What Would You Do For...

My younger brother and I were driving to Blockbuster the other night in search of less-than-mindless entertainment (which turned out to be Tony Ja's "Ong Bak: The Thai Warrior," a decent martial arts film in terms of ridiculous stunts and such, but no "Hero" or anything) when he turned and said to me out of the clear blue, "Okay, I'll pay you...twenty dollars to get out of the car and go jump in that mud puddle." He pointed to a large, deep, construction-site mud puddle by the side of the road.

"Mmmm, not a chance."

He wasn't giving up that easily: "Come on, you get your feet a little wet-"

"Try soaking wet, and muddy, and freezing - it's twenty degrees out there, and why are we having this conversation anyway? I'm not doing it, idiot." I was pretty set on my stance.

"Okay, how about five hundred dollars?"

I replied with a simple, "no," but it was preceded by a minute pause of exactly the right length to let him know that he had a foot in the door. If you’re going to show strength in sibling battles, you must not hesitate, and I had.

This is the point at which we must give my brother credit for his knowledge of me and his ability to yank my chain, or at least to bring up situations which make me morally uncomfortable. Brothers are good at these things. He had no intention of paying me half a grand to go jump in a mud puddle, and I know this, and he knows I know this (and back and forth and back and etc.), but he had a point, and he kept pressing it:

"How about ten thousand dollars?"

Again, payment was not being offered so much as the theory of payment was being put forth. What would I do for ten grand? Look like an idiot? Ruin a pair of shoes while getting my feet cold, wet, and muddy? Well, dammit, yes, I would, and so would he. And so would you, I suspect.

In the world of hypothetical games, "What Would You Do For...", a tamer cousin of the downright sadistic "Would You Rather...", has always bugged me. This isn’t any kind of high-minded moral objection, but rather a simple irritation with my own relative servitude to money. No, I would not do a shot of Steak –n– Shake hot pepper oil for five bucks, because I am not a monkey here to dance for your amusement. But yes, I would do the same for nine thousand bucks, because I am a monkey here to dance expensively for your amusement. Bottom line: It bothers me that I have a price. There is a part of me that feels very strongly that I should stick to my guns no matter what, and that selling out for a fiver is no different than selling out for the price of a semi-decent used car. This part, however, is quickly squashed at the prospect of large sums of cash, the practical power of which is substantial and undeniable. In terms of real value, the cost of burning mouth, watering eyes, and likely yakking in a Steak –n– Shake restroom is tiny compared to the benefit of nine grand. Plus, I’d be providing entertainment for others (although it would be, obviously, entertainment of the “dance, monkey, dance!” variety, which predictably, I detest).

The flip side of this hypothetical is paying someone else to do stupid things, which I find equally uncomfortable because a) I’m not a “dance, monkey, dance!” kind of person and b) I can’t really afford it. To me, it is not worth five bucks to watch some idiot put himself in a situation of ridicule or severe pain or even mild discomfort. People who do these things are usually desperate for attention, and I don’t like financing their self-destruction.

Unless.

Unless – and here we come to the great caveat that mitigates as many things as does money – the scenario results in genuine hilarity. Solid, worthwhile comedy justifies a wide variety of idiocies. I’m not talking about “ha ha ha, that idiot is going off to yak in the bathroom” humor, but the unexpected and bizarre comedy that results from spontaneous but brilliant actions. This is where the Reddi-Whip cooler comes in.

Having balked at the price of chocolate items at Blockbuster, we had gone to the grocery store in search of cost-effective M&Ms. At the far end of the candy aisle, plugged in and running but strangely empty, sat the following:




My brother is not one to miss this sort of an opportunity, and knowing that I would probably say no, he quickly posed the following question: “Will you give me five dollars to climb into that Reddi-wip cooler?”

