African-American women wanted, using the callous language of these products, to “cure” themselves of their black skin.  They wanted to fit into a racist cultural ideal that associated lightness with beauty. 

     

               Just as African-American women were culturally precluded from being “beautiful” as a result of their skin color, sometimes I think that I can’t be man-beautiful unless I grow a beard.  Us poor Asians and half-asians can never be those archetypal alpha males like Sean Connery or Chuck Norris.  Neither can we become folk singers.  All because of our half-hearted facial hair.  So here we are, Asian-American males, doomed to haunt the hallway between childhood and man-dom, to wait in the antechamber of not-quite-manliness, to reside in the dreaded foyer of erratic or non-existent facial hair,  never quite reaching the goal, never quite getting the ideal scruff.

              

               I was informed by my wise farmer friend during a stint in Bible School in 2008 that the first generation of crossbred, hybrid cows are genetically superior to their normal counterparts.  In cow terms, as my farmer friend explained, that means they have a high meat-to-carcass yield, an above average feed-conversion efficiency, and an increased ability to produce lean, tender meat. 

               When I went to Wikipedia to confirm this startling explanation for my heretofore inexplicable mix of intelligence, good looks, and natural basketball talent, I ran across this page:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heterosis

               According to Wikipedia, hybrids like me are genetically superior due to our suppression of deleterious recessive alleles from one parent by the dominant alleles of the other.  I haven’t tested my meat-to-carcass yield or feed conversion efficiency, but this theory of Heterosis explains a lot.  I’m pretty sure there's a pick-up line in there somewhere if I ever wanted to woo McDonalds manager Catherine Zeta-Jones.  My half of the conversation would probably go something like this:

“You want to go out?  I’m sure we will produce genetically superior Chinese-White-Hispanic babies due to the suppression of deleterious recessive alleles by our advantageous dominant traits.  You know, it’s like breeding cows with a high meat-to-carcass yield.  But you probably know about that cuz you work at McDonalds.” 

I would go on to qualify my pickup line.            

“No, I’m not calling you a cow.”

Finally, sensing impending doom, I would shout the first thing that came to mind in a frantic effort to salvage my courtship attempt.

“You have surfable hair.”

               As I was leaving, I saw Catherine Zeta Jones sitting at a table near the exit.  She had traded her regal managerial white for regular street clothes.  In the seat across from her was a male friend who looked suspiciously like her significant other.  I kid you not, he had cool facial hair.  I guess we were never meant to be, wavy hair lady, as, despite my superior, hybrid genes, despite all those suppressed deleterious recessive alleles, I still can’t grow a beard.        

2 Fedoras and a large Salad

2 Fedoras and a Large Salad

               My favorite thing about blogging is you can steal with impunity.  You can post sayings, aphorisms, and insights made by really smart dead people on your blog and they can’t sue you for copyright infringement, even if you don’t cite them correctly.  Or don’t cite them at all. 

               So I went to the Mcdonalds on Prospect and Lawrence to scavenge, vulture like, Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird for quotable blog material.  If you’ve ever been to this particularly wonderful McDonalds, you’ll know that it’s probably the fanciest fast food restaurant in existence.  The lobby looks like a recording studio.  There are all these oddly shaped pieces of wood dangling from the ceiling.  In a studio I’m sure these same hanging ornaments would serve some sound absorbent, acoustical purpose, but in McDonalds they just look pretty.  They bought all the furniture at Ikea.  It’s real fancy. 

               Complementing the weird wood ornamentals are the wholesome looking pictures of bisected grapes or stacks of apples with the words *Fresh Fresh Fresh* or *Enjoy Enjoy Enjoy* presented to you in bold font.  These signs, of course, are selling an image to the patrons of the establishment who haven’t seen Super Size Me—McDonalds is a wholesome business that cares deeply about both the physical health (the grapes are fresh) and the spiritual heath (they want you to enjoy the apples) of their patrons. 

               I ordered two squashed cheeseburgers and a sweet tea.  It cost $3.25.  Then I got food poisoning for free. 

               When you go to McDonalds you usually know exactly what you’re getting.  It’s really cheap, high caloric food that is some combination of friend, fatty, sweet, salty, and dead cow.  So I was pleasantly surprised when I went to this Hilton of the Golden Arches.  It had cheap dead cow, fancy décor, a pleasant, and a stimulating cosmopolitan ambience with a balanced fungal schway.         

               This particular McDonalds has a thing for lamps.  If you weren’t paying much attention you might mistake this McDonalds for a lamp wholesale store.  Or Ikea.  There are spotlights nestled into crevices in the ceiling.  Lamps hanging from the ceiling on wires like phosphorescent orchid bulbs.  There an Chinese hanging lanterns.  There are chandeliers.  There are American hanging lanterns.  There are even cylindrical lamps hanging from the wooden sound absorbent ornaments!   It’s pretty weird.  As I was observing those very cylindrical lamps, fedora #1 walked into the room.    

Fedora #1

               Two high school kids sat down at an open table with stools to my left.  One had a guitar.  The other had a fedora.  The guitar kid played a little 6/8 oom pa pa riff on the guitar, then gave it to the fedora kid, who tried his darndest to pay a G chord.  It didn’t really work.  His friend gave him a few pointers on the G.  Fedora kid tried again.  It still didn’t work, so he handed the guitar back to his friend.  Guitar kid had apparently forgotten his fedora at home, for which he was quite upset.  They started singing Carly Rae Jensen’s incredibly catchy Call Me Maybe.  At this point reading was out the window, so I very discreetly directed my ears and eyes in their direction.  They were joined by a posse of High School kids, all presumably from the nearby Prospect High.  This girl who looked exactly like that Hmong girl from Gran Torino grabbed the guitar from fedora-less Freddy (that’s what I imagine his name to be) and played a single note riff in the upper register of the guitar.  Then they left.  Fedora-less Freddy played Eric Hutchinson’s Rock and Roll from the second movie with those sisters whose pants traveled.  Not that I’ve seen it.

Fedora #2

               Fedora #2 was one of three nerdy looking kids bearing laptops and an “Apples to Apples” box.  I was pretty sure the aforementioned box was really a clandestine Magic card carrying case.  But these kids were also being loud and rambunctious high schoolers of a less cool variety than fedora-less Freddy and fedora #1.  Putting down my book in disgust, I very discreetly started eavesdropping.  Because that’s what writers do. 

