As we come to the final chapters of a beloved American cultural creation, and with the airing of Breaking Bad's finale, I think it would be nice to take stock of this work of art that has been faithfully churned out for our entertainment.
Obviously you know what I'm referring to, but in case you need a refresher: As you know, Pearls of Mystery has been having "31 for 30" all month long as part of our long-standing rivalry with sports conglomerate ESPN, which submitted a pathetic "30 for 30" in its own shot across the bow/personal challenge to me. Submitting 30 shorts, a few of them excellent, ESPN surely knew what Nas has always preached: One life, one love, so there can only be one king.
Ironic, in retrospect, because, when it quoted Nas relentlessly in its internal memos, ESPN surely thought itself such a king. Pearls of Mystery was having none of that shit, and responded with 31, count 'em, 31 red-hot pieces, burnt crispy from the fevered imaginatioven that half-baked them twice over. Watch the throven. We even had a literal mystery on Pearls of Mystery can you even breathe
I am the victor, ESPN. 31 pieces, 30 days. I'm savoring this, ESPN. Let me have this. Please. I think you could probably produce 32 pieces in another upcoming month-with-30-days. Look, I don't think that, I know it. And I know you are already planning 32 for 30 in November, before I've even finished this capper. I mean, let's be real, you could probably write 32 pieces about Richard Jefferson in November, and that's like, my forte. So... look, just... let's just say we were in competition in a closed timeline starting with the release of 30 for 30, and ending on September 30 of this year, at midnight, unless you read this in a fit of rage and decided to publish 32 pieces under that heading.
But please don't do that, or the other thing I mentioned. After all, we're making each other better. That's what it means that we're bitter rivals, to the end. I know all the stuff you say about me behind closed doors. Believe me; I say the same things. But in the end, aren't we both faceless conglomerates looking to foster the best insights on competition and culture? Aren't we both? Isn't that... the one thing we've got?
That said, no, before you even ask, you can't buy me out. And I obviously can't buy you out. We are perfect rivals until the sun burns hot and then cold. Also, I blog for one of your affiliates, so obviously we have some mutual interests, so, is that that? Is our competition finally resolved? Have I proved myself a worthy man?
Are you there, God?
September 30, 2013
Character Writing, Part 2
Okay, so just to recap Part I:
- Plinkett's Test: "Describe the following Star Wars character WITHOUT saying what they look like, what kind of costume they wore, or what their profession or role in the movie was. Describe this character to your friends like they ain't never seen Star Wars."
- Extras - Level -1 characters. Exist to fill space.
- Plot-Advancing Robots (PARs) - Level 0 characters. Exist to fulfill a role or a profession and very little else. Fail the Plinkett test.
- More than PARs, but not deeply autonomous - Level 1 characters: Developed enough to pass Plinckett's Test. They have characteristics independent of role/profession, but ultimately, they have an inner life that isn't very meaningful or apropos to anything. There's no change, or growth, or self-actualization as characters there. They have a personality, but that personality isn't potent or meaningful enough transform into tangible actions in the plot. In turn, their character (outside of role/profession) isn't developed enough to be meaningfully effected by the plot.
- More than PARs, rich inner/outer life, deeply autonomous and affected - Level 2 characters: Their human characteristics (i.e. the role/profession-independent things you'd say about them) are powerful enough to act as instruments in and objects of the plot. For example, let's say you have a character who is prideful (say, Walter White). Walt is well-characterized enough as prideful that he can sensibly reject an offer out of pride, and his pride, in turn, can be wounded by a rejection.
Some rambling notes:
Character Writing, Part I
Editing my own pieces is a bit of a pain. But there's a form of editing that's far more pleasant: Rewriting everything from scratch. See, when you write something with enough words you literally change your own mental model of the world in the process, and with that new mental model you can often rewrite the piece, make it better, and do it all much more quickly. And I certainly have enough words under my belt today. After a cherished friend and respected critic made the point that I write characters that tend to clash together and sound the same, I decided to take arms against the problem. And I started by writing a long, long piece exploring what actually makes characters work and what makes characters fail. It ran a bit too long for my tastes, so I'll simply rewrite it from scratch. It seems like exactly the sort of piece where if I were my own editor but also a different person from myself, I would tell myself as an objective observer to rewrite the thing because that often clears up flaws. So I took my advice and did it.
"Mr. Plinkett" is a character on Red Letter Media, and Mr. Plinkett's insanely long critiques of the Star Wars prequels have attained the status of Canon among Random People That Talk About This Kind Of Shit. Taken together, the Plinkett reviews form a crash course in how to exhaustively dismantle every shred of respectability from a cultural product without needing to resort to cheap rhetorical blows (though there is plenty of below-the-belt stuff). Taken together, the Plinkett Star Wars reviews demonstrate not only an exhaustive hatred for George Lucas' prequel trilogy, but also an exhaustive knowledge of film and storytelling to back the hatred up. The reviews are also wickedly funny, and the Plinkett character himself is more entertaining than anyone in the prequel trilogy.
"Mr. Plinkett" is a character on Red Letter Media, and Mr. Plinkett's insanely long critiques of the Star Wars prequels have attained the status of Canon among Random People That Talk About This Kind Of Shit. Taken together, the Plinkett reviews form a crash course in how to exhaustively dismantle every shred of respectability from a cultural product without needing to resort to cheap rhetorical blows (though there is plenty of below-the-belt stuff). Taken together, the Plinkett Star Wars reviews demonstrate not only an exhaustive hatred for George Lucas' prequel trilogy, but also an exhaustive knowledge of film and storytelling to back the hatred up. The reviews are also wickedly funny, and the Plinkett character himself is more entertaining than anyone in the prequel trilogy.
September 28, 2013
Get Happy
I was given a large grant to perform my comedies, but there was one condition they placed on the funds - I had to do it in 15 minutes, and, as they say, in one take, right or wrong. Here's the bit I came up with! Hope you enjoy. Heh.
They say life's a bitch and then you die, but I never bought that. I always felt that life could be pretty good if you just stepped back and took stock of what was good about life. If you noticed all the flowers in the world growing. If you noticed all the light shining on the beautiful grass and that children would play on. If you noticed all the beautiful love and happiness that everyone in the world seemed to have. Then you could be happy.
But happiness itself isn't all it's cracked up to be. Mo money mo' problems, they say, and the same is true with happiness. It's hard to maintain your increased happiness without resorting to drugs and violence. You have to, like, maintain your metaphysical turf if you catch my drift. You have to done shot someone that steps to your little patch of happiness. You have to guard that happiness like it's a giant pile of upbeat cocaine.
So I built myself up a little bit of happiness a few years ago and - mo happy mo problems - everyone comes piling in looking for a share of the bliss. And all I can do is tell them to form a line and pay me to tap on their shoulders and tell them everything is going to be alright. I tell them that they will get what is coming to them, unless they're bad, in which case they'll instead get forgiveness. I get this line of unhappy people and I make them feel better. They rarely leave having wasted their money.
But it starts to gnaw away at me, because I mean, I'm just offering them empty reassurances. I mean, I don't know with any certainty that the good will get what they deserve and the wicked will be forgiven. I'm largely just speculating, on that front. In fact, not only do I have no idea, but I start to wonder if making people feel better is itself a worthy sort of goal... if I would place myself into the former or the latter category. Is this something I should be given divine providence for, or is this something for which I should seek forgiveness? Not just was it good or bad but was it even purposeful in any way? So the line of people grows every day and I start to wonder if my own special reserve of happiness hasn't always just been my own gift of delusional optimism writ large upon my worldview. Hey, if things are gonna work out then there's no reason to frown right?
Anyway, so I end up going into a massive depression and here's the thing... in the midst of things I still keep going to my little storefront to cheer people up, keep telling people that they're going to feel better, even though I don't believe it myself. But my prestige and status keep increasing and the people come from far and wide at this point to get happy. I even start to wonder if becoming cynical has made me better at what I do - if the process of learning my own delusions has actually made me better at creating those delusions.
"Hey, are you that guy that makes people happy?" someone says to me on the street around this time. I hand them a business card and barely acknowledge them. A few taps on the shoulder at restaurants - which used to thrill me - now bore me and make me irritable. I don't go out much anymore. I watch whatever's on and hold back the fear, take my medications, and tell whoever of my clients calls that I'm open from 9-5, but that I'm not going to bail them out outside of that. I'm not their friend, no matter how happy or optimistic I might sound. A stranger is no longer a potential friend but a likely impediment, and I realize that all my optimism is dead irrevocably.
I lose the spark, I forget how happiness is wrought and brought about, and I end up quitting and becoming a much more cynical financial consultant. I sell financial instruments all day and talk about optimism and pessimism with apparent engagement, even while in reality I feel nothing. Anhedonia I think they call my condition.
Anyway, that's my bit!
(pause for audience laughter)
They say life's a bitch and then you die, but I never bought that. I always felt that life could be pretty good if you just stepped back and took stock of what was good about life. If you noticed all the flowers in the world growing. If you noticed all the light shining on the beautiful grass and that children would play on. If you noticed all the beautiful love and happiness that everyone in the world seemed to have. Then you could be happy.
But happiness itself isn't all it's cracked up to be. Mo money mo' problems, they say, and the same is true with happiness. It's hard to maintain your increased happiness without resorting to drugs and violence. You have to, like, maintain your metaphysical turf if you catch my drift. You have to done shot someone that steps to your little patch of happiness. You have to guard that happiness like it's a giant pile of upbeat cocaine.
So I built myself up a little bit of happiness a few years ago and - mo happy mo problems - everyone comes piling in looking for a share of the bliss. And all I can do is tell them to form a line and pay me to tap on their shoulders and tell them everything is going to be alright. I tell them that they will get what is coming to them, unless they're bad, in which case they'll instead get forgiveness. I get this line of unhappy people and I make them feel better. They rarely leave having wasted their money.
But it starts to gnaw away at me, because I mean, I'm just offering them empty reassurances. I mean, I don't know with any certainty that the good will get what they deserve and the wicked will be forgiven. I'm largely just speculating, on that front. In fact, not only do I have no idea, but I start to wonder if making people feel better is itself a worthy sort of goal... if I would place myself into the former or the latter category. Is this something I should be given divine providence for, or is this something for which I should seek forgiveness? Not just was it good or bad but was it even purposeful in any way? So the line of people grows every day and I start to wonder if my own special reserve of happiness hasn't always just been my own gift of delusional optimism writ large upon my worldview. Hey, if things are gonna work out then there's no reason to frown right?
Anyway, so I end up going into a massive depression and here's the thing... in the midst of things I still keep going to my little storefront to cheer people up, keep telling people that they're going to feel better, even though I don't believe it myself. But my prestige and status keep increasing and the people come from far and wide at this point to get happy. I even start to wonder if becoming cynical has made me better at what I do - if the process of learning my own delusions has actually made me better at creating those delusions.
"Hey, are you that guy that makes people happy?" someone says to me on the street around this time. I hand them a business card and barely acknowledge them. A few taps on the shoulder at restaurants - which used to thrill me - now bore me and make me irritable. I don't go out much anymore. I watch whatever's on and hold back the fear, take my medications, and tell whoever of my clients calls that I'm open from 9-5, but that I'm not going to bail them out outside of that. I'm not their friend, no matter how happy or optimistic I might sound. A stranger is no longer a potential friend but a likely impediment, and I realize that all my optimism is dead irrevocably.
I lose the spark, I forget how happiness is wrought and brought about, and I end up quitting and becoming a much more cynical financial consultant. I sell financial instruments all day and talk about optimism and pessimism with apparent engagement, even while in reality I feel nothing. Anhedonia I think they call my condition.
Anyway, that's my bit!
(pause for audience laughter)
September 25, 2013
Search Engine Optimization: On Finding Your Favorite Films and Avoiding Drake
Programming Note: Hey, Pearls of Mystery readers (I guess I should call you Mystery-Divers, because of the connection to pearls and oysters, and because we celebrate divers-ity)! I'm going to be going to career fairs the rest of the week so expect a little bit of a tailing-off in posting volume as we approach the end of this 31-for-30 September (an attempt to one-up 30 for 30 in another chapter in Pearls of Mystery's longstanding rivalry with media conglomerate ESPN).