Again, chain effectively yanked. But he meant it too, and again, I hesitated just long enough before declining to indicate that my position might be set more in Jell-O than in stone. A five minute debate ensued, involving the variables (the sliding door on the top would come completely off, allowing easy access), the risk (it was pretty late at night and nobody was paying much attention) and the payoff (person in Reddi-wip cooler, duh). After he talked me out of every single one of my objections with the always-effective “What’s the worst that could happen?”, I finally squashed that little voice.

With a resigned, “We are going to get thrown out of the grocery store,” I agreed to pay up:










As you can see, he wouldn’t quite fit. Apparently, the designers at Reddi-wip had not intended their coolers to be used for human storage. Aside from that, the operation was a complete success. The act went unnoticed by the grocery authorities, nobody ruined their shoes or threw up, we got some quality photos, and my brother got to emerge triumphantly from a container that said “Let the fun out” on it. That was five dollars well-spent.

It is very important to remain immature in certain parts of your life. Do not forget this. Also, there is a very notable difference between Stupid Immature and Funny Immature. Choose wisely. And get paid for it, where possible.

Guhhhhhh....

(Ten minutes of Thanksgiving-related ramblings. Nothing terribly exciting or original, but I'm operating under the influence of lots and lots of food.)

"Guhhhhhh," for the record, is roughly the sound that my entire body is making after having consumed the first of two (there are some upsides of having divorced parents) Thanksgiving festivals of debauchery. The sound is one that expresses the heights of satisfaction and discomfort, happiness and complete lethargy. Life is good following a Thanksgiving feast, even if it hurts a little.

Every year, I ask myself why I don't eat Thanksgiving dinner on more days than this one, because it is one of the genuine food joys of the year. Today makes me believe that gravy really needs to be a more common part of my diet. Stuffing? Definitely. There is a school of thought that argues that uncommon occurrences are more precious because of their rarity. If you celebrated your birthday seven times a year, it wouldn't be nearly as important and fun. This post-Thanksgiving bliss makes me discount that theory altogether. I could eat turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, corn mush, and rolls (sometimes I think that all I need are really good rolls) on a weekly basis without hesitation. I think I would probably weigh about 325 in under a month, but I would be a deeply satisfied large person.

As mentioned, my parents are divorced, which means an annual Thanksgiving double-dip. You might think that this would result in some level of stomach exhaustion or overwhelming urge to die rather than face two dining assaults of such high caliber with only a five hour break in between, but this is not the case. I love both moments of indulgence equally, and consume with exuberance at both opportunities. I think part of my point here (in addition to the obvious and deeply true notion that I am incredibly thankful for all of the amazing things in my life, the chance to eat tons of good food being relatively low but nonetheless securely on the list) is that if you're going to indulge, do it right. If you are counting calories on Turkey Day, you're going about it all wrong. There are many long stretches in life that require discipline and moderation. Today is a day that demands, in ten-foot high gravy-covered letters, for utter and complete excess. Eat, drink, and be merry.

The Problem With Kurt and Ernie

(This took a little longer than ten minutes, partly out of necessity, partly as a make-up for last night's "sellout," as one hater called it.)

I have to confess that I have an issue with much of great literature, or at least so-called great literature that I read. Now, before we get too far down this road, let me say that my issue will most likely be misunderstood. I’ve run into similar misunderstandings regarding my taste in movies, and despite the fact that I have repeatedly tried to explain how my perspective differs from that of, say, Ned Flanders, the misunderstandings continue. Here’s what I’m talking about:

There are a handful of notable authors that I have found myself repeatedly drawn to. The two cases in point for this ten-minute ramble are Ernest Hemmingway and Kurt Vonnegut. In my life history as an avid reader and English major, I found myself drawn to Vonnegut’s works. His subject matter is always completely unpredictable, and his narration is unique and brilliant, filled with hilarity and sarcasm and quiet, real sadness. I started, as most do, with Slaughterhouse Five, then moved in no particular order through most of his canon. At some point, probably after reading Galapagos and Breakfast of Champions back to back, I realized that while Vonnegut’s writing consistently draws me in, makes me think, and makes me laugh, it also almost always leaves me with a sense of utter emptiness regarding the human condition. (Bluebeard is a semi-exception, as I recall. It’s been a while since I read it, though.) There is beauty and comedy and insight in his works, and he writes with amazing originality, but after you turn the last page, you are left with a sort of weight, a deep-seated perspective on the almost nihilistic position of humanity. So I put him down, because while the journey is amazing, you know that you’re probably going to get punched in the stomach at the end.