               You’ve probably seen these kids before.  One of them is short, pudgy, and sallow with a squashed, square face.  One is medium sized, pudgy, and deathly pale.  The final one isn’t discolored in any way but is ridiculously tall.  The tall one has a ponytail.  And a soul patch-goatee combo. 

               It turns out they were planning for the school newspaper.  Later some less nerdy looking kids came through and joined goatee Greg and his friends at the table.  They used fancy words like “inadvertent” and talked about the 2^nd Amendment.  They tricked me!  They were actually nerds all along! 

The Two Reasons People Wear Fedoras

               There are two reasons people wear fedoras.  One is being stranded on a sweltering, treeless desert island with no other shade providing recourse save the fedora to prevent heat stroke.  Of course fedoras don’t exactly provide much shade so you’ll probably die of exposure or starvation anyway.  The second reason is so other people see you wearing a fedora.  The third reason is to die in style on a sweltering, treeless desert island, though it’s unlikely anyone will see your fancy hat wear.    

               People want to be cool.  Even if they’re dying.  So high school kids and Jason Mraz will go on to wear fedoras even though they aren’t Indiana Jones, actors in film noir movies from the 50’s, or bootleggers peddling moonshine during Prohibition. 

The Large Salad

               I was making a left turn out of McDonalds when a car was pulling in.  Inside the car was this Asian lady holding a giant plate groaning under the burden of an equally if not more giant salad in her right hand while forking the greens into her mouth with her left hand.  In the backseat, her cute little daughter stared forward, oblivious to the spectacular salad-driving, juggling unicycling balancing act taking place mere inches away.  The plaza with McDonalds has a number of things.  There's a spa, a piano school, a pizza place, and a Togos so I imagine the girl was being taken to one of these places.  Or maybe they was just going to McDonalds. 

              I am in no way judging salad lady.  I admire her fervor and aplomb.  I envy the energy with which she devoured her tasty greenery.  But let’s look at the mechanics of driving.  To steer your motorized vehicle there is a circular spinning contraption known as a steering wheel placed around chest level, easily accessible by either arm, to maneuver the car.  This steering wheel is normally directed by one or two hands that spin the circle in the direction you wish your vehicle to proceed.  If you’re holding a giant salad in your right hand and a regular sized fork in your left, it doesn’t seem possible to optimally utilize this car-directing-device.  How can you spin the circle in the direction you wish your vehicle to proceed if both of your hands are busy eating a salad?  Tell me that Giant Salad Lady.  But someway, somehow, she was able to make that right turn, handless, from Prospect into the McDonalds plaza. 

               I’m sure she would have acted differently if she knew I was looking.  She would have been embarrassed at her questionable driving technique just like I would have been embarrassed if she caught me staring.  I’m pretty sure the fedora kids caught me a couple of times when I was trying to figure out what their deal was.  And I don’t blame them.    

Why I don't wear Fedoras

               I’ve a very self conscious human.  I haven’t yet been successful in writing or music, but I want to be.  I say, very hesitantly, that I want to be a writer and a musician.  I say so hesitantly because if I heard someone say that, I would want proof.  Something to show my credibility, that I’m not pretentious and naïve.  A published article, a degree from a conservatory, an album.  The thing, though, is I have none of those things.  I have no proof.              

               When I lose faith, when I recoil at my presumption and throw up my hands in disgust at that malformed lump of a thing i call a song, when I seriously consider dropping the whole artistic thing and becoming a lawyer, I’m encouraged by a quote by Oscar Hammerstein II.  He says, “Everyone is kicked around during his apprentice years and in fear and ignorance he makes silly blunders and does silly things of which he is ashamed later.  If every successful man were to confess these past errors he could do a great service to those young people who are trying to follow in his footsteps.”  Mistakes are par for the course.  Sloppiness, mediocrity, and spectacular failure are necessary stepping stones to achieving success.    

               In the end, though, success isn’t the final goal.  Of course I want to get good at songwriting.  Of course I want an album, a book, some sort of concrete proof that can justify my existence, validate my personhood to other people.  I want people to read what I write, hear what I play.  But even if that doesn’t come, I enjoy these things and will continue to do so.  And that’s enough. 

               I find myself going to McDonalds again and again, time after time drawn to the siren song of those tasty departed cows.  People watching is fun and McDonalds is a great place to do it.  And you get free refills of sweet tea and diet coke.  

The Dartboard

The Dart Board

               I realized that writing a blog is a lot like throwing darts at a dartboard whilst inebriated.  The more darts you throw the more likely you’ll hit something, that is, write something good.  I’ve decided to throw more regularly.  Not all of my throws will be on target.  Most of the time I won’t even hit the board.  I hope eventually I’ll be able to effortlessly and efficiently land darts quivering in the red center of the target, but until then, until I learn to throw, all you’re gonna get are drunken, ill-aimed, blog posts.  I’m never going to learn to throw if I continue to fear missing.  So here’s the first dart. 

Afraid to miss

               A good friend of mine who is one of the best writers I know always felt like he was going to get found out to be a fraud.  He would go to every college class afraid someone would blow the whistle on him and yell, “Stop!  Stop!  You don’t belong here, you’re a fake!”  His fear to not be “found out” pushed him to be extremely successful in academics.  And I think he proved adequately that he belonged.  Summa Cum Laude, Phi-Beta-Kappa or whatever.  But he still probably resents the teachers that gave him those A minuses.       

               I guess I should explain.  I’ve always loved writing but I’ve never been consistent about writing or blogging.  I even was a Creative Writing Major in College.  Why?  Because I’ve always been afraid I would write something less than spectacular.  I guess I’m worried I’ll be declared a fraud.  But, c’mon, I got an “A” in Advanced Fiction Writing.  I’m no mere Advanced Fiction Writer—I’m an Exceptionally Advanced Fiction Writer, a Fiction Writer deserving of an “A”.  I have a plaque somewhere to prove it.              

  

               But that’s a lot of pressure to live up to.  What If I spell something wrong or mistake “their” for “there” or “your” for “you’re”?  What if I incorrectly conjugate a verb or, heaven forbid, have a run-on sentence?  It’s much easier not to write because then you can’t mess up.  An Advanced Fiction Writer that never writes can never have their title revoked, you know, labeled a Less-Than-Advanced Fiction Writer.  When they put you before the judge of advanced fiction writing you just demand they produce the evidence for their libelous accusation.  Hah!  You can’t!  Because I’ve never written anything!

