100 Favorite Movies

During the Spring of 2012, I wrote a script.  During the writing of that script, I procrastinated by making Top Ten Film lists by year from 1989-2011.  I'd write down every film I'd seen that year and then begin the difficult process of ranking them.  Once that was done and I still had a little ways to go on the script, I sought to make a list of things I'd keep in my wheel house, which gradually turned into a city-sized barn house.  

The chief form of my procrastination during the writing process has generally been in the form of penning these lists,  and I guess nowadays with this blog.  So, it makes sense to combine the two sometimes.  My favorite movies list is something I've been working on for a long time now and is something I don't think I'll ever be able to quantify.  It will probably always remained unfinished, growing, and evolving.  Nonetheless, I'd like to share my 100 favorite movies at this moment in honor of this 100th blog post.

25th Hour

28 Days Later

40 Year Old Virgin

About a Boy

Almost Famous

American Beauty

American Graffiti 

American Pie

American President

American Psycho

American Werewolf in London

Animal House

Annie Hall

The Apartment

Apocalypse Now

Back to School

Before Sunset

The Big Chill

Bridge on the River Kwai

Casa Blanca

City Slickers

Clear and Present Danger

A Clockwork Orange

Conan the Destroyer

Crimes and Misdemeanors

Dazed and Confused

Deliverance

Dial M For Murder

Die Hard 1-2

Donnie Darko

Drag Me to Hell

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

The Exorcist

Eyes Wide Shut

Ferris Bueller's Day Off

A Few Good Men

Forrest Gump

Goodfellas

Godfather 1-2

Halloween

Happy Gilmore

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

Inception

Independence Day

Indiana Jones Trilogy

Inside Llewyn Davis

It's a Wonderful Life

Jaws

Jerry Maguire

Jurassic Park

The Karate Kid

Kill Bill Volume 1-2

The Last Picture Show

The Lion King

Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers

Lost in Translation

Magnolia

Manchurian Candidate

Meet Joe Black

Meet the Parents

Million Dollar Baby

Minority Report

My Cousin Vinny

Mysterious Skin

Out of the Past

The Outsiders

Pink Floyd's The Wall

Point Break

Pulp Fiction

Quiz Show

The Reader

Road to Perdition

Road Trip

The Rock

Rocky 1,3,4

Rosemary's Baby

Rushmore

Sabrina

Say Anything

Scent of a Woman

Schindler's List

Scream

Shadow of a Doubt

Sideways

Signs

The Silence of the Lambs

Silver Linings Playbook

Stand By Me

Star Wars Trilogy

Superbad

Talk to Her

Taxi Driver

The Ten Commandments

Terminator 1-2

Titanic

Trouble in Paradise

Unforgiven

Up

Up in the Air

Vertigo

Virgin Suicides

What About Bob

When Harry Met Sally

Y Tu Mama Tambien

Holiday Card Cheer

Dear Holiday Cards,

I have a theory that if I ceased with a forward line of communication, somewhere in between ninety and ninety-five percent of the people in my bubble would disappear. I’d never hear from them again…with the exception of maybe some bullshit holiday card (you) guised with warmth.  I’ve tested out that theory a few times over the years with a one hundred percent success rate…or failure rate depending on how you look at the world.  Some of this might be natural, after all, it's impossible to maintain friendships with every person who comes in and out of life, but there are a few people who have meant a great deal to me who have slunk away even as I attempted to water the metaphorical plants emblemizing our growing relationships.  Those plants have withered and I’m finally content to let them die.  I’m by no means a fatalist, but I think my assessment of the self-seeking nature of humanity here is a fair and accurate one. People are vampiric in nature.  Draining whatever others have to offer for their own  needs.  Dispersing warmth from time to time just to ensure blood stays warm enough for  potential future needs.  Hence the bullshit look how awesome we’re doing holiday cards dispelled year in and year out  that are neither proceeded or followed by visits, phone calls, emails, or texts. “Oh isn’t that nice,  Billy Mahoney* was thinking of me,” you might think.  But you shouldn’t think that.  Especially since you called up Billy a few months ago and he never called you back. Wait, weren’t you supposed to meet up with Billy last year and he cancelled. You should send Billy his card back instructing him to keep save his warm wishes.  That’s too cold though, right?  Well, cold is the temperature of consideration.  This holiday season, give yourself a gift and don’t  cipher your own heat to light someone else’s fake fireplace. 