At some point I picked up on Ernest Hemmingway. It took a while to get the distaste of my high school reading of The Old Man and the Sea out of my brain (although this may have less to do with the quality of the book and more to do with how well it speaks to a seventeen-year old), but once I did I really, deeply enjoyed For Whom the Bell Tolls. Hemmingway’s simplicity with language (everything is a Hemmingway book is “good” and “fine” or "ugly" and "awful") is astounding and wonderful, and he crafts amazing stories about amazing places. Despite all of the beauty, however, there is, in a tone very similar to Vonnegut, a pervasive sense of emptiness and loss at the end of almost all of his works. I once saw a poster or e-mail forward (can’t remember which) in which various historical figures gave their answers to the question “Why did the chicken cross the road?” Hemmingway’s made-up answer was this: “To die. In the rain.” And you know what, that’s just about right? He is another guy that will damn well punch you in the stomach if you’re not careful. Amazing writer. Great stories. Deep sense of emptiness.

Comes now the lobby of individuals who accuse me of wanting only sunshine and teddy bears at the endings of all of my books (and movies). This is, always has been, and continues to be simply not true. What I’m looking for in a story of any kind is some kind of beauty and some kind of hope. I am completely on board with sad or difficult endings where everyone doesn’t end up married and happy. I am entirely comfortable with plots that involve great hardship and emotional toil. I have no objections to the guy not getting the girl when it all falls apart at the last second, but what I do ask is for just a single glimmer of hope. In my readings, Vonnegut and Hemmingway are hard pressed to find much hope at all, for their characters or for humanity in general. Epic efforts go unrewarded. Meaning and truth are completely lost. Relationships devolve into distance and sadness. Beauty is trampled by brutish unavoidability. The chicken crosses the road and dies in the rain. Why is it that authors, playwrights, screenwriters, directors, artists, and a countless list of other types of creative people consistently bring their works back to this bottom line of emptiness and hopelessness?

It’s not as though there isn’t a real alternative. In fact, I sometimes think that the alternative is much more difficult to reach creatively than the default “To die. In the rain” ending. It is relatively easy to close the doors of possibility one by one and leave your story dead-ended in a dark place. It is much, much more difficult to find the way in which your story can weasel out of that dark place to some position of compromise or uplifting thought without turning it into insipid drivel. For an example of what I mean, read either Life of Pi by Yann Martel or Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates by Tom Robbins. In both books you will find astounding beauty, terrible loss, great struggle, and true, honest, soul-lifting hope.

In the end, though, I have accepted Vonnegut, Hemmingway, and other similar writers on their terms, instead of wanting them to be something that they’re not. I just find myself turning back to them less and less often, and towards the works that offer some suggestion that no, life isn’t empty and meaningless.

And sometimes...

You just don't have anything new to say.

Life is beautiful.
Life is hard.

That's my ten minutes for today.

Surviving November and Beyond

Here in the Midwest, November is finally starting to act like November instead of November's balmy, sunny cousin who likes teddy bears and sunshine. This is probably a good dose of reality, but it does not mean that I am terribly happy about it. For instance, tomorrow's forecast calls for forty-two and rainy for most of the day. Forty-two and rainy has been scientifically proven to be the worst weather in the world, because it is bone-chillingly cold and wet and miserable with no possibility of snow. Snow, despite what you may think, is wonderful, because it is at once beautiful and exciting. Never a dull moment with snow around. Forty-two and rainy? Shoot me.