Intro
Finding your favorite films and books and music is, at its core, a search problem, and one that I think the current "everyone's a critic and anyone can talk to anyone" landscape of the Internet lends itself to well. And Metacritic and RottenTomatoes have done more than their fair share in really cluing into critical consensus.
But there's something different between "high quality" and "favorite" and I think the current landscape, taken at face value, doesn't necessarily work to the advantage of either the discerning connoisseur or the consumer looking for consistently above-average quality. I think a lot of the problem (as I'll outline it) starts with the rating systems we use.
Problem
Okay, so reviews of books and albums and TV shows always tend to focus on a general level of quality. "Five stars", "B+", "8 out of 10" and so on. You feel me? I know you feel me, son.
The point being is that most reviews - even the most abstract and interpretive - tend to answer in the negative or the affirmative whether a cultural product is worth your time or worth your money with respect to the marketplace. In other words, the essential appeal made a review is: "Assuming you're willing to spend 20 bucks on a book, this is a pretty damn good/mediocre/poor book to spend it on if you compare it to all the new releases I've read. I feel this way because it's <list of reasons for this opinion>, which should inform whether you the read will agree with me. "
Which is quite alright. It's nice to have a consumer guide that also doubles as personal interpretation, critique, and analysis. There's nothing wrong with this.
And yet, we live in the age where occasionally something will garner (and the Internet will document) "universal acclaim by critics". You see this with shows like Breaking Bad and The Wire. I was looking over reviews for "Nothing Was the Same" after writing my own yesterday, and while there were a few "this is a defining album" reviews, most of the reviews were "What a neat album! Drake is sure doing his job!" In other words, it was adequate, it was competent, it was state-of-the-art, it was soulful, it was such and such and if you like hip-hop or R&B, you will probably at least enjoy a listen.
And my problem with "universal acclaim" and average treatments of quality is that, well, personally, I will probably never listen to "Nothing Was the Same" ever again. It's apparently a major release, it's apparently quite good (and I can see where critics are coming from), but here's the thing: At no point in listening to that album did the thought ever cross my mind: "This might be my favorite album of all time." What I'm saying is... it was a low-risk, medium-reward album. We talk about Drake taking risks, going further and all that. But the bottom line is, an established artist released a typical album that drew and deserved passable acclaim, hit all the marks, and with the exceptions for a few diehards, no one's artistic worldview is changed, no one's hitting spiritual notes they might never have without the album. Ironically, nothing was not the same for me after listening to "Nothing Was the Same". It's a good album which hinges on your alignment with its aesthetic. And that's all that it is. And that's alright. But... for me? I get almost nothing out of having listened to that album, and while that's fine, it also means that I could have switched to most other albums I've considered listening to and ended up better off. Maybe that's arrogant, but what does an inoffensive movie really buy me (or anyone) in the grand scheme of things? Two hours passed well, but two hours forgotten in a few days. I don't know. A great, ambitious, sprawling film promises a lifetime of enjoyment and is precisely the candidate for being missed by a critic that's trying to see things analytically or in the shoes of a proverbial Pete from Peoria.
For situations where a bad movie isn't going to ruin my night, ambition is its own reward because it creates the possibility of transcendence. For situations where a bad movie is (like going out to a theater)? I'd much rather have less ambition in films because it creates the possibility of awfulness.
In a sentence: Ambition is punished in some cases and wildly rewarded in others, all pretty arbitrarily, even though some people and some situations get positive or negative utility in ambition itself.
Solution
And so that's the lead-in to my (speculative) idea: Reviewers ought to consider risk (and not just reward) as part of their ratings. And review aggregation sites such as RottenTomatoes and Metacritic might just want to include polarization and variance as part of the equation. If I spend 20 dollars in a theater or getting something to watch with other people? To my mind, personally, I feel that the spent money makes me more risk-averse. If I am renting, downloading, or streaming something? I actually want risk, and I might trade above-average and low-risk for average reward on a high-risk gamble. Even if it means watching "Magnolia" one night (as Homer Simpson might say, "that's bad" [Sorry Connor! It just didn't work for me!]). Because, see, this is how risk works, it means I'll watch "In Bruges" another night ("that's good"). When you take risks you get burnt more, but you also get the unforgettable cultural products that make our lives a little more bearable. And I'll take getting burnt once awhile as part of the fun of the search (besides, it's usually a lot funnier and easier to shut off if you haven't paid a 10-spot just for the seat, heh). And I'll pay for my preference for ambition, sure, by missing out on a really decent "Nothing Was the Same" here and there. But in return, I'm gambling that I'll get more of the unforgettable gems.
Note:
If you hear what I'm saying, then maybe you want to know what I've done myself to leverage risk in (for example) films.
Intro
Finding your favorite films and books and music is, at its core, a search problem, and one that I think the current "everyone's a critic and anyone can talk to anyone" landscape of the Internet lends itself to well. And Metacritic and RottenTomatoes have done more than their fair share in really cluing into critical consensus.
But there's something different between "high quality" and "favorite" and I think the current landscape, taken at face value, doesn't necessarily work to the advantage of either the discerning connoisseur or the consumer looking for consistently above-average quality. I think a lot of the problem (as I'll outline it) starts with the rating systems we use.
Problem
Okay, so reviews of books and albums and TV shows always tend to focus on a general level of quality. "Five stars", "B+", "8 out of 10" and so on. You feel me? I know you feel me, son.
The point being is that most reviews - even the most abstract and interpretive - tend to answer in the negative or the affirmative whether a cultural product is worth your time or worth your money with respect to the marketplace. In other words, the essential appeal made a review is: "Assuming you're willing to spend 20 bucks on a book, this is a pretty damn good/mediocre/poor book to spend it on if you compare it to all the new releases I've read. I feel this way because it's <list of reasons for this opinion>, which should inform whether you the read will agree with me. "
Which is quite alright. It's nice to have a consumer guide that also doubles as personal interpretation, critique, and analysis. There's nothing wrong with this.
And yet, we live in the age where occasionally something will garner (and the Internet will document) "universal acclaim by critics". You see this with shows like Breaking Bad and The Wire. I was looking over reviews for "Nothing Was the Same" after writing my own yesterday, and while there were a few "this is a defining album" reviews, most of the reviews were "What a neat album! Drake is sure doing his job!" In other words, it was adequate, it was competent, it was state-of-the-art, it was soulful, it was such and such and if you like hip-hop or R&B, you will probably at least enjoy a listen.
And my problem with "universal acclaim" and average treatments of quality is that, well, personally, I will probably never listen to "Nothing Was the Same" ever again. It's apparently a major release, it's apparently quite good (and I can see where critics are coming from), but here's the thing: At no point in listening to that album did the thought ever cross my mind: "This might be my favorite album of all time." What I'm saying is... it was a low-risk, medium-reward album. We talk about Drake taking risks, going further and all that. But the bottom line is, an established artist released a typical album that drew and deserved passable acclaim, hit all the marks, and with the exceptions for a few diehards, no one's artistic worldview is changed, no one's hitting spiritual notes they might never have without the album. Ironically, nothing was not the same for me after listening to "Nothing Was the Same". It's a good album which hinges on your alignment with its aesthetic. And that's all that it is. And that's alright. But... for me? I get almost nothing out of having listened to that album, and while that's fine, it also means that I could have switched to most other albums I've considered listening to and ended up better off. Maybe that's arrogant, but what does an inoffensive movie really buy me (or anyone) in the grand scheme of things? Two hours passed well, but two hours forgotten in a few days. I don't know. A great, ambitious, sprawling film promises a lifetime of enjoyment and is precisely the candidate for being missed by a critic that's trying to see things analytically or in the shoes of a proverbial Pete from Peoria.
For situations where a bad movie isn't going to ruin my night, ambition is its own reward because it creates the possibility of transcendence. For situations where a bad movie is (like going out to a theater)? I'd much rather have less ambition in films because it creates the possibility of awfulness.
In a sentence: Ambition is punished in some cases and wildly rewarded in others, all pretty arbitrarily, even though some people and some situations get positive or negative utility in ambition itself.
Solution
And so that's the lead-in to my (speculative) idea: Reviewers ought to consider risk (and not just reward) as part of their ratings. And review aggregation sites such as RottenTomatoes and Metacritic might just want to include polarization and variance as part of the equation. If I spend 20 dollars in a theater or getting something to watch with other people? To my mind, personally, I feel that the spent money makes me more risk-averse. If I am renting, downloading, or streaming something? I actually want risk, and I might trade above-average and low-risk for average reward on a high-risk gamble. Even if it means watching "Magnolia" one night (as Homer Simpson might say, "that's bad" [Sorry Connor! It just didn't work for me!]). Because, see, this is how risk works, it means I'll watch "In Bruges" another night ("that's good"). When you take risks you get burnt more, but you also get the unforgettable cultural products that make our lives a little more bearable. And I'll take getting burnt once awhile as part of the fun of the search (besides, it's usually a lot funnier and easier to shut off if you haven't paid a 10-spot just for the seat, heh). And I'll pay for my preference for ambition, sure, by missing out on a really decent "Nothing Was the Same" here and there. But in return, I'm gambling that I'll get more of the unforgettable gems.
Note:
If you hear what I'm saying, then maybe you want to know what I've done myself to leverage risk in (for example) films.
- With some exception, I don't ever listen to someone that says a film was merely good or bad. I much prefer critics' year-end lists and your friend or acquaintance's absolute favorite film (doesn't matter how well you know them). See, because something has to be excellent to someone to get on those rarefied lists. It can't just be good-but-forgettable - it has to really move someone. A lot of times I feel I have to dig deeper than the year-end lists and read the review itself, because critics will leave off films perceived as being inferior in general quality even if the films they left off spoke to them more.
- I largely ignore claims about cultural relevance that aren't based on empirical success. Critics often times like to make broad, sweeping generalizations (cf. this sentence) about people and taste. And here's the thing, they don't really know what is going to stick... a lot of times they're coming from misleading analogies of experience - "this is a good Western and Americans love a good Western" type things that ignore little tiny matters like "hey, this film has no soul, and soul is a big reason people like films in the first place!".
- I don't really care about a critic's expectations - the expectations a critic forms in the presence of immensely more domain knowledge than their readers is pretty much irrelevant. But it can shed light on "shallow" works that are anything but, with a little extra effort.
There you have it; part of my personal solution to the search problem. Take it or leave it. You made the decision. Live with your decision.
September 24, 2013
Breaking Bad and Legacy
The hearts of posterity are hard-won but sticky. As time passes, the selected-for characteristics of a work of art move from novelty to craftsmanship. If a song survives 20 years of having been played on the radio, then it certainly has something going for it. It will probably survive another 20 (ignoring my casual use of a sophisticated observation). Okay, maybe that song is still coasting on nostalgia for people coming of age then. So wait another 20 years and see if it's still around. And another 20. And another, and another and another. And at some point a work of art - no matter how deep the hype had ever gone - must find its own momentum if it is to survive. At some point there is naught but a melody. And whether that melody is good enough to be sung or historical enough to be remembered becomes that melody's primary sustaining justification.
So forgive my skepticism when someone talks about legacies in real time as an artist or a sports figure is just coming into their own. Forgive my skepticism when we get any speculation not rooted in posterity about the Greatest of All Time. Forgive my skepticism when critics figure to discern what is all-consumed flash of ephemeral and what is all-consuming pan of posterity.
And forgive my skepticism when critics talk about Breaking Bad as the greatest television show of all time.