Sincerely,

Derek Needam,

Nobody’s Grinch

*The Creepy Dead Kid haunting Kiefer Southerland in Flatliners

Rescinding Thank You's

On this first Thursday of December, one week following the fourth and final Thursday of November, otherwise known as Thanksgiving, I'd like to take the time to vaguely rescind many of the thank you's I've unnecessarily bestowed over the years.  Thank you's I unintentionally bartered for that were apparently conceived with expectation.  They've gone to unhealthily breed and grow into a cumbersome debt on my conscience. So, I unhinge myself from those thankful favors that were not given, but loaned.  For friendship and love that was committed only to be cooly taken away.  For hope that was bought, sold, and traded like a stock.  For fortune that shackled me with pity. I declare my thank you's null and void.

A 30-Something's Christmas List

Now that Jewish Christmas* is over and with Christ's Christmas less than three weeks away, St. Nick is in the final preparations for his annual assault upon chimneys and Oreo cookies across the continental United States** to celebrate American consumerism.  This of course begs the question,  have you made your Christmas list yet?  Now I know this tradition is generally confined to those miniature prisons run by an elaborate system of bells and halfway houses where the inmates must eat all of their vegetables to get a dessert, but ageism shall not be tolerated within the mighty institution of this blog.  Thus, it's no surprise that a Thirtysomething Lost Boy from LA just emailed me the adult oriented Christmas list he plans to mail to the North Pole later today...

Abs:  Santa, get your fucking tracksuit on because this year the lost boy would like some personal training sessions that revolve around strengthening his core via biomechanically efficient stabilization techniques and dynamic stretches.

Car Detail:  Maybe his parents were onto something when they wouldn't let him scarf down food in the car because now he just wants those embarrassing coffee stains to disappear from the seat cushion.

Cleaning Lady:  Living amidst rancorous squalor was once considered a form of rebellious freedom. Who was he fooling? Throw in a carpet cleaning too, please.  

Dog Walker:  Yes, he might have wished for a puppy once upon a time.  Now, he just doesn't feel like dealing with it on a daily basis as an adult.  

Grocery Gift Certificate:   Fuck video games and stereo equipment, dudes gotta eat.  He's partial to Trader Joe's and Whole Foods.  

Health Insurance: Who would have thought the boy who was once miraculously cured by the mention of a doctor's visit would like to be able to see a specialist for a reasonable fee?

A Suit (Black): He has a gray one already, but awareness is setting in that going to any forthcoming funeral might be a bit awkward for him without this wardrobe essential.

*Gift giving during Hanukkah wasn't always customary. It originates from the influence of Christmas.

**Santa doesn't visit Alaska, Hawaii, or Puerto Rico until after New Years.  It's just not logistically possible without incurring overtime fees for the reindeer and elves. Sorry, E kala mai iaʻu, y lo siento.

Fulfillment Vs. Happiness Vs. The Alchemist

Every so often a book comes along for people who don't normally read. A book for faux dilettantes with advanced degrees surprisingly capable of literacy beyond the buttery verbiage of US Weekly.  A book to be recommended, no not recommended, but gifted with the erect tinge of self-satisfied heroism.  A book to be showcased amidst a select mountain of accomplishments that is the mantle of the Facebook Wall.   Not too long ago, that book was The Alchemist, a clever little self-help book masquerading as an allegorical novel written by the Brazilian author, Paulo Coelho.

There are two ideas I remember most in this book, that I too read seven or eight years ago, and have confirmed today via the advanced research technique of glancing through The Alchemist Wikipedia page.  First, when a person sets out on a goal, a truly noble goal that is, defined by the innocence of unsullied childhood aspiration, "the universe conspires in helping you achieve it." Good to know right?  The second passage I vaguely remember but of course looked up to bestow validity in my prose is, "Love never keeps a man from pursuing his Personal Legend.  If he abandons that pursuit, it's because it wasn't true love."  Together these two quotes not only form the foundation for "having it all" happy endings, but for a fulfilling existence.  If you set out on a path, you will achieve it, and find love via a process of elimination that could never get in the way of your destiny.    Fulfillment in life, happiness in love.  Bullshit on the heels of the protagonist shepherd's bare feet.