That said, there are going to be a lot of days coming up where the weather is some form of absolutely miserable, depending on your personal definition of the concept. Today, as I stared out my window at forty-two and cloudy (not so bad, but not exactly May either), I came to the conclusion that there are only two legitimate options for dealing with harsh weather, in whatever form it may take:

1. Hide from it. Forty-two and rainy is the absolute perfect weather in which to lower the blinds, sit down on the couch and read a good book. In inclement conditions, nest whenever possible. This is not a brilliant idea, or even a terribly original one, but nesting behavior does take extra effort, especially now that we've become so used to mother nature not trying to kill us (Hurricane- or tornado-ravaged areas notwithstanding). The little things are key here: Wear warm socks. Kick the thermostat up to seventy-three for a little while. Take a very hot shower. Go buy firewood for your fireplace that you never use. Personally, I have a collection of fleece pullovers, and I will be wearing them pretty constantly until about April.

2. Embrace it. Listen, it's going to be miserable, or at least harsh, so go out and enjoy the beauty of the harshness. As with hiding, this also requires a fair amount of effort, and also involves things like warm socks and fleece. There are very few things more satisfying to me than putting on about sixteen layers of clothing and going for a walk in the season's first blizzard. I need to work on applying this logic to forty-two and rainy, because the right coat, boots, and a large umbrella could make a walk around the local nature preserve quite tolerable, and even rewarding. This is basically an exercise in accepting the insanity that life throws at you, and it is important to know that you own enough layers and foul-weather gear not only to survive the assault of November and beyond, but to tramp right out into the belly of the beast and notice how incredibly beautiful it is in its own ridiculous and extreme way.

And of course, these two bipolar options are best pursued in tandem, as one makes for a greater appreciation of the other. You can't really nest unless you've gone out there and let nature have a good swing at you, and if you didn't nest, you wouldn't have the energy to go out into the stuff. As usual, the truth of contradicting viewpoints rules the day.

Because God Told Me To

For quite a long time now - I honestly can't put a number on the years - I have written off Sundays altogether in terms of any meaningful accomplishment. I don't know exactly what it is, but Sunday is, in my book, the day of rest. Today, for instance, was spent doing the following things:

1. Meeting my mom's new cat.
2. Laundry. This does not count as an accomplishment in any sense of the word.
3. Watching lots and lots and lots of football on TV.
4. Throwing around an actual football with other actual people in the actual outdoors (as opposed to just watching the televised version).
5. Watching the shows that I had taped last week (The Office, Lost).

And really, that's it. Sundays are so far removed from anything that resembles progress that I actually forgot about the ten minute writing promise to myself until I was ready to get in bed. This means that the crap you're currently reading is pretty much of a Sunday quality.

Why is this? Why not Saturday? On Saturday, you have both ends of the day for true slacking behavior. You can sleep late and stay up late as well. This is the perfect environment for doing nothing, and yet I have accomplished more on a given month of Saturdays than I have in a lifetime of Sundays.

Part of this may simply be a feast-famine relationship with regards to being frivolous and useless. Sunday is the last chance you have to really goof off before the week starts driving its steel-tread tires over your head, so it only seems appropriate to be all-out in your lazing. I think some people take the opposite approach regarding Friday nights, choosing to celebrate until the breaka breaka dawn that their week has ended. Me, I think that by Friday my ass is pretty well kicked, so the last thing I want to do is go drink fifty cent margaritas at Chi-Chi's happy hour. I'm much more about really getting up a good solid slack once the weekend is nearly over, like storing up reserves of slack that will carry me through the week.

Another way to spend Sundays is to take ten minutes of your time and write a nearly-interesting reflection on them.

Good night.

Running is Good

I would like to state for the record that there are at least two good reasons to jog every now and then.

But first, I would like to be clear on one thing: I don't love running. There are people who, God bless them, love to run. There is something theraputic, soul-releasing, and joyful in the act of putting one foot in front of the other in an athletic manner. I am not one of these people. Running hurts. Sometimes, when I'm in pretty good shape and have been running frequently, it hurts slightly less than when I've been sedentary for two weeks, but it is always a discomfortable act, if that's a word. Unlike, say, bicycling, there is never a moment when you can coast while you're running. Downhills are a bit easier than flat land, but you still have to move the feet and be extra careful that you don't topple over completely. Now, if you're talking about running within the context of some competitive field of dynamic athletic battle, that's a whole different story. I love that. It is the act of pure running simply to cover ground, either in small circles or in one big one, that I just can't completely embrace.