Okay, here's where I say outright: I love Breaking Bad. I consume it like a snake, wrapping myself around its entirety and assuming its approximate shape. I watch the show, listen to the podcast, even watch that abominably loud Chris Hardwick-hosted Talking Bad. I read critical opinions of the show constantly, read speculation, comment threads, and even write blog posts about it on occasion. The show keeps outdoing itself and seems completely poised to "stick the landing," as they say. The episodes this season have seemed to get better and better, a general trend that stems from the creators' attention to detail and the writers' extensive breaking period that allows every episode to draw on all the momentum of prior episodes and seasons.
And here's where I say outright: Breaking Bad certainly has positioned itself quite well for GOAT status and consideration - garnering near-universal acclaim by critics, looking like a respectable voice-of-its-particular-era candidate, and having the benefit of competing with a medium that greenlights "Crank Yankers" and a medium that has tarnished nearly every show's legacy before it by awkwardly stretching out a show too long or cutting it too short. Breaking Bad going for GOAT status would be sort of like you or I going for the Great American Novel award when every other novel has had some Harrison Bergeron-like handicaps in its authorship. This is all before factoring in TV's historical stigma as a medium for art (if not totally, then at least partially). And, what's undeniable: Breaking Bad already has a great deal of posterity. The first season - while a shadow of what the show would become - already has 5.5 years under its belt and holds up pretty damn well. Finally, Breaking Bad hasn't just changed the conventions of its genre; it has outright achieved this remarkable feat with craftsmanship on par (at least) with the other, most-beloved shows of its era.
But I'll just caution that history has a way of magnifying flaws, catching up to works of exceptional quality on the backs of those works, and simply forgetting the most seminal shows. We'll all remember where we were when Breaking Bad finishes up. But there's a good possibility that the massively-serialized format combined with the massive length won't be sustainable for generations that follow. War And Peace is actually a fairly easy read if we're just talking basic ability to get through, if infinitely subtle and fun, but 1000 pages is 1000 pages. A month is still a month, even if you can read it a chapter at a time. I'd love to project what the future will look like, but it's possible a show that uses silence and comic timing and subtle maneuvering for weeks before getting to a payoff just won't hold up in the very long run. And, what's more, as much as we might want to preserve the show? Eventually we'll get older and have less time to promote it and the work will have to stand alone. And suddenly - without that social pressure - 60 hours becomes a lot less appealing to later generations that may have more immediately appealing options.
All in all, I have nothing against the masterpiece of Breaking Bad that has given us so many hours of tension, reflection, entertainment, and unforgettable characters and moments. I want Breaking Bad to be remembered and, if it indeed shows lasting quality in 20 years, I want its true greatness to be known.
But then, it's not my decision.
So forgive my skepticism when someone talks about legacies in real time as an artist or a sports figure is just coming into their own. Forgive my skepticism when we get any speculation not rooted in posterity about the Greatest of All Time. Forgive my skepticism when critics figure to discern what is all-consumed flash of ephemeral and what is all-consuming pan of posterity.
And forgive my skepticism when critics talk about Breaking Bad as the greatest television show of all time.
Okay, here's where I say outright: I love Breaking Bad. I consume it like a snake, wrapping myself around its entirety and assuming its approximate shape. I watch the show, listen to the podcast, even watch that abominably loud Chris Hardwick-hosted Talking Bad. I read critical opinions of the show constantly, read speculation, comment threads, and even write blog posts about it on occasion. The show keeps outdoing itself and seems completely poised to "stick the landing," as they say. The episodes this season have seemed to get better and better, a general trend that stems from the creators' attention to detail and the writers' extensive breaking period that allows every episode to draw on all the momentum of prior episodes and seasons.
And here's where I say outright: Breaking Bad certainly has positioned itself quite well for GOAT status and consideration - garnering near-universal acclaim by critics, looking like a respectable voice-of-its-particular-era candidate, and having the benefit of competing with a medium that greenlights "Crank Yankers" and a medium that has tarnished nearly every show's legacy before it by awkwardly stretching out a show too long or cutting it too short. Breaking Bad going for GOAT status would be sort of like you or I going for the Great American Novel award when every other novel has had some Harrison Bergeron-like handicaps in its authorship. This is all before factoring in TV's historical stigma as a medium for art (if not totally, then at least partially). And, what's undeniable: Breaking Bad already has a great deal of posterity. The first season - while a shadow of what the show would become - already has 5.5 years under its belt and holds up pretty damn well. Finally, Breaking Bad hasn't just changed the conventions of its genre; it has outright achieved this remarkable feat with craftsmanship on par (at least) with the other, most-beloved shows of its era.
But I'll just caution that history has a way of magnifying flaws, catching up to works of exceptional quality on the backs of those works, and simply forgetting the most seminal shows. We'll all remember where we were when Breaking Bad finishes up. But there's a good possibility that the massively-serialized format combined with the massive length won't be sustainable for generations that follow. War And Peace is actually a fairly easy read if we're just talking basic ability to get through, if infinitely subtle and fun, but 1000 pages is 1000 pages. A month is still a month, even if you can read it a chapter at a time. I'd love to project what the future will look like, but it's possible a show that uses silence and comic timing and subtle maneuvering for weeks before getting to a payoff just won't hold up in the very long run. And, what's more, as much as we might want to preserve the show? Eventually we'll get older and have less time to promote it and the work will have to stand alone. And suddenly - without that social pressure - 60 hours becomes a lot less appealing to later generations that may have more immediately appealing options.
All in all, I have nothing against the masterpiece of Breaking Bad that has given us so many hours of tension, reflection, entertainment, and unforgettable characters and moments. I want Breaking Bad to be remembered and, if it indeed shows lasting quality in 20 years, I want its true greatness to be known.
But then, it's not my decision.
Curmudgeonly Review of "Nothing Was the Same" by Drake
Drake's "Nothing Was the Same" was released today, and was leaked a week ago, all of which I only know because of the hordes of Drake fans on Twitter.
Because a review is as much about my own critical perspective as the work under consideration, I guess I should talk a little about where I'm coming from w.r.t. Drake. I really have no preconceptions about Drake. I've barely read anything about him, barely know his circles or his upbringing, and so far that lack of knowledge has served me just fine. I'm pretty sure he's Canadian or something, and is sensitive. I don't listen to much hip-hop, but I cherish the few albums and tracks that really suit me. I'm old school all the way back to Bach (O.G. of the Western Canon) but I'm open to the new school. I like what Nat King Cole does, a lot. I like what Death Grips does, sometimes. I don't listen to the radio, and most of the newer music I come to is because the melody or the flow is so irresistible that I just have to get it and listen to it over and over - and thence branching to related songs and albums and artists. I've written a lot of music; I've been playing the piano for ten years, and I've been slowly and laboriously climbing into basic competence as a vocalist over the last five years.
Emotionally I connect with songs but for me emotion comes from musicality. See, when you listen to tracks as much as I do, there's a sort of U-shaped Nietzsche-derived preference graph that develops with the best songs.
There's a trial period (the first 1-10 plays of a song, let's say) where the initial brilliance of the song's hook impresses itself upon you. This is the part where you might try to brainwash yourself into liking something and the song tries its best to help you out. And if it works, then, you know, you're hooked. If it doesn't, into the trash it goes. This is where 95% of songs I hear (at a minimum) go; if the song is mediocre, if it's irresolvably unpleasant, if it's got a vibe I can't respect, if it's a thought that doesn't stick, if it's got a big melodic idea that doesn't work? I have no use for that song. And I only listen to the song rarely thereafter, and only rarely does it bite back as something I'd overlooked. The novelty of this period makes the songs that survive (and even the songs that fail admirably) quite entertaining for this duration.
Because a review is as much about my own critical perspective as the work under consideration, I guess I should talk a little about where I'm coming from w.r.t. Drake. I really have no preconceptions about Drake. I've barely read anything about him, barely know his circles or his upbringing, and so far that lack of knowledge has served me just fine. I'm pretty sure he's Canadian or something, and is sensitive. I don't listen to much hip-hop, but I cherish the few albums and tracks that really suit me. I'm old school all the way back to Bach (O.G. of the Western Canon) but I'm open to the new school. I like what Nat King Cole does, a lot. I like what Death Grips does, sometimes. I don't listen to the radio, and most of the newer music I come to is because the melody or the flow is so irresistible that I just have to get it and listen to it over and over - and thence branching to related songs and albums and artists. I've written a lot of music; I've been playing the piano for ten years, and I've been slowly and laboriously climbing into basic competence as a vocalist over the last five years.
Emotionally I connect with songs but for me emotion comes from musicality. See, when you listen to tracks as much as I do, there's a sort of U-shaped Nietzsche-derived preference graph that develops with the best songs.
There's a trial period (the first 1-10 plays of a song, let's say) where the initial brilliance of the song's hook impresses itself upon you. This is the part where you might try to brainwash yourself into liking something and the song tries its best to help you out. And if it works, then, you know, you're hooked. If it doesn't, into the trash it goes. This is where 95% of songs I hear (at a minimum) go; if the song is mediocre, if it's irresolvably unpleasant, if it's got a vibe I can't respect, if it's a thought that doesn't stick, if it's got a big melodic idea that doesn't work? I have no use for that song. And I only listen to the song rarely thereafter, and only rarely does it bite back as something I'd overlooked. The novelty of this period makes the songs that survive (and even the songs that fail admirably) quite entertaining for this duration.
September 23, 2013
"Breaking Bad", "Bad Fans", and Liberated Fandom
I don't think I form attachments to cultural artifacts quite the way most other people do, generally speaking. I listen to songs hundreds of times, and sometimes I'll only listen to my own songs for days at a time. As for Ella Fitzgerald's "Songbooks," well, I've played them on my computer so much that they might as well be vinyl records stripped to the bone. I watch scenes of excellence from movies dozens of times. I'll read my favorite (and oddly, my least-favorite) articles and short stories several times, my subconscious mumbling always about parallax. "The Huntsman" and "Rothschild's Fiddle" and "Uncle Vanya" are inexhaustibly brilliant and I've read them dozens of times. And so on. As for sports, well, when Joe Posnanski talks about ostensibly-boring Greg Maddux as appointment viewing, how "I would never (if at all possible) miss a Maddux start," I know exactly what he's talking about, and I'll raise Poz a Tim Duncan in the same vein. Obession: It's how I watch shows, it's how I watch movies, it's how I listen to music, it's how I read, it's how I write, it's how I do math, and it's how I write code.
It's how I think.
And the underlying obsession here that ties these strands together is mostly for the various processes that take a cultural product from germ to fully-realized idea to production to receiver. In other words, when it comes to culture I'm interested in not just the proverbial sausages but in learning how they're made and how they're consumed (incidentally, both of which, in the case of actual sausages, are horrifying). And so the official Breaking Bad Podcast and the various reviewers have been invaluable to me, and I invest wild amounts of time soaking in everything I can about the creative process and critical reception of my favorite show.
(By the way, probably the most refreshing part of the Podcast is that Vince Gilligan is the first to admit his relative cluelessness about where the story is going in broad strokes. The writers seem to love letting characters dictate the causal action, leading to realistic plot and characterization. "Where's Walt's head at now?" is always the central impulse. They don't always know where that "chessboard approach" will lead them. So that's, uh, the one thing I have in common with Vince Gilligan as a writer!)
But anyway, precisely because of my obsessive way of looking at things, I tend to think and empathize more with creators and editors and critics (and the most dedicated fans) than I do with "the rabble" - that is, the casual fans - if you will. Most people don't take cultural objects that seriously; when the public-at-large does invest in culture, it's usually in more accessible, simple stuff. And it can be hard for me to relate.
That said, it saddens me that some reviewers are taking to task the casual and misguided viewers of Breaking Bad that are apparently missing the main thematic points of the series. Not just that but these reviewers have coined a sticky pejorative: "Bad Fans". These so-called Bad Fans root for Walter White unquestioningly, no matter what evil he perpetrates. Bad Fans go out of their way not just to root for Walt but to elaborately justify his evils every step of the way. Here's a typical quote:
It's how I think.