               Every time I think about writing, before the pen hits paper, I expect the whistle to sound.  A few sentences go by; the anxiety is no better. I wait for that whistle to shrill.  Peering over my shoulder, peeking anxiously around the corner, a child tip-toeing down the hallway knowing the slightest sound will rouse his father from hibernation with a switch in hand.  Stop!  Stop!  You don’t belong here.  What makes you think YOU of all people can write?  It’s kind of paranoid.  So when I take that first look at the words I’ve written, a few things come to mind:

1-     This is stupid

2-     You’re stupid

3-     What’s the point of even trying, you’re just going to mess up

               It’s a credit to my giant, city squashing ego that I think every word that I speak and each sentence I type will be perfect on the first go.  It’s a kind of megalomaniacal idealism that makes me so afraid of writing anything.  I’m scared to mess up, I’m scared that I’ll fail, that I’ll miss.  But missing and messing up be damned!  How am I ever going to get good at anything if I too afraid to try?  How can you ever write if you’re afraid of looking carefully at that first draft, with all its incomplete sentences and stilted prose, with the conspicuous footprints of verbiage and overcooked metaphor, and saying, “This must go?”  With those words, self-delusion has to go.  When that sentence isn’t unadulterated brilliance, when it’s something more along the lines of pure crap, I’m forced to say, no Daniel, you can’t just breeze along and expect people to dote over your every sentence.         

Advanced Fiction Writing 101

               I took advanced English with Mr. Raines my sophomore year of high school.  I got a B+.  I wanted to go to Honors English but he advised me not to.  I got the counseling talk in his office. 

               “If you talked more, Daniel,” He explained, peering at me over his glasses, “or wrote better, I would recommend you for Honors English.  Let me explain.  Some of your classmates are energetic participants that liven and invigorate class discussion.”  He paused, making it clear that I didn’t fit into this category.    “Others may not talk much but are excellent essayists who have mastered the thesis statement and the five paragraph form.”  Another purposeful silence. 

               I considered the papers I had written for Mr. Raines and concluded that excellent essayists probably should be able to explain what a thesis was.  I couldn’t.  It was probably a bad sign that all of my five paragraph essays were four paragraphs long and that I made pie charts when our assignment was to compare and contrast literary texts.  But no!  I was creative!  I couldn’t be boxed in by any of those stupid restrictive essay guidelines.  My innovated essays redefined the five paragraph form.  My theses transcended what we were taught theses were.  My pie charts blew those stupid compare and contrast essays out of the water!   

               “So I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go into Honors English,” he concluded, smiling at me apologetically.  I was crushed.  My fragile adolescent ego was shattered.  I learned that I was neither a prodigious talker nor a masterful essayist.  Was it coincidence that from that moment on my grades plummeted?  Was it coincidental that from that moment on I started my long-lasting and ill-advised love affair with the fast food chain, Taco Bell?  I think not!  And I think that from that point on I’ve always been deathly afraid of being told I was a bad writer.  In fact, I’m deathly afraid of being bad at anything. 

              

Growing Pains

               If I made a list of the things I regret the most, I would probably put not crying in front of Mr. Raines in that office near the top.  You know, guilt him into placing me in Honors English.  A few choice words.  I’ll try my best Mr. Raines.  I’ll become both a lively participant in class discussion and a masterful essayist.  I’ll even stop turning in the pie charts.  But I guess it worked out ok in the end.  After all, I am an Exceptionally Advanced Fiction Writer.  Suck it Mr. Raines!

               The other thing I regret is not trying out for basketball my freshman year of High School.  For you, oh reader, to understand the gravity of that decision with all of its far reaching and tragic consequences, I have go back a long way, back to when I first picked up that orange spherical object with those weird rubber lines all over it.  You know, a basketball.  Back to the third grade. 

               Actually I don’t remember when I first started playing basketball, but I kicked butt at it.  In third grade I absolutely destroyed this Christian Basketball League I was in.  All I did was dribble past people and make layups but I was really good at doing just that.  I had a tight handle with both hands, could do a crossover in either direction, and ran pretty fast.  I dribbled everywhere.  Inside the house, outside the house, on the carpet, off the carpet, in bed, out of bed.  I slept with my basketball, ate with my basketball, read stories to my basketball, made sure to regularly water my basketball so it could grow to be big and strong.  Anyway, I was probably one of the best third grade basketball players in the world.  Standing a whopping 4’6, an excellent size for a top-flight point guard recruit, my career could only go in one direction.  Up. 

   

               And it did.  My career went up.  Unfortunately my height never quite seemed to catch up with my lofty basketball playing ambitions.  So there I was, at St. Francis High School, standing 5’1 ½ as a freshman, quivering dart-like in my polo shirt and khaki shorts, too afraid to try out for the basketball team.  I was practically a midget.  I don’t think I had hit puberty at that point.  How could I possibly compete with all those tall, post-pubescent boys?  So I didn’t try out. 

               Later that year, I went on to play pickup basketball with players on the Freshman team.  Much to my chagrin, I realized that I could still dribble past people and make layups.  I could still find the open man.  My deft court sense and tight crossover dribble still served me well.  I think I could have made the team, even standing a meager 5’2.  From there on, who knows?  J.V.  Varsity.  College.  Professional.  I mean if Muggsy Bogues, standing at 5 ft 3 in could play in the NBA for 14 years, who is to say that I couldn’t.  I got like 6.5 inches on him.  But of course, after I didn’t try out, all those other kids who were on the team were forced to play hours an end.  They honed their fundamentals on the court, improved their conditioning, and got in-game experience.  But I was too scared to try, so my skills, rather than improving, stagnated. 

               So here I am, a tragic goldmine of untapped, un-mined basketball potential.  A symphony never finished.  An ice cream sundae never to be eaten.  Nope, no delusions going on here.     

The Here and Now

               That all is sad, Daniel, but get to the point.  Ok, I’ll get to the point, now that I’ve lost most of my readership to arduous anecdotes, bombastic hyperbole, and cumbersome analogies.  The point is that I don’t want to live paralyzed by fear.  Other basketball players may be taller than me.  Other bloggers might be more accurate with their dart throwing.  They might even be better writers than me.  But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t write.  I’m here, I got what I got, and I want to make the best out of it.  And the only way I can tap that potential, be it in basketball, writing, singing, or playing guitar, is to vigorously defend my time doing those activities.  I want to do the things I love heedless of their tangible results.  Because again, drunken dart throwing.  Pay too much attention to the darts peppering the floor, sticking everywhere on the wall except for the dart board, and I won’t want to keep throwing.  But throw I must and fail I must.  There’s no other way to get better.  