All of this does not mean that you should not run, because of the following two good reasons:

1. The lengthy endorphin rush that follows a good solid jog is genuinely invigorating. Immediately after running, I pretty much want to die. But after some staggering about, stretching, and a hot shower, the endorphins kick in. And these are no junior-varsity "I'm so happy, 'Lost' was an extra five minutes long this week" endorphins. These are the big boys. When they're really rolling, I am the sort of person who might, with a blizzard screaming outside, say, "Hey, let's go build that two story barn in the backyard that we've been talking about for so long!" The great thing about the endorphin high is that unlike certain chemically-induced moments of inspriation, you damn well earned it. You suffered, and not only are you a better person for it, but you have this spectacularly optimistic outlook on life to show for it.

2. The sleep that ends the day of the runner is deeply restful and genuinely satisfying. Your body has had its ass kicked, and when you give it the signal to go ahead and shut down, it does so with an efficiency and a relish that is incomparable. The sleep that I get after watching an entire day of professional football on TV is not exactly restless, but it does feel a little bit undeserved. The body says, "Hey, fatass, you were nearly immobile for about 10 straight hours today, and now you want me to just hang out in a prone position for seven more hours? If you say so, but it's not going to be anything special." The sleep of the runner is well-earned, to be sure.

Lunch v. Dinner

For the record, it is still today despite the fact that it is tomorrow. We all know that today ends not at the absurdly early hour of midnight, but rather when sleeping begins. As such, I have not shirked my responsibilities by posting my daily ten minute writing at 1:01 a.m. (Eastern). So there.

Today I was reminded that I am a dinner person, but not really a lunch person. A good friend of mine has almost no interest in food whatsoever as far as taste and enjoyment go. He has said to me before that the time spent eating is thirty minutes of his life that he would much rather spend doing something else. Initially, I felt sort of bad for him. Burger and fries for dinner are safe and simple and low-hassle, but you're missing out on a lot. I have about maybe nine or ten meals upon which I regularly dine, and it is extremely important to me that they are tasty, original, etc. ("Etc?" First of all, you're writing about food, which is a boring topic, and then you're going to be lazy enough to use "etc." instead of actual - hey, what are you doing with that axe? Put that - WOAH! You almost cut my foot off! Dammit! Calm down and - OW! My fingertip! Jesus, man, you're out of your mind with that thing! Fine! Fine! I'll go away! Forget what I said! I'll be waiting outside. Damn.) The result is that I look forward to dinner, sometimes as much as 24 hours before I actually eat it. The thought, for instance, of a plate of Chicken Pad Thai makes me want to be hungry right away, because the stuff is just so freaking good. Long story short, dinner is typically a joy for me, and as such, I have often felt that my friend was missing out on one of life's small but constant pleasures. And then today there was free lunch pizza offered at my place of employment. I ate it and was pretty satisfied (although a little food comatose at about 2 p.m.), but it made me think about lunch as an eating opportunity as compared to dinner. I eat a turkey sandwich and chips or fruit for lunch about 6.9 out of 7 days a week. Gatorade is the drink. For me, lunch is what all food is for my friend: 30 minutes of my life that I can't get back. Hence, reliability and blandness prevail. And I'm perfectly fine with this. I don't know that there is a point to this (the guy who has issues with relevance and his 9.8 fingers are currently waiting outside), but it might be that it is often very easy to look at people's relatively extreme choices and fail to see the small versions of those same choices in your own life. It's all about looking around you, and paying attention. Are you paying attention? I could stand to do a better job, but I'm always working on it.