And the underlying obsession here that ties these strands together is mostly for the various processes that take a cultural product from germ to fully-realized idea to production to receiver. In other words, when it comes to culture I'm interested in not just the proverbial sausages but in learning how they're made and how they're consumed (incidentally, both of which, in the case of actual sausages, are horrifying). And so the official Breaking Bad Podcast and the various reviewers have been invaluable to me, and I invest wild amounts of time soaking in everything I can about the creative process and critical reception of my favorite show.
(By the way, probably the most refreshing part of the Podcast is that Vince Gilligan is the first to admit his relative cluelessness about where the story is going in broad strokes. The writers seem to love letting characters dictate the causal action, leading to realistic plot and characterization. "Where's Walt's head at now?" is always the central impulse. They don't always know where that "chessboard approach" will lead them. So that's, uh, the one thing I have in common with Vince Gilligan as a writer!)
But anyway, precisely because of my obsessive way of looking at things, I tend to think and empathize more with creators and editors and critics (and the most dedicated fans) than I do with "the rabble" - that is, the casual fans - if you will. Most people don't take cultural objects that seriously; when the public-at-large does invest in culture, it's usually in more accessible, simple stuff. And it can be hard for me to relate.
That said, it saddens me that some reviewers are taking to task the casual and misguided viewers of Breaking Bad that are apparently missing the main thematic points of the series. Not just that but these reviewers have coined a sticky pejorative: "Bad Fans". These so-called Bad Fans root for Walter White unquestioningly, no matter what evil he perpetrates. Bad Fans go out of their way not just to root for Walt but to elaborately justify his evils every step of the way. Here's a typical quote:
If you seek to deny or minimize the parts of art that don't fit your reductive interpretation of Walt as a basically decent man, or a man who moves with a purpose and is somehow "badass," as opposed to the complex monster the show has actually presented over five seasons, you are in fact, as Nussbaum wrote in her piece on the scene, watching the show wrong. In fact, you're trying to turn a smart show into a stupid one. And you really should ask yourself why.
--Matt Zoller Seitz, "Seitz on Breaking Bad, and Why Viewers Need to Whitewash Walter White"
Rejected "Dexter" Spec Script
Hey, Pearls of Mystery readers. This is John, your precocious mopboy investigative journalist with an eye on the streets. In this case, literally: While trawling Hollywood streets on vacation with my family several years ago, looking for something to blog about, I noticed this short spec script sitting discarded on the curb, for the recently-ended television series "Dexter", with a big ol' "REJECTED" stamp across the front. No name, and efforts to find the author have been in vain. Here it is in its entirety. Strangely, the spec script has been formatted as a short story. Italics indicate Dexter's voiceover.
In DEXTER MORGAN's apartment. Enter DEXTER and DEB MORGAN. It's Christmastime and they are both wearing KNITTED SWEATERS. A CHRISTMAS TREE stands motionless in the corner.
"So let me get this straight," Deb said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "You're a serial killer, Dex?"
"Yes." How did she find out? Oh, right, all the people I killed.
"Dexter, you know you can't keep being a cop. This is awful!"
"Look, Deb, there's something you need to understand."
"What?"
"I only kill serial killers. Everyone I've killed has killed at least two people."
In DEXTER MORGAN's apartment. Enter DEXTER and DEB MORGAN. It's Christmastime and they are both wearing KNITTED SWEATERS. A CHRISTMAS TREE stands motionless in the corner.
"So let me get this straight," Deb said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "You're a serial killer, Dex?"
"Yes." How did she find out? Oh, right, all the people I killed.
"Dexter, you know you can't keep being a cop. This is awful!"
"Look, Deb, there's something you need to understand."
"What?"
"I only kill serial killers. Everyone I've killed has killed at least two people."
September 22, 2013
Cyril the Cynic Crashes the Optimist Convention
"We welcome you all to the Optimist Convention. We hope everything goes well... I mean... Of course we do!" Sam, an older woman with shoulder-length blonde hair and large, gold-rimmed bifocals, addressed the crowd with her trademark smile, which (like all optimists' smiles) was more world-weary and wounded than it let on.
The crowd applauded and everyone looked around in the large gym for others they could talk to. Surely the people would all be fun to meet and pleasant - perhaps they would even offer unheard-of opportunities, both social and professional! You might even meet that special someone you'd been dreaming of! Maybe someone would have an extra blender you could buy at a heavy discount! It was a networking event, after all, and it seemed full of promise to all in attendance.
Well, not all in attendance. Cyril the Cynic complained about the loudness of the gym, the required tags and lanyards bearing names, and the lacking refreshments. Cyril wandered about the Optimist Convention and saw self-interested people of every shape and size, of every grift and grind.
"Hey," Cyril said as he tapped his first 'mark' on the shoulder, "Hey, what's your scam? What's your angle?"
The crowd applauded and everyone looked around in the large gym for others they could talk to. Surely the people would all be fun to meet and pleasant - perhaps they would even offer unheard-of opportunities, both social and professional! You might even meet that special someone you'd been dreaming of! Maybe someone would have an extra blender you could buy at a heavy discount! It was a networking event, after all, and it seemed full of promise to all in attendance.
Well, not all in attendance. Cyril the Cynic complained about the loudness of the gym, the required tags and lanyards bearing names, and the lacking refreshments. Cyril wandered about the Optimist Convention and saw self-interested people of every shape and size, of every grift and grind.
"Hey," Cyril said as he tapped his first 'mark' on the shoulder, "Hey, what's your scam? What's your angle?"
September 20, 2013
Jim, Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job (Conclusion)
Chapter 1: Jim Still Has That New Cop Smell
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
September 19, 2013
Jim, Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 1: Jim Still Has That New Cop Smell
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
Jim, Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 1: Jim Still Has That New Cop Smell
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
Gigantic, Superfluous, Inevitable Coda About Breaking Bad
lets go to th mailbag
Yes, Virginia, you might think that. But you'd be wrong: That's not how statistics work, generally speaking; conditionally, the more words I have already written today, the more words I will write today, unless there's some systematic reason for a limit. And, I'll just stop you right there, time and effort are not limiting factors right now. Oh, and you might reason like, hey, he's already written enough, he must have exhausted all his thoughts for that day, so why is he still writing? The problem is that the impulse to write is almost statistically independent of the impulse to think things through enough to write well. People with nothing to say go on and on; people with brilliant thoughts stifle their words because they value privacy and may not believe their words are worth hearing.
If you want to write things that you've clearly thought through, you have to make sure both cylinders are firing. You can't have anxiety to a crippling extent about what you're writing, and you can't have, well, the impatience not to think through your piece so that it's worth writing and worth hearing. So yeah, when I start writing, I'll keep on writing, because it's very hard to stop. The hard part right now is thinking through whatever it is I say so that it's valid and worth presenting. As the old metaphor goes: it's cruise control, but you still have to steer.
P.S. There is no God, Virginia. Santa Claus is the Devil.
Wow, after that gigantic Breaking Bad piece, you must be plumb out of words, Alex! Heh. Is there a Santa Claus?
virginia, virginia
Yes, Virginia, you might think that. But you'd be wrong: That's not how statistics work, generally speaking; conditionally, the more words I have already written today, the more words I will write today, unless there's some systematic reason for a limit. And, I'll just stop you right there, time and effort are not limiting factors right now. Oh, and you might reason like, hey, he's already written enough, he must have exhausted all his thoughts for that day, so why is he still writing? The problem is that the impulse to write is almost statistically independent of the impulse to think things through enough to write well. People with nothing to say go on and on; people with brilliant thoughts stifle their words because they value privacy and may not believe their words are worth hearing.
If you want to write things that you've clearly thought through, you have to make sure both cylinders are firing. You can't have anxiety to a crippling extent about what you're writing, and you can't have, well, the impatience not to think through your piece so that it's worth writing and worth hearing. So yeah, when I start writing, I'll keep on writing, because it's very hard to stop. The hard part right now is thinking through whatever it is I say so that it's valid and worth presenting. As the old metaphor goes: it's cruise control, but you still have to steer.
P.S. There is no God, Virginia. Santa Claus is the Devil.
Alex, I was just thinking about that Breaking Bad piece you wrote, and how the stasis of the show is more about personnel and an stably unforgiving universe than any fixed style or even character traits, how characters are allowed to proceed logically and the only plot armor is against death, and even that may be subject to change as the series ends. ...
Gigantic, Inevitable, Superfluous Blogpost About Breaking Bad
Spoiler alert: Season 1 Spoilers ahead.
How to say something non-trivial about Breaking Bad? It seems the finest minds of our generation have set before themselves the task of deconstructing this massive cultural achievement - why it works, why it's different, why it's so popular, the nature of the protagonist, the roles of the various foils, the morality, the allusions, the influences the show drew upon, the influences the show has, the setting, the plot, the conflicts, and on and on and on... A couple weeks ago I even took on the subtle dance of mystery and drama in the fourth season finale.
And I've eaten it all up, truth be told. A lot of filler, but quite a lot of surprisingly good critique out there. (I only wish we as a culture would work on solving some of our problems from time to time instead of documenting them and complaining about them incredibly eloquently, myself included.) Still, out of all the brilliant thoughts that have passed from others into my ears, the subtle analysis from viewers unseasoned and well-seasoned with the tropes of television, and the dumb 4chan comments that turn out to be eerily smart in one sense, out of all of it, maybe I can still say something new.
First of all, if you haven't heard the Breaking Bad folks' podcast in all its sprawling, detail-oriented glory, you should; it's quite fascinating. It's right there, it's primary source material, and it will make you respect the people that make the show on every level as connoisseurs, team players, and great, down-to-earth thinkers alike. I just thought I'd get that out of the way. See, a recent episode ended on a cliffhanger and a well-known "this is what a character says before he probably dies" moment. And all across the Internet, knowing connoisseurs of the medium of television were giggling: "LOL he bought the Live-4-Ever boat just like McBain's partner before he dies" (The Simpsons did it). When the death happens in the next episode? Gilligan himself makes the same joke on that podcast about the cliffhanger, though it was recorded weeks before either episode was aired (and hence before those savvy Internet commenters knew what'd hit them!). It was a conscious decision by the writers, made with conscious implications for the plot, with full awareness of the cliches trodden upon. The next episode was almost inevitably a masterpiece, with the resolution of the cliffhanger being but one part of a 45-minute tour de force, and the cliffhanger justified itself many times over.
How to say something non-trivial about Breaking Bad? It seems the finest minds of our generation have set before themselves the task of deconstructing this massive cultural achievement - why it works, why it's different, why it's so popular, the nature of the protagonist, the roles of the various foils, the morality, the allusions, the influences the show drew upon, the influences the show has, the setting, the plot, the conflicts, and on and on and on... A couple weeks ago I even took on the subtle dance of mystery and drama in the fourth season finale.
And I've eaten it all up, truth be told. A lot of filler, but quite a lot of surprisingly good critique out there. (I only wish we as a culture would work on solving some of our problems from time to time instead of documenting them and complaining about them incredibly eloquently, myself included.) Still, out of all the brilliant thoughts that have passed from others into my ears, the subtle analysis from viewers unseasoned and well-seasoned with the tropes of television, and the dumb 4chan comments that turn out to be eerily smart in one sense, out of all of it, maybe I can still say something new.
First of all, if you haven't heard the Breaking Bad folks' podcast in all its sprawling, detail-oriented glory, you should; it's quite fascinating. It's right there, it's primary source material, and it will make you respect the people that make the show on every level as connoisseurs, team players, and great, down-to-earth thinkers alike. I just thought I'd get that out of the way. See, a recent episode ended on a cliffhanger and a well-known "this is what a character says before he probably dies" moment. And all across the Internet, knowing connoisseurs of the medium of television were giggling: "LOL he bought the Live-4-Ever boat just like McBain's partner before he dies" (The Simpsons did it). When the death happens in the next episode? Gilligan himself makes the same joke on that podcast about the cliffhanger, though it was recorded weeks before either episode was aired (and hence before those savvy Internet commenters knew what'd hit them!). It was a conscious decision by the writers, made with conscious implications for the plot, with full awareness of the cliches trodden upon. The next episode was almost inevitably a masterpiece, with the resolution of the cliffhanger being but one part of a 45-minute tour de force, and the cliffhanger justified itself many times over.