                For the last couple of weeks I’ve written 1,000 words a day, 6 days a week, and I hope to write steadily at that rate.  I also know that the only way I’ll force myself to cut those dumb metaphors (Dart throwing?  Really Daniel?), derail, err, decommission, those train-wreck sentences, is to write to an audience.  Hopefully I’ll be posting a couple of times a week on things I want to talk about.  The ole East Palo Alto fellowship, basketball, music, books, the Bible, God, whatever else strikes my fancy.      

Story in process

Decided I would post a story i'm in the process of writing for my fiction writing class. Tell me what you think.

Kids

After going on his first rollercoaster, Aaron throws up. Soggy yellow bits of his Egg McMuffin spill over the sidewalk. After dry heaving, he looks down at his vomit and starts grinning. Then he’s back to zooming around his mom and shooting his imaginary Tommy-gun at costumed park employees.

Heat rises in waves from the concrete. Children play in a tent next to the rollercoaster entrance, running through clouds of cooling mist that drift from black sprayers lining the roof. A vendor in a maroon button-up stands, arms crossed, next to a large bundle of balloons, each tethered down by small, animal shaped bits of plastic. The balloons shake and quiver in the breeze, bouncing and sliding against each other beneath the cloudless blue sky.

Inside the tent, Aaron collides with a tiny blond girl. She sits down hard on the ground and starts crying. Her mother and father rush under the sprinklers to console their child. Aaron rubs his injured head, wincing. The girl’s dad softly pats her braided head as the mother wipes the tears and the mist from her face. Emily walks briskly to her son. She kneels down and places a hand on his shoulder.

“What’ve I told you about looking where you’re going. Say you’re sorry,” she says, smiling apologetically at the parents of the blond girl.

“I’m sorry,” Aaron says, shifting back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back. The dad picks her up, large hands alternately patting and rubbing her back. They walk out of the tent, shooting venomous glances at Emily and her son.

Emily and Aaron sit down on a green metal bench. Emily listens to the ebb and flow of laughter and screams as the rollercoaster snakes across the tracks. Aaron runs his fingers through the diamond patterned holes in the bench. He pounds his feet rhythmically to buoyant carnival music playing through pole-mounted loudspeakers that line the street. Bored, he starts picking at white and black splotches of bird poop crusting the bench. After a while Emily notices and tells him to stop.

“Where did you go?” the mom asks when the Tim comes back with Stephen.

“Someone had to change the baby.”

“You could have told me.”

“You weren’t back yet,” he says,

“What do you think phones are for.”

“Sorry.” Giving the baby to his wife, he returns the baby powder to the backpack. He places it in the large pocket with the diapers, baby food, pacifier, bottle, stuffed animal, granola bars, fruit roll-ups, bottles of water, books for the mom, other books for him, jackets, sunglasses, and hats.

“Stephen, I threw up,” Aaron says. “It was really gross. You could see the egg.” He pokes his baby brother who cries. “Stephen, did you see that guy in the bear suit?”

“Stop poking your brother.”

Tim tries to win Emily the giant stuffed elephant at the ring toss but all the rings fall between the tightly crowded glass bottles. One time he won a giant stuffed Koala for Emily. She walked around with it the rest of the day, slight body dwarfed by the large toy, thin arms wrapped about the animal’s soft white and grey stomach. They walk away from the game stands back towards the rollercoasters.

“They have storage lockers, a dollar an hour. We could just put the kids in there and have some time alone in a bathroom if you know what I mean.”

“You shouldn’t joke about that,” she says, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

“I like you. I think we should go out.”

“I don’t know. I just got out of a serious relationship, I’m not ready.”

“It’s just dinner and some drinks. You can leave at any time,” Tim says, ruffling his unruly brown hair and rubbing the patchy facial hair on his cheeks.

“I just don’t know. I’m not over him yet,” Emily says, gesturing to the small child sucking from her breast. “He’s really cute.”

“That’s what you’ve said the last four times I asked. I’m kind of worried,” Tim says, lips pressed together, tapping his foot rapidly against the white tiled floor. The two parents stand around the counter of their small kitchen. Tim watches the spaghetti while stirring a large pot of peppery tomato sauce. Aaron stirs on the living room couch in the next room, turning over and stretching. After a long, leonine yawn, he rolls off his makeshift bed onto the carpeted floor. Rubbing rheum from his eyes, he stumbles over to the kitchen.

“How long is it gonna be?” Aaron asks, pulling at his mom’s long, ruffled white skirt.

“Stop that Aaron, I’m feeding your brother,” she says, brushing him off. She runs a hand down her wavy brown hair.

“Just a couple more minutes, buddy,” Tim says, digging at the pasta with a pair of chopsticks.

The cafeteria is filled with rows of wooden tables and benches split into two sides by an aisle down the middle. At the back there is a long counter for food pickup. The family walks down the aisle, stopping at a table near the front. Tim, who is now wearing the baby carrier, gets in line, picking up a tray and utensils for his family. Aaron drops into the seat across his mom. Emily sets down the backpack in the aisle on her left. She looks for a while at Aaron squirming in his seat.

“Mom, you’re staring,” Aaron says.

“What? I’m fine.” She keeps staring at Aaron. He doesn’t notice. The blond girl from the mist tent is sitting a couple of tables away with her parents, howling, teary eyed, at her father for forgetting the waffle fries.

Tim returns, a red plastic tray covered with food balanced on one hand, nose upturned like a fancy waiter. A greasy turkey leg and fries for Aaron. A burger and fries for himself. A salad, dressing on the side, for the mom. A large pile of condiments for them all. He stumbles on the backpack and the salad bowl spills on the floor. The cup of dressing hits the bench, splattering drops of orange-red on the mom’s skirt. She yells and stands up, red faced.

He places the remaining food on the table. He kneels next to her and starts wiping at her skirt with a napkin. Stephen cries from the baby carrier on the dad’s back.

“It’s fine. I’ll get it,” she says, pushing him away and dabbing at the spots herself.

“I think Stephen needs to be changed,” he says. He hands her the baby carrier and starts sweeping together the bits of salad with a brown paper napkin. The mom takes the baby, gets a diaper from the backpack, and walks down the aisle to the restrooms.