Forgive me if I sound somewhat dour in my return to blogging, I suffer from undiagnosed bouts of futility that most likely only new episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm could cure. But in all seriousness,  my somber tone is a result of an intense regimen of writing, my alleged destiny and path to fulfillment...that certainly isn't bringing me any happiness.  There have been road blocks along the way, intermittent stops where fleeting droplets of joy rained down on me, but during those times fulfillment was merely the illusion of rusted metal reflecting gold.  No one ever asked me to cease with my journey on their behalf, so by Alchemy standards, true love was upon me.  And yet,  I continue on my Personal Legend alone.   It's one or the other, I firmly believe.  Perhaps being truly fulfilled will bring a sense of happiness.  But that would be neglecting the gold shed along the way to find a different kind of treasure.

Telephone

Over the last week, I've had the opportunity to speak on a landline for probably the first time in seven or eight years.  Maybe because it's been so long, but I guess somewhere during that time period, I forgot that you were supposed to be able to clearly understand and seamlessly absorb someone's words while listening on the phone.  In fact, the difference in voice quality is so pronounced that I might even be willing to trade the ability to immediately post pictures of Nicoise salads on facebook from my iPhone to hear my friends and family in proper fashion.  It's scary to think about what else we've traded for the sake of convenience.  I can still remember the numbers for most of my childhood friends.  866-2317, 235-8194, and 439-1402 would be my three closest friends from middle school.  I couldn't tell you one person's cell number from the last decade, however.  I guess I don't have to. Nor do I need to know my way around town with the aid of my trusty map app.  But really, perhaps it's ironic on some level that the nuance of voice is becoming more and more distorted through the cellular waves.  In the search for connection, have people not become more and more disconnected?  Why have a conversation with the person in front of you when you can play with your mobile device?    Why call when you can text? Why keep up friendships when you can like their facebook status?  Communication is certainly cheaper and easier than it ever was, and that is something to be desired, but are we really hearing what's being said?

Memoirs of a Delivery Boy

Every so often in life there are moments of self-discovery.  Fleeting instances where fate and destiny seamlessly intertwine to form a...a cosmic fortune cookie. Tonight, my spirit was eclipsed by the spice of Kung Pau and I became aware that my talents in life lie in the art of delivering Chinese Food.  No, I'm not kidding, my blood runneth with duck sauce and my heart belongeth to Hunan.

Seriously, I can't think of anything spicier* than getting paid to drive around with General Tso and a pile of CDs riding shotgun.  If only I could find a way to pay off my student loans with soy sauce.

*Mandarin for Cool

Wedding Songs

A couple's first dance as man and wife is an important wedding ritual and one I've been paying close attention to for years.  Whether I'm supposed to or not, I haven't felt much of anything while watching close friends and family at the alter exchange vows, but when the first dance is carried out to the right song, it can be a transcendent experience.  I sometimes kid that I am a little bit psychic, but it's during this moment, with the pressure of an oftentimes ritualistic charade behind them, when a couple's love has the potential to bleed out into the room.  It's kind of magical.

Unfortunately, I've also witnessed many couples unintentionally stamp on their sparkle.  Some through dance lessons, others by choosing a song rather than letting a song choose them.  So what if the bride and groom aren't gifted dancers?  Aimlessly swaying in lost harmony, sharing in the giggles of imperfection, and serenading each other with unblinking eyes is something special.  Nervously counting steps to impress an audience of guests as if they will be raising scorecards is nothing.

Of course, the most important element to any dance is the song.  I believe everyone who has ever loved someone could play a matching game, pairing up important songs to the cherished people in our lives.  None of which we sat down and decided upon.  When and where they happened are unique to each individual or couple, but it's almost impossible not to feel the synchronized sentiment emanating from the dance floor at a wedding when a loving pair dances without a care in the world.

LAX to Boston to LAX

It seems only fitting that this brief but important passage in my life ends with a Boston wedding.  Four months ago, I boarded a Boston bound redeye armed with a pharmacy to combat an impending cold.  Sickness never came, but I experienced a flu of emotions on a journey that unexpectedly took me to Boston, New York, and Philadelphia before returning to Los Angeles.  Along the way, I felt a revived sense of faith blossom from within, but upon entering my apartment on a sweltering Sunday afternoon, I instantly deflated onto my bed, incapacitated to plug the optimism seeping out of me in all directions.  For the next few months, I looked for those seemingly lost feelings  to discover that although these now scattered emotions could no longer reside in me, I could hold onto them briefly.  And so I felt them flicker like lightning bugs on many summer nights.  Momentarily flashing in my grasp, love then heartbreak, the inspiration I need to write.   The wedding is over and the honeymoon has begun for some.  But tomorrow I’ll board a plane in Boston and return to my apartment in Los Angeles sometime in the afternoon.  Vapidity has rendered me sad, but sadness gives hope that I'm not so empty after all. Either way, I'll pick up a pen and try to make sense of it all.