Alex Solves Deep Social Problems With Counterintuitive Takes And Overly Sensitive Introspection
I said a slur at a party last night and I feel really bad about it. Since this is where I go to proverbially "sit down at the typewriter, open my veins, and bleed" (Red Smith, cf. Quote Investigator.), I guess I'd better talk about it.
As a straight white male I've become obsessed and, truth be told, a little concerned, by the idea of privilege. The idea that the privileges I take for granted are much harder to earn for people in a less-advantaged position is, truth be told, not so hard to accept. The harder pill to swallow is the part where I may be completely ignorant of the privilege that I'm heir to, and, more embarrassingly, may be completely unaware of the things I say that belie my ignorance. I'm ignorant of my ignorance and, just as bad, am ignorant of my non-ignorance. So I have to grapple hard just for common ground, is what I'm saying. All this if I even think to try, which privilege means I generally don't have to. So in essence I'm stumbling blind through my own privilege. I'm benefiting from my privilege, and - since one cannot properly exempt one's self from, say, the search for jobs - these benefits are almost inevitably received and so subtly that I might never even know my privilege if not for sociology and anecdote.
And so I kind of have to wade through all the information and insights that advocacy groups and personal anecdotes provide. The only problem with this approach is, well, it's like trying to read a book in a foreign language, in a way. And not just an impartially-authored book but generally written by the directly and personally aggrieved.
As a straight white male I've become obsessed and, truth be told, a little concerned, by the idea of privilege. The idea that the privileges I take for granted are much harder to earn for people in a less-advantaged position is, truth be told, not so hard to accept. The harder pill to swallow is the part where I may be completely ignorant of the privilege that I'm heir to, and, more embarrassingly, may be completely unaware of the things I say that belie my ignorance. I'm ignorant of my ignorance and, just as bad, am ignorant of my non-ignorance. So I have to grapple hard just for common ground, is what I'm saying. All this if I even think to try, which privilege means I generally don't have to. So in essence I'm stumbling blind through my own privilege. I'm benefiting from my privilege, and - since one cannot properly exempt one's self from, say, the search for jobs - these benefits are almost inevitably received and so subtly that I might never even know my privilege if not for sociology and anecdote.
And so I kind of have to wade through all the information and insights that advocacy groups and personal anecdotes provide. The only problem with this approach is, well, it's like trying to read a book in a foreign language, in a way. And not just an impartially-authored book but generally written by the directly and personally aggrieved.
September 17, 2013
God Troubles
I have that "nice guys finish last" syndrome, at least when it comes to my relationship with the gods. Why won't they talk to me seriously? I'm perfectly self-deprecating, loyal, nice, thoughtful, aspirational, and helpful. I try. But it's all in vain. Sure, I don't think I offend the gods, and they're only too willing to tell me about how their newest convert is a selfish, cowardly man. But they never come calling after his fall from grace. They just keep chasing another whose path has strayed, when I'm right here, brooding and seething. I've always been right here, gods! You can do better! You have my number!
I mean, gods seem to be vaguely aware I exist but when it comes to bathing their immanent, heavenly love on someone I'm the last guy they call. I'm in the friend zone, where they seem to pity me - yes, albeit with infinite mercy - but pity doesn't pay the divine bills, doesn't satisfy the cosmic urges to see justice and purpose exacted with cosmic mercy upon the infinite plane of their existences. I guess I'll always be here in the friend zone.
Sure, I suppose I could get down on my knees and beg, like a chump. But how would that work? Or maybe I could finally take care to help someone else in a substantive way for a goddamn change instead of pretending abstractly like I'm such a caring fellow. I guess I could demonstrate that I'm a self-sufficient spirit that can survive at least a few goddamn minutes without a god's vindication, so that they don't have to feel like they're going to wind up leaving me helpless and dependent on them. I guess I could demonstrate that with the fortunes I've been given that I can be an active provider of spiritual energy and not just a successful passive equilibrium of one man's give and take. I guess I could finally admit that I don't just want the gods to passively give me comfort in times of strife but to actively glorify whatever unearned achievements I get for having been born intelligent, even though I'm ungrateful for that, too. If they only knew the power-mad fantasies I have... Hell, maybe we could even find common ground there! As a start, I guess I could check my mortal privilege at the door, given that for all the crap I have to deal with, it's probably ten times worse when you know you're going to be around forever, and I can't begin to imagine walking through a market and having passers-by constantly petitioning me like they've seen the face of God or something. Not that I could even imagine what it's like to be a god, haha... What a weird, embarrassing, gross thought. I don't care if they're omnipresent; I hope they never hear that part. I guess maybe I could acknowledge that I don't know what it's like, and that they've probably heard a thousand guys before give this whole speech before. Maybe I could just have a talk with the gods and, you know, be upfront and explain how I feel about them, not just asking them for emotional reciprocity like they exist for my pleasure.
But, nah: it's much easier to sit and complain. Gods are assholes.
I mean, gods seem to be vaguely aware I exist but when it comes to bathing their immanent, heavenly love on someone I'm the last guy they call. I'm in the friend zone, where they seem to pity me - yes, albeit with infinite mercy - but pity doesn't pay the divine bills, doesn't satisfy the cosmic urges to see justice and purpose exacted with cosmic mercy upon the infinite plane of their existences. I guess I'll always be here in the friend zone.
Sure, I suppose I could get down on my knees and beg, like a chump. But how would that work? Or maybe I could finally take care to help someone else in a substantive way for a goddamn change instead of pretending abstractly like I'm such a caring fellow. I guess I could demonstrate that I'm a self-sufficient spirit that can survive at least a few goddamn minutes without a god's vindication, so that they don't have to feel like they're going to wind up leaving me helpless and dependent on them. I guess I could demonstrate that with the fortunes I've been given that I can be an active provider of spiritual energy and not just a successful passive equilibrium of one man's give and take. I guess I could finally admit that I don't just want the gods to passively give me comfort in times of strife but to actively glorify whatever unearned achievements I get for having been born intelligent, even though I'm ungrateful for that, too. If they only knew the power-mad fantasies I have... Hell, maybe we could even find common ground there! As a start, I guess I could check my mortal privilege at the door, given that for all the crap I have to deal with, it's probably ten times worse when you know you're going to be around forever, and I can't begin to imagine walking through a market and having passers-by constantly petitioning me like they've seen the face of God or something. Not that I could even imagine what it's like to be a god, haha... What a weird, embarrassing, gross thought. I don't care if they're omnipresent; I hope they never hear that part. I guess maybe I could acknowledge that I don't know what it's like, and that they've probably heard a thousand guys before give this whole speech before. Maybe I could just have a talk with the gods and, you know, be upfront and explain how I feel about them, not just asking them for emotional reciprocity like they exist for my pleasure.
But, nah: it's much easier to sit and complain. Gods are assholes.
September 16, 2013
Jim, Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 1: Jim Still Has That New Cop Smell
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Programming Note: I would strongly advise you to read previous chapters before continuing.
September 15, 2013
Going Back To The Drawing Board
No other sentence in this piece will be much like most others you've read before, nor like one another. Formal experimentation is my game, but my endgame is to send you careening across your particular room with everything I can throw at you. I want to write something of chaos that keeps you guessing: with its merger of form and content, of style and substance, of the reader's experience and the piece itself: I want computers to tremble their Turing tapes and humans to bite and draw blood on lips and aliens to shudder as the waves hit them. Those aliens by chance have been hit by this piece and are presently on their way to an attack on me but won't get here until I'm dead at that rate. God bless the speed of light and everything at it hitting my eyes and your eyes and thence to our brains, at once blistering fast and setting a limit on all its potential usurpers. Every coherent written thing seems to try to set a limit on everything that comes thereafter. And it gives you some focus. But it's not very fast. Coherence doesn't jerk you out of a slumber.
Still, my ambition to start this piece were unruly; I'm already feeling doubts about the enterprise. Whosoever should tempt that "experimental" label gets lashed at justifiably with all manner of barbs - coherence is a reader's friend and spitting in its face is a great way to spark a spiteful exit from the piece. Add a character or two, give the reader someone to latch on to, and sit back and simply watch the neurological alchemy of written communication brew. Variation within limits, formal coherence, formal structure, and all the rest: It's all driving at one central theme or maxim: Give them a rhythm and don't test their patience. Because they will fail you, even the best, even yourself at a later date. They will all fail you if you test their patience too mightily and don't bother to earn every last word. They will fail you and they will laugh in ways you don't intend or they will stop reading. And that group includes myself in twenty years, my real, unforgiving audience: That's one that has no reason to stifle a laugh or a sympathetic, genuinely worried glance at the formal struggles of the protagonist, even knowing the outcome. I think I know how he'll feel about this piece, and, whatever the case, it feels like I'm back in high school, experimenting wildly with words for the sheer exhilarating sake of experimentation itself. I wonder if in 20 years he'll feel that way or if he'll just see the edges and get embarrassed. I guess he'll have to trust that it was fun to write. And what about the rest of you? Well, you'll just have to trust that I know where I'm going with this (I don't). I don't know where I'm going and this piece itself is testing patience. I'm worried right about now.
But maybe - and this is the point - maybe I can make a new, manic order from the wild and complex urges which produced the germ for this piece. That is to say: difference and chaos and departures from formal order as a sort of order itself, where from sentence to sentence you can follow me and yet will have to bear each sentence as a sort of undivided jab or blow in a barrage in the space of a breath, my footwork hopefully immaculate. And then comes the next sentence, the next blow, which is as different as the last. And now you're having a biological experience, which is promising given that the best writing in me produces such a biological response. I could never hope to explain it except to say it's like closing a door on a loved one and turning to leave for awhile and having hints of tears rise to the surface. I remember one time my mom was moving to San Diego about a year ago and she stopped over at my apartment and said Hi and after awhile she left my apartment for what might have been the last time and I said Good-bye and I hugged her and I waved until she was in her car and couldn't conceivably make eye contact with me even in her periphery, but she was still in sight and I felt sad so I turned towards a glass case of a poster in my dark apartment, eyes away from the glass door, and I saw the muddled impressionist black car going to the right away from me in the reflection of the glass poster and tears came up and I still remember it because I cried for a few minutes before going to the door and closing the shades and composing myself for whatever meaningless crap I'd planned for that morning. Yeah, that's what the end of a good short story is like to me, if a bit more muted; it's a biological feeling and it's unlike just about any other feeling, the feeling that something you love is gone and may never come back.
Maybe that's my end-game, using chaos and formal oddity to express the chaos and uncertainty of my mind right now. Whatever the case, abandoning all pretense of order gives the impression of pure emotions, which is about where I'm at right now, not depressed, not happy, not sad - just a pure, doughy shell of emotional responses and vulnerability. So mission accomplished, I guess. Sometimes, albeit not very often, I do feel like that, and it's not so much painful as it is overwhelming, hyper-aware, engaged. And I think a lot of people feel like that sometimes, but, to their credit, most of them didn't have to wrap it up in experimental, rambling sentences and pretend they were James Joyce.
Still, my ambition to start this piece were unruly; I'm already feeling doubts about the enterprise. Whosoever should tempt that "experimental" label gets lashed at justifiably with all manner of barbs - coherence is a reader's friend and spitting in its face is a great way to spark a spiteful exit from the piece. Add a character or two, give the reader someone to latch on to, and sit back and simply watch the neurological alchemy of written communication brew. Variation within limits, formal coherence, formal structure, and all the rest: It's all driving at one central theme or maxim: Give them a rhythm and don't test their patience. Because they will fail you, even the best, even yourself at a later date. They will all fail you if you test their patience too mightily and don't bother to earn every last word. They will fail you and they will laugh in ways you don't intend or they will stop reading. And that group includes myself in twenty years, my real, unforgiving audience: That's one that has no reason to stifle a laugh or a sympathetic, genuinely worried glance at the formal struggles of the protagonist, even knowing the outcome. I think I know how he'll feel about this piece, and, whatever the case, it feels like I'm back in high school, experimenting wildly with words for the sheer exhilarating sake of experimentation itself. I wonder if in 20 years he'll feel that way or if he'll just see the edges and get embarrassed. I guess he'll have to trust that it was fun to write. And what about the rest of you? Well, you'll just have to trust that I know where I'm going with this (I don't). I don't know where I'm going and this piece itself is testing patience. I'm worried right about now.