Aaron helps the mom set the table. They kneel by the small black coffee table in the living room, setting down plates, paper napkins, and utensils. Stephen pounds his little fists excitedly against his plastic baby seat, laughing. Drool slowly trickles from his mouth onto his onesie.

“Your parents called,” Tim says, ladling tomato sauce onto Aaron’s plate as Emily spoons baby food into Stephen’s mouth.

“Don’t tell me you got in a fight again,” she says. Tim doesn’t answer. “I can’t believe you.”

“Your parents didn’t even come to our wedding.”

“What do you think we’ll do if they stop buying Aaron’s medicine?” she asks, pressing a spoonful of green goo against Stephen’s tightly closed mouth.

“Oh so it’s about my job again. I’ll have you know that box moving is a delicate art passed down from generation to generation in my family. My great grandfather used to—”

“You don’t have to be cute.”

Aaron, having spilled half his tomato sauce over the front of his Batman shirt, grunts. His little fingers are wrapped under the living room couch, face turning red as he tries to lift the heavy piece of furniture.

“Mom look, I’m going to lift boxes too.” Emily continues staring at Tim with her pale blue eyes, mechanically feeding the wailing baby.

Tim gets sick after going on The Screamer. They sit on a bench under a tree outside the rollercoaster entrance. Tim, bent in half, presses his skinny white arms to his stomach as Emily feeds Stephen formula from the rubber teat of the bottle. Aaron sits between the parents, leaning on his father’s shoulder.

“Let’s go dad,” Stephen says, tugging on his dad’s baggy jeans.

“I’m not feeling well Aaron,” he says. “Can you go?” he says to Emily.

“You know I hate rollercoasters.”

“You know I hate stomach cramps, dry heaving, and diarrhea.”

“C’mon Aaron,” she says, handing the baby to Tim, taking Aaron by the hand, removing his medicine from the backpack, and walking across the street to the ride entrance, silent.

He sits on another green metal bench with the baby under a tree. His face is pale and covered in sweat. When the baby starts crying Tim gets the pacifier. The baby doesn’t want it. He offers the formula bottle but the baby keeps crying. Adults by the tent turn to look. They take in his baggy jeans, his t-shirt, and his patchy brown facial hair, and his crying child. Checking the diaper, he grabs the carrier and the backpack. He heads to the men’s room, pushing through the crowds that press against him. When he gets back, Aaron is excitedly clutching a picture from the ride. Emily got some Pepto-Bismol from a store. Tim drinks half the bottle in one gulp.

“If you feel that way maybe we shouldn’t go,” Tim says quietly, carrying Aaron into the room he shares with Stephen. “We could use the money for something else.”

“You know how excited Aaron is.” After putting the kids to sleep, they sit at the coffee table quietly playing cards and watch muted cartoons on their small television. Alarm set, they brush their teeth and fall into the light sleep of newborn children and their tired parents.

The sun sets. White lights twirl and flash from the carousel. They blink red and green and blue from the rollercoasters and the Ferris wheel. The stalls light up too, flashing neon hotdogs, paper coke cups, and fries. There is a firework show so they sit down a roped off grassy area with other families. Some kids, barely even teenagers, are kissing. Aaron is dozing off next to Tim. Stephen rests on his mom’s lap, staring up at her face with his big brown eyes. Tim stares over at the young couple. So does Emily. The fireworks glide down like paper streamers, burst like confetti. Flakes of ash fall down from the sky. Smoke thickens the cold night air. The couple is still kissing. Stephen starts crying. The fireworks rumble and pop.

“I’m going to go change him,” Emily shouts over the noise.

“I’ll go with you.” Shaking Aaron awake, Tim picks up the backpack. Emily drapes Stephen, who is still crying, over his shoulder. They weave their way through the groups of families who stare at the young couple with their loudly wailing baby. They slip under the rope partition, and walk towards the ladies room.

“Dad,” Aaron says, pointing towards the store shaped like a giant cowboy hat across the street from the bathroom. The air smells of smoke. Ash floats slowly down.

“We’ll be in that shop.”

“Ok.” The mom takes a diaper from the backpack and goes into the bathroom with Stephen.

Tim and Aaron walk through the store’s swinging bar room door. Hats—striped purple chimney hats, simple brown leather hats, baseball caps, cartoon hats, wedding veils, hats with flowery patterning, wide brimmed straw hats, cheap imitation top hats, cheap imitation bowler hats—cover the walls of the store, hanging in long rows. It’s cold in the store. Aaron grabs a tall crowned brown fedora from the wall and smashes it on his head. It’s too big and tips down over his face. The shop owner, a bright eyed man with wrinkled skin, takes the hat from Aaron and returns it to the hanger on the wall. He slowly totters to the kid’s section and returns with a smaller fedora. Aaron’s eyes grow wide. He snatches the hat from the chuckling adult. Situating it on his wavy brown hair, he sticks out his jaw, tilts down his head, and limps around. He scowls dangerously at his dad then at the old shop keeper. Aaron’s breath is ragged in the heavy ashen air.

He starts coughing and then he is on the ground making dry hacking sounds and his breath is short and he keeps wheezing with his round stomach and tiny chest jerking up and down violently and the dad rifles through the backpack looking for the inhaler. He checks the front pocket, tossing out the granola bars and pacifier and the fruit roll-ups and the mom’s books. It isn’t there. He empties the backpack all over the floor next to his son. The stuffed animal, the water bottles, the hats. No inhaler. Aaron is making choking, gasping sounds, holding his throat. He grabs Aaron’s T-shirt and shakes him. Where is it. Where. He shouts at Aaron. Aaron jerks his head towards the ladies room across the street. The old man is calling someone on the telephone, beads of sweat dripping from his nose into the receiver.

The dad runs through the bathroom door, colliding with a woman standing at a hands-free air dryer. The mom is washing her hands, Stephen wearing a fresh diaper on the changing table across from the sink. She turns toward the dad, eyes wide.

“The inhaler,” He says, gasping. She pulls it out of her skirt pocket and fumbles, dropping it on the ground. He grabs it and runs out the bathroom. She grabs Stephen off the changing table, clutches the baby carrier in her other hand, and follows after the dad, hands and arms still dripping water.