Great "Bad" Movies

While watching Point Break for the 82nd time this weekend, I reached an epiphany.  Something magical happens when a group of extraordinarily talented people combines forces to work on a bad movie.  For all intensive purposes, Point Break should be terrible.   The plot is ridiculous: Witless surfers disguise themselves in presidential Halloween masks to double as the world's greatest bank robbers.    The cliches are cliche: A rookie FBI agent with something to prove teams up with an old-timer who no one takes seriously in order to take on the "Ex-Presidents."  And Keanu Reeves is the star.  This movie should have been nothing more than a guilty pleasure, "So bad, it's good" type flick,  but with two future academy-award winners at the helm, Point Break became one of the greatest action films of all time.  Too often, filmmakers attempt to achieve "greatness," and lose sight of making an enjoyable film that satisfies the audience.  Sometimes, it is all about the "suspension of disbelief," and with that here are a few more awesome movies...that are kind of bad too.  Just to be clear, these movies aren't "So bad, it's good."  They might be idiotic, but they are well made and peppered with brilliance that enables them to overcome their many flaws.

Alpha Dog
Who would have thought a film based on the kidnapping and murdering of a 15-year-old over a brother's drug debt could be so much fun. But in the hands of Nick Cassavettes and a storm of great, young acting talent, this flick plays out like a satisfying "last meal" before its inevitable end.  Yes (not really a spoiler) the kid is going to get killed, but he goes out in style that leaves the audience almost envious.

Cat's Eye
Three Steven King short horror tales seen (sorta) through the eyes of a stray cat.   There were plenty of bad films adapted from Steven King novels, but I'm drawn to this one, especially the story of James Woods attempting to quit smoking through a sadistic mob-owned service.

Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead
Like Snakes on a Plane, I'm pretty sure the awesome title existed before a plot was conceived.  Okay, this isn't a great movie, nor is it even a good movie, but I find it a cinematic accomplishment to produce a watchable work based on this fact.

Dressed to Kill
I don't know if Brian DePalma has too much to say as a filmmaker.  His films, by and large are rooted in other's greatness (like Hitchcock), but he is a master at crafting suspense and always fills his films top to bottom with plenty of nudity and violence if nothing else.  I actually don't remember much about Dressed to Kill in comparison to DePalma's other works, but I do remember enjoying the hell out of it.

The Happening
What people seem to not understand about M Night's thriller about killer plants is that it's supposed to be a pulpy B-Movie.  It might be idiotic, but it's a ton of fun and loaded with some enticing cinematic sequences.

Margaret
It took Kenneth Lonergan six years to edit his post 9/11 musing morality tale about a teenage girl who may have been responsible for a horrific bus accident.  It's rare for a film to appear on both "best of" and "worst of" year end lists, but Margaret is a work that is both maddening and thought-provoking.

Rio Bravo
Drink in delight every time John Waynes says "Dude," or pronounces Colorado as "Caaalarada."  Drink every time Walter Bremman opens his mouth to speak the language of "Pipsqueak."  And drink when Dean Martin quits drinking cold turkey...by switching to beer.  Rio Bravo is definitely a great western and great film made by one of the greatest directors cinema has every known, but it also works on another, hilarious level.

The Running Man
Well, this one isn't necessarily well made, probably since it was directed by Starsky of Starsy and Hutch, but the performances are top notch.  Arnold Schwarzenegger and Richard Dawson should have shared the Academy-Award for their faceoff in this action satire about a blood-thirsty futuristic society that delights in violent game shows as a means to escape from their dour existence.  Featuring the greatest retort to Arnold's signature "I'll be back," catch-prhase.  "Only in a rerun."

The Ten Commandments
A Passover staple for Jews across the globe that educates as well as entertains.  For example, who knew the Hebrews built the pyramids?    The Ten Commandments is not only worth seeing for the epicness within this 220 minute masterpiece, but also because it's a great revenge flick.  When Moses, played by Rabbi Charlton Heston, proclaims, "Let my people go," he is really saying, "Don't fuck with Jews."