But maybe - and this is the point - maybe I can make a new, manic order from the wild and complex urges which produced the germ for this piece. That is to say: difference and chaos and departures from formal order as a sort of order itself, where from sentence to sentence you can follow me and yet will have to bear each sentence as a sort of undivided jab or blow in a barrage in the space of a breath, my footwork hopefully immaculate. And then comes the next sentence, the next blow, which is as different as the last. And now you're having a biological experience, which is promising given that the best writing in me produces such a biological response. I could never hope to explain it except to say it's like closing a door on a loved one and turning to leave for awhile and having hints of tears rise to the surface. I remember one time my mom was moving to San Diego about a year ago and she stopped over at my apartment and said Hi and after awhile she left my apartment for what might have been the last time and I said Good-bye and I hugged her and I waved until she was in her car and couldn't conceivably make eye contact with me even in her periphery, but she was still in sight and I felt sad so I turned towards a glass case of a poster in my dark apartment, eyes away from the glass door, and I saw the muddled impressionist black car going to the right away from me in the reflection of the glass poster and tears came up and I still remember it because I cried for a few minutes before going to the door and closing the shades and composing myself for whatever meaningless crap I'd planned for that morning. Yeah, that's what the end of a good short story is like to me, if a bit more muted; it's a biological feeling and it's unlike just about any other feeling, the feeling that something you love is gone and may never come back.
Maybe that's my end-game, using chaos and formal oddity to express the chaos and uncertainty of my mind right now. Whatever the case, abandoning all pretense of order gives the impression of pure emotions, which is about where I'm at right now, not depressed, not happy, not sad - just a pure, doughy shell of emotional responses and vulnerability. So mission accomplished, I guess. Sometimes, albeit not very often, I do feel like that, and it's not so much painful as it is overwhelming, hyper-aware, engaged. And I think a lot of people feel like that sometimes, but, to their credit, most of them didn't have to wrap it up in experimental, rambling sentences and pretend they were James Joyce.
Pearls of Mystery Talks Itself Into (And Out Of) Self-Deception
PROGRAMMING NOTE: As part of the long-standing rivalry between Pearls of Mystery and the media conglomerate ESPN, we will be attempting to publish 31 total pieces on this blog in the month of September (which, as you know, hath 30 days). This feature is called "31 for 30" and will be immeasurably better than the analogous "30 for 30" documentaries provided by ESPN. Now, it's a friendly rivalry, since I write for the Gothic Ginobili, which is a TrueHoop blog. But it will prove my ultimate feature-based superiority and I'd like to see them try to one-up me after this stunt, my most devious of all.
Have you ever accidentally told the truth to yourself? I do it all the time. Maybe it's just a writer's thing, but, for me, talking (internal monologue or otherwise) oftentimes precedes thinking. Like, I'll unintentionally say a sentence over and over and over in my head over the course of months (ex: "Aw, here it goes," Richard said with defeat.). Then, at some point - sometimes after the 100th iteration, sometimes years after the seemingly self-caused words first appear in my head - the falsifying flaw or the verifying breakthrough in the sentence becomes apparent. It's almost like the truth as I've known it has a rhythm in my head, and I know it when I hear it, but not perfectly... and saying some sentence multiple times to see if it fits that rhythm of truth is the only reliable way to know if the sentence is true. Incidentally, sometimes I'll hear a line of dialogue and that will inspire a piece or character here.
And sometimes - by seemingly random chance combined with random circumstances - I'll talk myself into a thought that I never would have thought to think. And, suddenly I've accidentally revealed something about myself or my situation that I hadn't ever realized or articulated before. It's remarkable. It's like having an outside observer inside your head - like having a historian with their grand sweeps to draw upon in the less-than-grand narrative of your life. That's why I said it might just be a writer's thing, but of course I'd have no way to confirm this, heh.
I had this experience yesterday. We'll get to that, but first, a bit of background: I lost my programming job a couple months ago, and it wasn't any sort of incident or angry exchange that caused the problem. No, it was as simple as business arithmetic: My productivity never got off the ground. While (of course) there were complicated, manifold reasons for this, the bottom line - the ultimate reason - is that I didn't learn much about programming and they didn't get much from me, and so it just wasn't working. It happens, and I haven't had much of an emotional response to it. Sunrise, sunset, and all that.
Have you ever accidentally told the truth to yourself? I do it all the time. Maybe it's just a writer's thing, but, for me, talking (internal monologue or otherwise) oftentimes precedes thinking. Like, I'll unintentionally say a sentence over and over and over in my head over the course of months (ex: "Aw, here it goes," Richard said with defeat.). Then, at some point - sometimes after the 100th iteration, sometimes years after the seemingly self-caused words first appear in my head - the falsifying flaw or the verifying breakthrough in the sentence becomes apparent. It's almost like the truth as I've known it has a rhythm in my head, and I know it when I hear it, but not perfectly... and saying some sentence multiple times to see if it fits that rhythm of truth is the only reliable way to know if the sentence is true. Incidentally, sometimes I'll hear a line of dialogue and that will inspire a piece or character here.
And sometimes - by seemingly random chance combined with random circumstances - I'll talk myself into a thought that I never would have thought to think. And, suddenly I've accidentally revealed something about myself or my situation that I hadn't ever realized or articulated before. It's remarkable. It's like having an outside observer inside your head - like having a historian with their grand sweeps to draw upon in the less-than-grand narrative of your life. That's why I said it might just be a writer's thing, but of course I'd have no way to confirm this, heh.
I had this experience yesterday. We'll get to that, but first, a bit of background: I lost my programming job a couple months ago, and it wasn't any sort of incident or angry exchange that caused the problem. No, it was as simple as business arithmetic: My productivity never got off the ground. While (of course) there were complicated, manifold reasons for this, the bottom line - the ultimate reason - is that I didn't learn much about programming and they didn't get much from me, and so it just wasn't working. It happens, and I haven't had much of an emotional response to it. Sunrise, sunset, and all that.
September 14, 2013
Jim, Chapter 1: Jim Still Has That New Cop Smell
Chapter 1: Jim Still Has That New Cop Smell
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
Chapter 2: Jim Follows Up On A Hunch
Chapter 3: Jim Makes Strudel at the Denzels' Place
Chapter 4: The Denzels Get Wet... With Laughter, That Is!
Chapter 5: Jim Finishes The Job
September 11, 2013
Tone And Perspective
One of the hardest things for me about writing has always been tone. Remember that Pete Prisco deconstruction I wrote a few weeks ago? Well, to put it mildly, the first draft of that piece was inflamed, inflammatory, and disgusted. The tone of the piece was rhetorical: How dare you sell the athletes you cover down the river? How dare you? Keith Olbermann did an excellent deconstruction along these lines himself, and it was necessary in its own way.
But my initial tone and perspective didn't work. To make my perspective personal by focusing on Prisco's personal biases and hypocrisies missed the point entirely: neither Prisco's sentiment nor his message were unique, and a casual crawl across the megahertz'd revealed that quite a few Internet commenters had taken this "the player knew the risks" argument to heart and in every imaginable direction. The perspective had to be more universal and impersonal. For much the same reasons, an emotional tone didn't work: What do you say to someone that feels that they're being entirely logical in thinking that the players knew the risks? After all, Joe Six-Pack of Peoria, Middle America isn't a shill for the NFL: he just thinks players that signed up for America's version of a gladiatorial battle also signed up for the concussions to an extent (not too unreasonable on its face). So taking an emotional tone wouldn't have worked either. The tone had to be rational and logical.
So in the end, I had to swallow my righteous pride and stifle my immediate sentiments and rewrite the first draft entirely along a far more logical and impersonal vein. My task became simpler and harder: To truly address the strongest possible point that Prisco was making (and, honestly, the only point of substance worth responding to). Now, I really, really like the end result. It worked out, unquestionably. But here's the kind of tragic, difficult thing: when I was writing the piece, I sincerely felt like I was being terribly condescending to every reader. I felt like I had dipped into Vulcan-style logic and was zealously needling an obvious vein of rational argument over and over. It felt monotonous and droning to me. I felt like I was writing with an almost-autistic disregard for Prisco's tone, like I hadn't picked up on the social cues of an odious inkwell of hackery into which Prisco had dipped his fountain pen.
But my initial tone and perspective didn't work. To make my perspective personal by focusing on Prisco's personal biases and hypocrisies missed the point entirely: neither Prisco's sentiment nor his message were unique, and a casual crawl across the megahertz'd revealed that quite a few Internet commenters had taken this "the player knew the risks" argument to heart and in every imaginable direction. The perspective had to be more universal and impersonal. For much the same reasons, an emotional tone didn't work: What do you say to someone that feels that they're being entirely logical in thinking that the players knew the risks? After all, Joe Six-Pack of Peoria, Middle America isn't a shill for the NFL: he just thinks players that signed up for America's version of a gladiatorial battle also signed up for the concussions to an extent (not too unreasonable on its face). So taking an emotional tone wouldn't have worked either. The tone had to be rational and logical.
So in the end, I had to swallow my righteous pride and stifle my immediate sentiments and rewrite the first draft entirely along a far more logical and impersonal vein. My task became simpler and harder: To truly address the strongest possible point that Prisco was making (and, honestly, the only point of substance worth responding to). Now, I really, really like the end result. It worked out, unquestionably. But here's the kind of tragic, difficult thing: when I was writing the piece, I sincerely felt like I was being terribly condescending to every reader. I felt like I had dipped into Vulcan-style logic and was zealously needling an obvious vein of rational argument over and over. It felt monotonous and droning to me. I felt like I was writing with an almost-autistic disregard for Prisco's tone, like I hadn't picked up on the social cues of an odious inkwell of hackery into which Prisco had dipped his fountain pen.
September 10, 2013
Happy's Landing
Quick programming note: Having just now completed the stunning horror manga "Gyo" by Junji Ito, I have concluded that I will never conceive of something so horrifying. I officially retire from the horror genre. There is nothing that I can say that could begin to match Junji Ito's "Gyo". Thanks to everyone that recommended "Gyo" by Junji Ito. I will now direct my energies to more fruitful endeavors. I'm done. No more horror for me. What would be the point? So, I'm done with horror.
So anyway, I don't know what got me to thinking about this, but, out of sheer natural curiosity, I got to thinking about stories where a) a character remains alive at the end and b) the story is sad precisely because that character remains alive. And I would just like to do a quick taxonomy of those stories. Where appropriate, I've included relevant examples.
So anyway, I don't know what got me to thinking about this, but, out of sheer natural curiosity, I got to thinking about stories where a) a character remains alive at the end and b) the story is sad precisely because that character remains alive. And I would just like to do a quick taxonomy of those stories. Where appropriate, I've included relevant examples.
September 7, 2013
That Party at RJ's: The "You Know" Gambit
In unbroken, single-sentence rants, Richard Jefferson can go in a dozen directions in just a few minutes of conversation. Jefferson will, as they say, "talk your ear off." A notable tendency is the legendary You Know Gambit that Jefferson unconsciously employs constantly. The Gambit is such: Vocalized pauses in the form of "you know" punctuate his speech around words like "of" and "and" and allow Jefferson to continuously, you know, string clauses together, you know, until the sun burns hot and then cold, you know, and we all perish in the heat death of, you know, all that has been and will be, entropy having torn apart all non-trivial entities except, you know, for that holy droning of the You Know Gambit which continues unabated, you know, having wormed its way into the essence of being.