Aaron is sitting up. His inhaler puffs controlled bursts of medicine into his system. His throat opens and his lungs expand. The mom is crying. The dad holds his Aaron tightly, then gets up and moves to his wife. He touches her on the shoulder. She stiffens. Her blue eyes are wide and scared. She is short and slender even after bearing two children. A steel drum band is playing over the speakers. Her husband squeezes her shoulder with one of his hands and she relaxes, releasing a long, even stream of air from her mouth. She glances at the shopkeeper, whose sweat runs down into the crevices of his wrinkled skin. Emily presses her fingers deep into his back, feeling the bones through his t-shirt. Most of the ash has cleared from the sky. A light breeze blows through the swinging doors, smelling crisp and clean like the air after a storm. Tim gathers the items strewn over the store flow, carefully replacing them one by one in the backpack. Emily places Stephen in the carrier and the family walks out the store.

Yawn the Road

Day 1- Mojave Desert. Rations dwindling. Morale is low. Listening to a BBC radio adaptation of Lord of the Rings . They cut Tom Bombadil. Morale is lower. Nothing but humped mounds of volcanic rock, craggy peaks, and cacti. The authentic Japanese green tea I bought from Costco wasn't sweetened. Broke an axle when we drove into a ditch. Suffered from heatstroke performing repairs in the blasted wasteland commonly known as Southern California. I was wrong when I said there was nothing but volcanic rock, craggy peaks, and cacti. There are also cranky truckers probably hyped up on crack and energy drinks. They give us unfriendly glances beneath grimy baseball caps and scraggly facial hair. Air conditioner broke down. Ran out of supposedly authentic Japanese green tea purchased from Costco. Cooler no longer cold. Only Gatorade, water, Monster energy drinks, and Frappacinos to drink. Nothing but oil drills, wind operated turbines, food plants, and hills. A town named Boron advertises a gas station, food, lodging, and a teeter totter for bored children. There were careful signs pointing to the teeter totter, but no gas stations in sight. Continued past the decrepit trailer town without fuel. Continued to drive on I-40. Apparently it's fashionable in the deserts of California to deface the landscape with messages, as opposed to the billboard or bridge graffiti common in the city. I was kindly informed by these indignant, rock scribbling individuals that Congress created the Dust Bowl and Croatia still needs freeing. Stopped at a McDonalds in Needles. Food tasted funny. They refused to serve a guy who walked into the establishment without a shirt on. He never came back. Completed the first leg of our grueling journey, resting at a motel in Flagstaff, Arizona. The internet doesn't work. Raucous college kids yell from their perch on the second floor of the hotel to their friends, messily piled into the back of an old Toyota pickup, about the location of the nearest Foster's Freeze. Slowly drift into an uneasy sleep.

Day 57- Wake to the cackling of vultures, comfortably rested atop a broken neon hotel sign. The street is covered by a shroud of dust that leisurely floats through the morning air like mist rolling in from the ocean. Made an early start. Rations even more dwindlinger. Not a teeter-totter in sight. Air conditioner working again. Freezing rain pours from the gnarled thunderclouds that gather in the troubled sky. The air conditioner won't turn off. Road visibility is nil. Stumbled into a Beef O'Brady's in Amarillo, Texas. Waitress spoke in some alien dialect. Steak is overcooked, Beer is warm, and they only have strawberry limeade. Bivouack in Shamrock, Texas, a town distinguished by it's obsession with green signs, lights, and decorations. The internet still doesn't work.

Day 298- Home stretch. Last frappacino gone. The white lines on the road are starting to play tricks on my tired mind. The cracked terrain continues to be ravaged by the merciless sun that beats down in waves on our heads. Inconsiderate bugs keep splattering themselves all over our windshield. Car desperately needs washing, driver desperately needs BBQ.

Day 300- Finally arrive at our destination in Memphis. Luggage tossed into room. We drive to Central BBQ where we are soothed by a duo playing country blues on a resonator guitar and an acoustic bass. We are even treated to a couple of harmonica solos and washboard percussion as we consume our tasty sauce smothered dishes and drink cool carbonated drinks as the sun settles below the orange horizon.

Day 303- The internet finally works. It's good to be back.

I kid you not. I have been asked five different times whilst running if I knew my way around the place. I’m not really sure what that says about my appearance, but it makes me feel good about myself. It's like I'm a local. While I haven’t been able to offer any of the inquirers useful directions, I do feel like I know my way around pretty well at this point. I no longer have to take minutes sorting through the bevy of English coins (coin denominations include: 2 pound, 1pound, 50p, 20p, 10p, 5p, 2p, 1p). In fact, until recently I’d been priding myself in my ability to quickly gather the correct amount of change. I went to coffee shop and ordered a café latte. It cost 2.35, and I only had 3.15 pounds. For some reason I gave the lady all my money. She stopped, looked confused for a while, then handed me my change which consisted of a 50p coin, a 20p coin, and a different 10p coin than the one I gave her. Good job Daniel. I blame my half-white genes for the miscalculation.

For the last week I've run anywhere from 4-5.4 miles per day. I’ve been trying to follow the Haruki Murakami rule—never take two days off in a row. While I wasn’t very good about it for the first 3 weeks, recently I’ve been kind of getting in the groove. I’m also beginning to appreciate the Thames, the Isis, whatever you want to call it, a little bit more. It’s fun watching punting tourists in boats play ping-pong with concrete embankments. I'll have to take a picture at some point. Anyway, it’s nice running weather here in England. For the most part it’s overcast with a pleasant breeze to cool me off. Do you know the best part of running? Weaving through pedestrians in a crowded street. It’s like a game of Frogger where the trucks move really really slow and the worst thing that happens if you run into one is that they cuss you out (not that that’s happened to me). I promise you, it’s extremely enjoyable. Haruki Murakami is a freak by the way. He ran an ultra-marathon. That’s right, 100 kilometers. For all you people who don’t use the metric system, that’s 62.14 miles. His book, “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running” is an extremely interesting self-portrait centered around how a number of descriptions of running and observations about how running has impacted his life as a writer. There are lots of interested autobiographical tidbits in there too though I’m sure some of his stories are embellished.

WOHOO MORE BASKETBALL STUFF!! I've been receiving so many excited comments that I just had to write another section on basketball.