Ten Minutes

This is going to be a throwback undertaking, an old English Major exercise, because when you're stressed and mired and busy and [misc. misc. misc.], it is often helpful to go back to simple and reliable. This is the grilled cheese and Cambell's Chunky Soup of writing exercises: The ten minute writing.

Why? If you are someone who writes, or who occasionally writes, or who thinks of yourself as a writer despite the lack of actual writing, there is no way on God's variously colored earth that you can't find ten minutes every day to write something. Anything. Unfortunately, if you are a human being, there is no way on God's variously colored earth that you can't find between seventeen and forty-six thousand things to do every day besides spending ten minutes writing. This is not an excuse, it is simply a fact.

The idea behind this exercise is that you ignore the backspace key, don't think too much beforehand, kill your inner critic with an axe, and just simply write for ten minutes. The result: something, which is better than nothing in almost every case (the movie "Windtalkers" being a notable exception), so there is no sane reason not to do it. Typically this is not performed before a public audience, but oh well, too bad for you. It's not as though you're taking valuable time away from reading the Wall Street Journal to check out my ramblings.

So. Ten minutes of writing, every day, for (let's start teensy tiny here) one week. Baby steps to the door, Bob.

Begin.

The other day, in a completely sober, well-rested, and otherwise normal state of mind, I said the following: "And then everyone there just standed up and left." Let it be said that I am not an idiot. I hope that you have come to this conclusion by now. And yet, there it came, like a small verbal fart, only not as stinky. Yes. "Standed." What is perplexing is that this was not simply a missed verb tense. No no, I drove right off of Grammar road into Retard Canyon. To my credit, I did catch myself, but it took all of three words to do so ("up and left"). Where oh where does the brain go at these moments? The context of the story is irrelevant (it was about how the band Blues Traveler is horrible in concert unless you really love fifteen-minute harmonica jams), as is the context of the moment (playing poker). Usually, I understand the origin and nature of my mental lapses. I am, generally speaking, extremely forgetful, so that when I enter a one-person public bathroom, lock the door behind me, cross to the toilet, lower my fly, and immediately worry that I forgot to lock the door, it does not surprise me any longer. I regularly forget that I locked the door roughly 1.5 seconds previous. I have a suspicion about why these sorts of things happen: everyone relies very heavily on habit. There are certain things that you do without paying any real attention whatsoever, because you've done them an infinite number of times. Signing your name, pouring cereal into a bowl, logging on to your computer, unlocking your apartment door, etc. These things are a luxury (a word that, by the way, I misspelled in my 5th grade spelling bee "luxurusy" - I am a very good speller, but also a very visual learner, and the "imagine the letters in your head" approach never worked for me. I just got caught up on the lovely rhythm of the alternating u's) for the brain, because while it has set the body on cruise control, it can sit up there and hang out, think about paying bills, look forward to a sunny day, glance at an attractive person, or just sort of go "duhhhhh" for a while. The problem is that if you are an absent minded person, these habits on which you absolutely rely can very occasionally and for no apparent reason be shattered by your own complete idiocy. You will forget to sign your entire name. You will try to unlock your apartment door with your mailbox key, which is not even the correct shape or color. You will pour potato chips into your cereal bowl. These things will only happen oh, say, once every two years, but if you are a dilligent person such as myself (yes, I am both very anal and very absent-minded. And yes, holy God, that is one hell of a contradiction to live with.), you will do all that you can to keep your brain in mind. The result is that there are certain habits that you stop trusting. Despite the fact that I cannot recall ever, even once, being interrupted mid-pee because I had forgotten to lock the public bathroom door, it has for some reason become a habit that I only mostly trust. I think the stakes are pretty high here (accidental nudity being fairly embarassing for both parties), so the anal brain kicks in.

None of this, however, accounts for "standed," which isn't even a freaking word. But that's not the point, exactly. The point is to write for ten minutes (now going on fifteen) and leave it at that. And I will. Tomorrow: ten more minutes. Will we get to the bottom of the "standed" controversy? Will we just move on as though it never happened? Mysteries abound.