The key humor for me, you know, in this tic is that even if you yourself, you know, do not know at all where the speaker is taking you with this Gambit nor agree with the proposition after the logical connective, you know, you still sort of feel like you do have a justified true belief in that proposition, just because of the rhythmic deployment of the "you know", if you get what I'm, you know, driving at. If you don't get what I'm driving at, well, you know, that's precisely the point.
The key humor for me, you know, in this tic is that even if you yourself, you know, do not know at all where the speaker is taking you with this Gambit nor agree with the proposition after the logical connective, you know, you still sort of feel like you do have a justified true belief in that proposition, just because of the rhythmic deployment of the "you know", if you get what I'm, you know, driving at. If you don't get what I'm driving at, well, you know, that's precisely the point.
September 5, 2013
The Most Important Question
Q: Are you obsessed with Richard Jefferson? Straight-up. No jokes, Alex. This is the moment of truth.
A: Nope, but because I'm a blogger I can't just give you a one-word answer. When someone on Twitter lightly implied that my large sub-oeuvre of RJ write-ups was evidence of an actual obsession, I became defensive.
See, I've seen interviews with two of the great character actors of our generation, Stephen Colbert and Bryan Cranston. Cranston takes a hot bath to unwind from Walter White/Heisenberg. Colbert quoted his comedy roots in a Second City saying: "Wear your character as lightly as a cap."
And while I am a certifiably weird person, I've never had any problem doing taking the cap off or putting the cap on. Wearing different caps (hopefully the range of this blog is some bit of testimony to that), combining characters I've built, etc. Not to say it's always easy to figure out how to do a certain thing, and a lot of the reason I write as RJ so much is because:
a) it's an especially easy cap to wear and take off, dag namit, and
b) RJ genuinely is a fun and satisfying character to write as that helps create dramatically interesting situations.
Check out this from the introduction of my RJ-meets-Mark Jackson piece (actually written about 8 months before RJ was traded to the Warriors):
So yeah, Jefferson's character is a convenient literary device and a fun cap to wear. That's honestly all I would need to justify how much I've used RJ.
That said, you'd be forgiven for thinking I have a sincere obsession or fascination or whatever. First of all, you wouldn't know this, but I'm a young musician and (arguably) an accomplished composer. And so my mind works in rhythms and timbres, and I hear dialogue and prose (often fully-formed) hundreds of times over in my head. And, over long periods of silence, the dialogue and prose shifts with natural rhythms as with a Brian Wilson melody baking in the California sun as he drives along the ocean's shore (not my original image, but I'll be damned if I can remember where it came from). Phrases tend to repeat endlessly in my head, and I'd be lying if "Richard Jefferson" weren't a perfect name for this kind of unconscious audio synthesis. And it's sometimes something I just think of altogether randomly: I'll say something amusing and self-deprecating and I'll be like, "If I had RJ say that that would be really funny. Heh."
And yeah, the tattoo and the ears and eyes make me laugh. But believe me when I say there is nothing mean-spirited or obsessive about it: See, in some sense I'm laughing at myself: my Richard Jefferson character is indeed based on a combination of Richard Jefferson in interviews and myself in a lot of ways. Especially the clumsy, deer-in-the-headlights on-court stumbling that anyone that has ever had to help me move or asked me to do something physically simple knows well. I'm clumsy, and altogether more reasonable and thoughtful than what I can put into action on the stage of life. I can relate to RJ's absurdity as I've painted it; that absurdity you see is actually mine.
So yes, I wear my character as lightly as a cap. And in a couple ways, I can't take the cap completely off, but a) that part of the cap has always been a part of me, and b) most of this is because I designed the cap to fit my head really well, if that makes sense. Also, there are a few times when my RJ character is just not funny... but as a comic creation I think it has to be one of my favorites, and when it stops being funny I'll let you know.
Follow-up: "Okay, then, can you at least admit it's self-indulgent and weird and wrong?"
A: "(ethered silence)"
A: Nope, but because I'm a blogger I can't just give you a one-word answer. When someone on Twitter lightly implied that my large sub-oeuvre of RJ write-ups was evidence of an actual obsession, I became defensive.
See, I've seen interviews with two of the great character actors of our generation, Stephen Colbert and Bryan Cranston. Cranston takes a hot bath to unwind from Walter White/Heisenberg. Colbert quoted his comedy roots in a Second City saying: "Wear your character as lightly as a cap."
And while I am a certifiably weird person, I've never had any problem doing taking the cap off or putting the cap on. Wearing different caps (hopefully the range of this blog is some bit of testimony to that), combining characters I've built, etc. Not to say it's always easy to figure out how to do a certain thing, and a lot of the reason I write as RJ so much is because:
a) it's an especially easy cap to wear and take off, dag namit, and
b) RJ genuinely is a fun and satisfying character to write as that helps create dramatically interesting situations.
Check out this from the introduction of my RJ-meets-Mark Jackson piece (actually written about 8 months before RJ was traded to the Warriors):
This took me by surprise. Of all the players likely to be considered for a job in the surreal and paranormal, Richard Jefferson was right below Ron Artest and Deshawn Stevenson. He had seen it all in this league, and he had an acute sense for what was abnormal, largely because he was the most average player in the history of the league: What was abnormal was merely what was unlike Jefferson.
"Richard Jefferson and I meet Coach Mark Jackson"For me that's the impulse - RJ is such a normal, average person, so reasonable and well-spoken... that any other figure in the league becomes a foil around Jefferson, and their normal characteristics (or their characteristics as I've conveniently defined them) become exaggerated.
So yeah, Jefferson's character is a convenient literary device and a fun cap to wear. That's honestly all I would need to justify how much I've used RJ.
That said, you'd be forgiven for thinking I have a sincere obsession or fascination or whatever. First of all, you wouldn't know this, but I'm a young musician and (arguably) an accomplished composer. And so my mind works in rhythms and timbres, and I hear dialogue and prose (often fully-formed) hundreds of times over in my head. And, over long periods of silence, the dialogue and prose shifts with natural rhythms as with a Brian Wilson melody baking in the California sun as he drives along the ocean's shore (not my original image, but I'll be damned if I can remember where it came from). Phrases tend to repeat endlessly in my head, and I'd be lying if "Richard Jefferson" weren't a perfect name for this kind of unconscious audio synthesis. And it's sometimes something I just think of altogether randomly: I'll say something amusing and self-deprecating and I'll be like, "If I had RJ say that that would be really funny. Heh."
So yes, I wear my character as lightly as a cap. And in a couple ways, I can't take the cap completely off, but a) that part of the cap has always been a part of me, and b) most of this is because I designed the cap to fit my head really well, if that makes sense. Also, there are a few times when my RJ character is just not funny... but as a comic creation I think it has to be one of my favorites, and when it stops being funny I'll let you know.
Follow-up: "Okay, then, can you at least admit it's self-indulgent and weird and wrong?"
A: "(ethered silence)"
September 4, 2013
Holmes and Homeland Part 2: Breaking Boogaloo
Whew! That last post on Holmes and Homeland was really long. I warned you, though. You can't say I didn't warn you. Anyway, whatever the case, I feel the length was justified by the subtlety of the concept. Plus, that disclaimer. If you still read even with that disclaimer, my hat's off to you and I hope I justified the time spent and I have a perfect in-built excuse if you didn't (still, sorry).
Whatever the case, now that I've got the concept down, I'd like to talk about the ending of Breaking Bad Season 4. Why? Well, because it's (as artificial intelligence would put it) a positive example of drama and mystery working together seamlessly, whereas Homeland is a negative example. In terms of learning, we'd be hard-pressed to get the full lesson without at least a few positive and a few negative examples. If my thesis is (in an oversimplified way): "Mystery and drama can clash favorably or unfavorably" then Breaking Bad S4 and Homeland S1 are great examples of both halves of this equation. In fact, a casual rewatch of S4E11 ("Crawl Space") was what inspired the whole sorry enterprise of this and the previous post.
I don't think that first post is any sort of prerequisite for what follows. What's more: This is about half as long as the first Holmes piece, so still pretty darn long, but much more manageable. Anyway, let's get to it...
__________________________________
SPOILER LINE START (FIRST SPOILER: THERE ISN'T A "SPOILER LINE END". PLEASE STOP READING THIS POST IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN SEASON 4 OF BREAKING BAD. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT.)
Whatever the case, now that I've got the concept down, I'd like to talk about the ending of Breaking Bad Season 4. Why? Well, because it's (as artificial intelligence would put it) a positive example of drama and mystery working together seamlessly, whereas Homeland is a negative example. In terms of learning, we'd be hard-pressed to get the full lesson without at least a few positive and a few negative examples. If my thesis is (in an oversimplified way): "Mystery and drama can clash favorably or unfavorably" then Breaking Bad S4 and Homeland S1 are great examples of both halves of this equation. In fact, a casual rewatch of S4E11 ("Crawl Space") was what inspired the whole sorry enterprise of this and the previous post.
I don't think that first post is any sort of prerequisite for what follows. What's more: This is about half as long as the first Holmes piece, so still pretty darn long, but much more manageable. Anyway, let's get to it...
__________________________________
SPOILER LINE START (FIRST SPOILER: THERE ISN'T A "SPOILER LINE END". PLEASE STOP READING THIS POST IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN SEASON 4 OF BREAKING BAD. I HIGHLY RECOMMEND IT.)
Holmes And Homeland
This is a really long post, mostly for my benefit. This is a long piece that argues for a subtle flaw I see in a lot of drama. It's a construct that has helped me understand how writing should proceed, and I'm sure someone will get something from this. But it's also over 3000 words long. Fair warning. -Alex
"Homeland" is such a disappointing show. True, I've only seen the first of 2+ seasons, but this first season suffers from such a fundamental problem of drama that it bears a little bit [okay it ended up being like 3000 words guys] of examination.
Quick refresher: The two main characters are Carrie Mathison (played by Claire Danes), a mentally unstable, generally tweaky CIA agent, and Nicholas Brody (Damian Lewis), a mysterious U.S. Marine sniper captured by Al-Qaeda and bin Laden for several years (okay they changed all the names of the terrorists and organizations, heh). Brody is recovered by the CIA into the U.S. at the very start of the show and Mathison - who had heard credibly that al-Qaeda had "turned" an agent - is immediately suspicious of Brody. Brody and Mathison begin a complicated cat-and-mouse game involving unlawful intelligence, hand gestures, Islam, surreal romantic getaways, and mental illness. Brody tries to deal with his family in the wake of his long absence, and Mathison tries to deal with her illness.
And it's all a very neat premise, over-the-top enough to give us unforgettable images, but grounded enough to give us poignant characters. My personal experience was that "Homeland" was eminently watchable: The first season certainly had some great scenes, had excellent production values, and even had a few staggeringly awesome narrative constructions. But, in general narrative terms, it didn't stick to its guns and this in turn just made everything about the story and characters feel muddled and uneven. The bottom line: The writing wasn't taken seriously enough. The ending of the first season vexes me to this day (we'll get to that), and it suffers from the "Dexter" problem (among others) of ending the way that is most convenient for the television show instead of the way that is most narratively sound. It's an ending that poisons everything before it and even makes us re-evaluate what we liked in the first place.
"Homeland" is such a disappointing show. True, I've only seen the first of 2+ seasons, but this first season suffers from such a fundamental problem of drama that it bears a little bit [okay it ended up being like 3000 words guys] of examination.
Quick refresher: The two main characters are Carrie Mathison (played by Claire Danes), a mentally unstable, generally tweaky CIA agent, and Nicholas Brody (Damian Lewis), a mysterious U.S. Marine sniper captured by Al-Qaeda and bin Laden for several years (okay they changed all the names of the terrorists and organizations, heh). Brody is recovered by the CIA into the U.S. at the very start of the show and Mathison - who had heard credibly that al-Qaeda had "turned" an agent - is immediately suspicious of Brody. Brody and Mathison begin a complicated cat-and-mouse game involving unlawful intelligence, hand gestures, Islam, surreal romantic getaways, and mental illness. Brody tries to deal with his family in the wake of his long absence, and Mathison tries to deal with her illness.