Here is your FIBA USA roster: Chauncey Billups, Tyson Chandler, Stephen Curry, Kevin Durant, Rudy Gay, Eric Gordon, Danny Granger, Jeff Green, Andre Iguodala, Brook Lopez, Kevin Love, Lamar Odom, Derrick Rose, and Russell Westbrook (3 have to be cut before the opening game on August 28th). That’s right, they have 4 players who were on the 2010 All Star Team as opposed to 8 players from the Redeem Team (not to mention they had all the biggest names in basketball. Lebron, Kobe, D-Wade, Chris Paul, Dwight Howard, Carmelo Anthony, etc.). The FIBA roster presents all sorts of interesting possibilities. Apparently Krzyzewski plans to play small ball, using either Lamar Odom or Tyson Chandler at center and having the other four be an interchangeable lineup of uber-quick guards that apply a ridiculous amount of pressure to opposing ball handlers. The USA guards are a nightmare. You have Rondo, Iguodala, Derrick Rose, and Russell Westbrook, 4 of the hardest players to guard in the NBA as a result of their ridiculous speed. Furthermore, each of them is an incredible tough on the ball defender. While none of them is known for their outside shooting, every time they get a rebound or an outlet pass (they also are some of the best rebounding guards in the game) they have the ability to outrun the other team to the basket. This team will be constantly stealing the ball, creating such fastbreak opportunities. Let me give you the guard breakdown.
Stephen Curry—1.9 steals per game
Rajon Rondo—1.9 steals per game
Iguodala—1.7 steals per game
Russell Westbrook—1.3
Eric Gordon—1.1
Chauncey Billups—1.0
Derrick Rose—0.8
Kevin Durant—1.4 (he plays shooting guard, not sure he counts though)
In short, this team has incredible athleticism and incredible speed. They will have to rely on gang rebounding to hold up against bigger opponents, but each time they do get a rebound, they will be halfway down the court before the other team can react. With Lamar Odom at center, every single player will be able to handle the ball. It will be interesting to see which 3 players get cut before the tourney. I really hope it is Stephen Curry. By the way, we haven't won FIBA since 1994. Who woulda thunk it.

Players to watch next season

These players each have shown flashes of brilliance last season. They are all guards. I really really really like each of them. This isn’t me saying “these guys are going to be All-Stars”, this is me saying “they have incredible potential and I really hope they do well”.

Goran Dragic—reputedly has a 37 inch vertical, 6’4 with a 6’7 wingspan, definitely has potential. Has an excellent Andre Miller ability to fake people out with spin moves low in the post, and is deceptively tall and athletic giving him the ability to quickly explode and get himself the shot in the midst of other taller defenders. Scored 23 in the fourth quarter against the Spurs in game 3 of the playoffs, is mentored by Steve Nash. If he can improve his confidence, he is a deadly scorer with an impressive array of crafty moves.

Rodrigue Beaubois—This guy is unbelievable. To give an idea of how unbelievable he is, he averaged 50% from the field, 40% from the three point line, and 80% from the free throw line. As a Rookie. As a Rookie with a 6’10 wingspan (he’s 6’2) and a 40 inch vertical. He is probably one of the fastest players in the NBA right now (dribbling 94 feet) along with Chris Paul, Derrick Rose, Ty Lawson, etc. (Devin Harris has the World Record, he dribbled the length of the court in 3.9 seconds. I’m pretty sure some of the players above could beat that). In recap, this kid is fast, unbelievably athletic, and is a pure shooter. Nobody shoots 50% from the field as a rookie. Nobody shoots 40% from the 3 point line as a rookie. He has done both while recording a respectable 80% from the line.

Stephen Curry—I love this kid (he is a year older than me, but whatever). Adjust statistics for the “On the Warriors in Don Nelson’s system” bias.
Statline—wow. 5.9 assists, 4.5 rebounds, 1.9 steals, 17.5 points. As a rookie. Curry is going to be a great NBA player.
80 77 36.2 .462 .437 .885 4.5 5.9 1.9 .2 17.5
His EFG (take into account that the 3 point shot is worth more—33% 3 point FG is the same as 50% 2 point FG) is .535. He broke the rookie record for most three point field goals ever (166) shooting .437%. This kid is unbelievable. He has a chance to become the greatest shooter who ever played. While he is isn’t a jaw dropping athletic specimen, he makes up for it with smarts and quickness.

By the way, the Warriors actually have a respectable starting lineup consisting of Curry, Ellis, Lee, and Biedrins. I don’t know enough to say who will play SF. While they are still undersized and poor defensively, Biedrins is a good shot blocker who should be able to let the guards cheat a bit. Both Ellis and Curry are adept at ball thievery, recording 2.2 and 1.9 steals respectively. The Warriors probably won’t be winning any championships but they sure will be entertaining.

Tomorrow is the Cotswold trip. I promised my parents I'd take pictures. There should be another post up sometime tomorrow night. Also, tune in tomorrow for buskers part 2. I might even talk about the 2 As You Like It performances I saw.

Ok. Part 1 is a poorly written, unorganized review of Inception. Part 2 more of the same ole' day to day.

PART 1

I tried to write this post a couple of hours ago and found I couldn’t really get beyond hysterical exclamations of “that was so freakin awesome” and “wow that movie totally blew my mind”. I calmed down after a couple of minutes then frantically ran screaming back towards the local cinema, praying that there was a show time within the next five minutes. There wasn’t, so, dejectedly, I stumbled my way back to my room. It is my goal to try and write a review of this movie that coolly, objectively examines which aspects of the film succeed and which don’t. Here’s a spoiler—I believe this film succeeds. Another spoiler. In order for any of this post to make sense you probably will need to have seen the movie first. It still probably won’t make sense. Whatever. You can skip straight to the end of the post where I talk about how much I miss playing guitar.

I would like to address some prospective critiques of the movie:
1—the characters are pretty much caricatures created solely for the purpose of allowing a bunch of crazy special effects to be made into a movie. They don’t develop and they don’t have unique personalities. If you exchanged one character for any other, the movie wouldn’t be changed in any significant way.

2—the dreamscape that Nolan creates is far too rigid and structured. It follows too closely the actual rules of the real world to be an effective artistic representation of being in a dream. Fair enough.

3—the movie is overburdened by the complexity of the plot. This results in far too much expositional dialogue. Sure.

Now I will try to argue against each point (to varying degrees of effectiveness, I’m sure) in sequence.