And it's all a very neat premise, over-the-top enough to give us unforgettable images, but grounded enough to give us poignant characters. My personal experience was that "Homeland" was eminently watchable: The first season certainly had some great scenes, had excellent production values, and even had a few staggeringly awesome narrative constructions. But, in general narrative terms, it didn't stick to its guns and this in turn just made everything about the story and characters feel muddled and uneven. The bottom line: The writing wasn't taken seriously enough. The ending of the first season vexes me to this day (we'll get to that), and it suffers from the "Dexter" problem (among others) of ending the way that is most convenient for the television show instead of the way that is most narratively sound. It's an ending that poisons everything before it and even makes us re-evaluate what we liked in the first place.
September 3, 2013
1217 Reasons Clickbait is Evil (each word is an unnumbered, distinct reason with self-contained justification)
Here's a confession: I care about you, Reader. Not in terms of what I can monetize you for, but in terms of acknowledging that you're a real person or persons, probably, mostly. And that you're a person that:
This isn't hypothetical: As for (a), it's just good to know that someone likes it. I write for myself but it's nice to make someone else's day a little brighter. As for (b), I'm not just blowing smoke. I often learn from your feedback after you call me out when I write indefensibly difficult sentences, when I take a premise too far, when I take a premise not far enough, when I dawdle with the intro a bit, or when I should have dawdled with the intro and didn't. Actually, yesterday, when I wrote that fantasy series intro, that piece's composition was about 50% txting of the teen characters and 50% longform prose when they meet in person. Someone called me out on it and the piece has been fixed to be 100% txting. Because that's way better.
And, whatever the hell you are, my Reader, I know that if you're reading this, you don't want your time wasted. Oh, you might want me to pass time, but you want me to make it worth your while, not necessarily in practical terms but in artistic terms. Even if you're tired and looking to unwind with a lighthearted piece, time is the most precious commodity in the world, and there's something philosophically important for me to treating your time as such.
I'm not going to tear down others to make myself look better, and I wouldn't be able to do so successfully: There are innumerable articles and sites out there that are sharp, brilliant, and entertaining (no doubt you're aware of many of them). But simply to get to the heart of the matter: I think I got my respect for readers' time in part as a real backlash against this recent, cynical trend of clickbait that seems to be part of the proverbial sausage of every big publication targeted at younger people.
- a) can consummate the purpose of this blog by responding emotionally to the stuff I put out there
- b) can give me crucial feedback. Believe me: I have like six readers, I'll listen if you tell me something constructive.
This isn't hypothetical: As for (a), it's just good to know that someone likes it. I write for myself but it's nice to make someone else's day a little brighter. As for (b), I'm not just blowing smoke. I often learn from your feedback after you call me out when I write indefensibly difficult sentences, when I take a premise too far, when I take a premise not far enough, when I dawdle with the intro a bit, or when I should have dawdled with the intro and didn't. Actually, yesterday, when I wrote that fantasy series intro, that piece's composition was about 50% txting of the teen characters and 50% longform prose when they meet in person. Someone called me out on it and the piece has been fixed to be 100% txting. Because that's way better.
And, whatever the hell you are, my Reader, I know that if you're reading this, you don't want your time wasted. Oh, you might want me to pass time, but you want me to make it worth your while, not necessarily in practical terms but in artistic terms. Even if you're tired and looking to unwind with a lighthearted piece, time is the most precious commodity in the world, and there's something philosophically important for me to treating your time as such.
I'm not going to tear down others to make myself look better, and I wouldn't be able to do so successfully: There are innumerable articles and sites out there that are sharp, brilliant, and entertaining (no doubt you're aware of many of them). But simply to get to the heart of the matter: I think I got my respect for readers' time in part as a real backlash against this recent, cynical trend of clickbait that seems to be part of the proverbial sausage of every big publication targeted at younger people.
Ant Then There Were None
I'm trying to get the bad words out of the way so I can write good words. I know it doesn't quite work that way, but I feel like this is more a temporary barrier than a long-term break in the action. Like, have you ever had ants and just said... screw it, there's only like 200. And just kill them all one by one for 400 seconds, just using your fullest understanding of leverage and every limb and every wile in your faculties. Because you're not going to shoo them and kill them later, because they're not going anywhere. And so you kill them, and it's a short-term solution, so maybe worry about some of the systemic changes later, cleaning more often, putting caps on things, and all that, like, later. That's where I'm at with writing. I'm killing the ants. I'm writing the bad words now, so that the good words will come. And once the bad words are killed I'll be more organized about how I kill bad words. But later. Now these are just the ants.
Wow, that metaphor worked really well. I guess I'm cured. And I didn't even need 200 bad words. Heh.
:drops mic:
Wow, that metaphor worked really well. I guess I'm cured. And I didn't even need 200 bad words. Heh.
:drops mic:
September 2, 2013
Chapter 1 of a Young Adult Fantasy Series
[sup
Tom gets a text message from a number he's never seen before.
Politely he answers.
Politely he answers.
n/m lol}
[plane's goin down
wat lol}
[plane's goin down
holy shit a plane just crashed a few blox away omg}
omg}
[OMG XD. I caused.
wat?}
[how else could i have sent that txt
look, i just met u, i barely no who u r at ths pt. bb. thx, but bb. dont even want 2 deal w/ u}
[i did it w/ magic do u want to no magic
not th kind of magic that hurt people}
[i wil hurt ppl if u dont learn magic from me XD
y shud i tho}
[to stop me from hurting ppl lol
can the magic help ppl 2?}
[of course XD
...}
fine}
ambulances everywhere wtf is wrong w/ u}
[I had to, Thomas. I had to do that.
what... dave?}
[Yes, I'm your brother, Thomas. Come to your room and we'll discuss it.
September 1, 2013
The Phoenix of Self-Actualization
I hear the whispers in my head that tell me the things I need to do. Do the dishes, wash your clothes, read that essay, spruce up the place, start cooking, get some fresh air. Survive, in so many words. And a lot of it goes unheeded and undone. And yet I survive. I stay out of harm's way and I try to build something for tomorrow while leaving today only a partial wreck. I avoid stress, I stay clean, I keep my priorities intact. And I survive.
A certain portion of every institution's resources go towards the goal of that institution's self-preservation. Collapse of an institution amounts to failure of this self-preserving portion against a threat; internal collapse simply means that the fatal threat had resided within the organization. With most institutions, this crucial proportion - this "army", if you will - is large, for without self-preservation, an institution cannot fulfill its essential functions. Without an army, an institution is simply waiting for the slightest change in the winds to bring the institution to non-existence or to forced, on-the-fly adaptation.
This is true for institutions and true also for individuals. And self-preservation is a strong impulse for the mass of healthy individuals, of which I'll humbly count myself. And yet - and this is the kicker - I have a seriously distorted instinct of short-term self-preservation, to the extent that I'm incredibly fearful - paranoid, even - of deliberately "wasting" time with low-yield, essential long-term things. My army seems to be dedicated to maximizing the intrinsic value of every moment, pushing sensory feelers in every direction for the next, most potent stimulation. And the principal consequence of this is that I'm in a bit of a funk. And the essential textures and timbres of this funk are well-acquainted to me. I don't clean very often because who would waste time with something so trivial? You can't hear a symphony while you vacuum! And this impulse works to the detriment of long-term self-preservation. I go off the grid, avoid stress, create comfort and flourishing short-term environments... and people worry about me, I gain a bit of weight, my room is not clean, and my laundry doesn't get done. Subjectively, I feel happy, I feel right, but it's not a sustainable existence.
This is my challenge, and, with the most wavering of attention spans always by nature looking for the next stimulation, it's not an insubstantial challenge. And maybe the trick for me is to note that the goals I get the most benefit towards when I'm in this mode - artistic input and artistic output - are distorted and lessened somewhat by the one-track nature of the simple life. I may have more vivid dreams and read more vivid horror, but it's at the expense of a more vivid reality and the natural horrors of a life well-spent (this clause is how you know you're reading Pearls of Mystery, heh). And, while "read a lot of good stuff" is the single best piece of advice you can give to writer's block, and in sheer mechanical terms there's almost nothing better (besides "write a lot of bad stuff after reading a lot of good stuff"). But "live a life full of complicated and ambivalent experiences" is probably even better. Music is great, but I'm sure it would be better if I were on a campus all day, or talking to more people about bands.
So maybe it's time to live a little, which, if you've been following me so far, means in the short-term sense to die a little. That spark of life in me is not so much right now just a candle of hope and inspiration as it is an overpowered torch to the future, too strong and too unfocused. I need to take that fire and apply it to the bigger and the longer-term questions of life, not just how to write that next piece that five people will read. No, instead, I need to use that fire to rocket myself into the sky, and too close to the sun, super-heating my wings before diving back to Earth as ash, spreading my ashes among the sea of opportunity that will flow to different shores all across the world, finally then reconstituting myself as the world on fire, a phoenix of self-actualization. And then, as that phoenix, burning a path across that marvelous sky, I can find a cafe with a Wi-Fi connection and write a piece about it that five people will read.
A certain portion of every institution's resources go towards the goal of that institution's self-preservation. Collapse of an institution amounts to failure of this self-preserving portion against a threat; internal collapse simply means that the fatal threat had resided within the organization. With most institutions, this crucial proportion - this "army", if you will - is large, for without self-preservation, an institution cannot fulfill its essential functions. Without an army, an institution is simply waiting for the slightest change in the winds to bring the institution to non-existence or to forced, on-the-fly adaptation.
This is true for institutions and true also for individuals. And self-preservation is a strong impulse for the mass of healthy individuals, of which I'll humbly count myself. And yet - and this is the kicker - I have a seriously distorted instinct of short-term self-preservation, to the extent that I'm incredibly fearful - paranoid, even - of deliberately "wasting" time with low-yield, essential long-term things. My army seems to be dedicated to maximizing the intrinsic value of every moment, pushing sensory feelers in every direction for the next, most potent stimulation. And the principal consequence of this is that I'm in a bit of a funk. And the essential textures and timbres of this funk are well-acquainted to me. I don't clean very often because who would waste time with something so trivial? You can't hear a symphony while you vacuum! And this impulse works to the detriment of long-term self-preservation. I go off the grid, avoid stress, create comfort and flourishing short-term environments... and people worry about me, I gain a bit of weight, my room is not clean, and my laundry doesn't get done. Subjectively, I feel happy, I feel right, but it's not a sustainable existence.
This is my challenge, and, with the most wavering of attention spans always by nature looking for the next stimulation, it's not an insubstantial challenge. And maybe the trick for me is to note that the goals I get the most benefit towards when I'm in this mode - artistic input and artistic output - are distorted and lessened somewhat by the one-track nature of the simple life. I may have more vivid dreams and read more vivid horror, but it's at the expense of a more vivid reality and the natural horrors of a life well-spent (this clause is how you know you're reading Pearls of Mystery, heh). And, while "read a lot of good stuff" is the single best piece of advice you can give to writer's block, and in sheer mechanical terms there's almost nothing better (besides "write a lot of bad stuff after reading a lot of good stuff"). But "live a life full of complicated and ambivalent experiences" is probably even better. Music is great, but I'm sure it would be better if I were on a campus all day, or talking to more people about bands.
So maybe it's time to live a little, which, if you've been following me so far, means in the short-term sense to die a little. That spark of life in me is not so much right now just a candle of hope and inspiration as it is an overpowered torch to the future, too strong and too unfocused. I need to take that fire and apply it to the bigger and the longer-term questions of life, not just how to write that next piece that five people will read. No, instead, I need to use that fire to rocket myself into the sky, and too close to the sun, super-heating my wings before diving back to Earth as ash, spreading my ashes among the sea of opportunity that will flow to different shores all across the world, finally then reconstituting myself as the world on fire, a phoenix of self-actualization. And then, as that phoenix, burning a path across that marvelous sky, I can find a cafe with a Wi-Fi connection and write a piece about it that five people will read.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)