1—I felt the human component was actually one of the most effective parts of the movie. In fact, Inception felt a lot like Shutter Island. In both films, the audience is given, bit by bit, pieces of information about the protagonist (played, in both films, by Leonardo DiCaprio). In both films, the audience is constantly forced to question what is real and what isn’t. In both films, much of the emotional pull of the story comes from the interaction between the main character, his deceased wife, and his children. In both cases the husband looks on as his wife becomes insane. Both movies make extensive use of flashbacks to develop the main character’s backstory. But I digress. Both films do it because it works. Call the emotional attachment with Cobb contrived (it effectively utilizes the “aww cute babies” syndrome, an irrational reaction to the sight of small children, to create a sympathetic main character). Call it cheap. After all, the entire movie works on the premise that Cobb, a man effectively banished from the United States, will try anything to get back to his children in America. Just don’t deny that it works. Everyone wants the father to be reunited with his kids. The motivation works. However, not much attention is given to the father / children relationship. Far more of the film fixates on the romantic relationship between him and his wife, beautifully and hauntingly portrayed by Marion Cotillard. This relationship focuses to a large degree on the disjoint between Cobb’s projection of his wife and what she actually was like (another similarity between Inception and Shutter Island). Again, the interaction between the characters works. Cotillard plays her role with the perfect mixture of insanity, sadness, charm, and allure (you’re going to have to see it to find how that mix plays out). DiCaprio does an excellent job, as usual, playing a man wracked with unresolved guilt. It works. The relationship works. The movie is initiated, driven, and concluded by Cobb’s relationship with his family. No, this is not an insightful examination of human psychology. Yes, it has fairly simple desires and motivations for its characters, paying a minimal amount of attention to creating well rounded human beings. Yes, it uses the most efficient means conceivable to connect with its audience (a husband lost his wife, a husband can’t see his children). Yes, characters coast on the charm of the actors rather than the emotional resonance of the script (Ellen Page is very very very charming). And yes, despite all my previous qualifications, this movie works. People were getting weepy (maybe it was just me) by the end of the film. In my book that’s a resounding success.

2—Nolan wasn’t trying to create a film with a dreamy, surreal aesthetic. He was trying to make an awesome science fiction movie that blew people’s minds and stuff. You can’t throw an audience into a completely unfamiliar world and expect them to follow you along through a complicated, intricate maze of plot. The world has to make sense. It has to be different enough from reality to be amazing and interesting yet understandable to the audience. In this movies case, the plot AND the world was extraordinarily complex. One of the most spectacular parts of the movie was that Nolan was able to extensively exposit while holding the interest of the audience and developing the bamboozling plot. There had to be strict rules to the dream world. The audience was expecting as much. It’s like Star Wars. Lasers don’t make sounds. Stuff exploding in space doesn’t make noise. However, it would be pretty dull to watch Star Wars without the zooming sounds and the zapping laser noises. The audience expects there to be sound, so there is sound. Similarly, the audience expects dreams to be fairly logical, with the exception of a twist. There should be one twist. Maybe everything is a different color or people wear bizarre costumes and play sports using hedgehogs as balls. In this movies case, the twist generally involves messing with gravity. It makes sense. It works. It gives the film a unique visual style while simultaneously allowing for the creation of tension through the character’s interactions with the dream world. It is unfamiliar enough to hold our attention and familiar enough not to completely baffle the us.

3—Yep, the movie is complicated. As previously mentioned, this film immerses the audience in an unfamiliar world with its own rules and boundaries. It is, at its most basic level, a heist film. Think about Ocean’s Eleven or something similar to that. The plan needs explaining. Something goes wrong when the plan is being executed. That thing ruins everything, forcing the characters to improvise. All the while, you are developing the characters, and in this case, fleshing out the backstory of Leonardo DiCaprio. It isn’t easy. It’s a juggling act trying to keep the plot moving, trying to explain the world, and trying to create a human connection with the main characters. This movie succeeds brilliantly where Avatar: The Last Airbender spectacularly failed. While at some points the movie loses the audience completely, we go along with the characters. We trust them enough to believe that when they spout nonsense they really know what they are talking about. We trust that they know what they are doing, even if we don’t quite understand. It works. When we are given individual pieces, individual cogs, we don’t understand what they do or where they go. When we have the entire watch, though, it all makes sense. Similarly, while some parts of the movie aren’t easily comprehensible (at some points the audience simply doesn’t have enough information or perspective to make sense of them), all the confusion is worth the moment when the pieces fit together at the end.
Enough of confusing and nonsensical thoughts about the movie (perfectly appropriate given the subject matter). Go see this film. Even if I was like really good at explaining stuff (which i'm not) I wouldn't be able to do justice to this movie.

PART 2

So far my brilliant deprivation strategy has been working well. I have been quite impressed at how much I've written (I probably have written over 5000 words for classes not to mention my sblagh and various other writings) and read (again, lots and lots) now that I have left my beautiful guitar all by herself. However, such deprivation comes at a price—I am experiencing withdrawal symptoms. In my desperation to play guitar I keep getting these urges to:

1-Accost a busker, stealing his/her (yes, I would steal from a woman) guitar, running away, hoping I don’t get caught, and spending the rest of my trip locked up in my room annoying all my hall mates and probably everyone in the entire building

2-Pay a busker, asking them to lend me their guitar for at least an hour and promising them the proceeds from my busking

3-Pay a ridiculous amount of money to take a bus to London, find a music shop (To my knowledge there are no instrument stores within something like a 15 mile radius. I checked online, though I could be wrong), hide somewhere (maybe in the bass section, no one is likely to check there) until closing time, and spend a blissful 30 minutes playing until someone notices the sound and calls the fuzz. Maybe they’ll let me keep the guitar while I’m in jail.

4-Build my own guitar out of pencils and rubber bands. Unfortunately, I was never really good at building anything except awesome improvised Lego structures. Maybe I could build a guitar out of Legos instead. Hrm.

Luckily I have an assortment of delightful distractions to temporarily pacify my horrible longings. So far, these have included sleeping, writing songs for my guitar, writing in my sblagh how much I miss my guitar, day dreaming about my guitar, banging my head against the wall until I knock myself unconscious (so I don’t have to think about how I can’t play my guitar), watching hours of How I Met Your Mother and pretending that I am Ted and my guitar is, well, The Mother, reading horribly sad short stories about music (Nocturnes by Kazuo Ishiguro, highly recommended), and walking around searching for romantic vistas by the riverside, candlelit balconies, and open windows for heartbroken sighs and wistful stares.

*Sigh*


Oh I forgot. Jeremy Lin signed with the Warriors. Here's the story and a nice little video interview.

http://www.nba.com/2010/news/07/21/warriors.lin.ap/index.html