Road Rash

Running crystal meth, sure.  Robbing rest stops, why not?  But you know you've been watching too much Sons of Anarchy when it seems like a good idea to call up some of your biker cronies and terrorize an Asian family cruising along the Westside Highway on a lazy Sunday Afternoon.  Apparently that's what motorcycle badasses do for fun these days, though.  In a spectacularly frightening youtube video that I first confused as a sneak peak for the forthcoming "found footage" remake of Beyond Thunderdome, a pack of bikers surround a Range Rover, and force him to stop.  Well, actually, it appears that one of the bikers brakes directly in front of the SUV and is clipped, which apparently gives the bikers even more of a reason to stir some shit up yo.  What happens next is difficult to tell from the footage, but as the intimidating bikers converge on the SUV, the fearful driver guns it and runs over three bikes in an attempt to escape with his wife and two-year-old daughter.

The Range Rover gets caught in traffic several minutes into the ensuing chase, and the video ends with one biker yanking off his helmet and using it to smash the SUV window.  What we don't see is the driver being dragged out of his vehicle in front of his wife and child and beaten on the street.  Nor do we see one of the run-over bikers incurring some horrific injuries.   While we haven't heard yet from the driver, who has been identified as Alexien Lien, we have heard from the seriously injured biker's family, who adamantly proclaimed him an innocent victim of the driver in this whole mess.  They even have a "Justice for Jay Meeze" set up on facebook, which not only seeks donations for medical debt incurred by this "act of violence" but also calls for the driver to be charged with attempted manslaughter.  

I do feel bad for the biker who may be paralyzed from the waist down, and I by no means implore a "He got what he deserved" philosophy that riddles the comments section of the youtube video.   But referring to him as a victim is akin to calling a robber who breaks his back escaping from a third story church window as a martyr.

Video of the incident below...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=INfElroIKO0

Television Finales

In honor of the much anticipated series finale to Breaking Bad,  Professor Frost will discuss the power of television and the special relationships we make with our favorite characters as well as the grand importance of the finale.

Television has an interesting ability to connect to an audience unlike any other medium.  I remember Wednesday nights as a kid, watching The Wonder Years with my Dad.   I couldn't have been more than  seven years old, but week after week we invited Kevin Arnold and his family back into our home until the show came to its inevitable end years later on a thundery May night.  It sounds almost ridiculous to say it, but I grew up alongside these characters, and when I was no longer able to watch them continue on their journey, I felt like I was losing something.  This is why I believe the finale to every television series is the most important (and remembered) component to a show's legacy, not only because it's what it has been building to week after week, year after year, but because it must send the viewer on a path that made the journey worth it.

The finale of The Wonder Years, which I've seen probably half a dozen times over the years, is a home run...and you should watch this show on Netflix spoiler free if you haven't!   Some other finales have unfortunately left a bitter taste. (SPOILERS TO COME)  The Seinfeld finale, which was universally lambasted, functioned as more of a clip show/recap than a conclusion.  In a show that was essentially about "nothing," the final episode became about something.  Although the finale didn't exactly tarnish its legacy because at the very least, these beloved characters didn't behave in a manner  different from any other episode, a show of such greatness should have rode off into the sunset.  Friends and Sex and the City were enjoyable but predictable, based largely on giving its audience what it wanted.   Whether they were a good couple or not,  it was a given that Ross and Rachel were going to end up together....and a small, somewhat tiresome miracle that their dance went on for two seasons even after Emma was born   Carrie needed to stop putting her faith into men, and yet, it's the former bad boy (now lonely) lover who has suddenly changed, who rescues her.  The Sopranos implemented water cooler vagueness with it's shocking cut to black.  On one level, it was the perfect ending to the continuously drifting existentialist show, but it also reminded me of the greatness within the first couple of seasons was rooted more in great story, rather than unease and malaise. Entourage and Weeds fell apart over their last few seasons, so it was hardly a surprise that their tie everything together finales were anything but overreaching and unnatural.   I haven't watched Dexter's finale yet, but I have high hopes for Breaking Bad.  This is the one show where I think every season has been better than its predecessor.  But, in a show that has been methodically building up to tonight for five years, its legacy and place in television history is definitely on the line.

TV is evolving, or at least the way we view it is.  Between TiVo, Netflix, On Demand, etc., the idea of watching a show week after week, year after year, might not be the way "television" is consumed years from now.*  I hope there are still Monday mornings like tomorrow, where everyone will be talking about  Breaking Bad, but we shall see...


*There are signs of this already with strong Netflix original content that can be consumed all at once.

Souvenir

That was the viscous juice that sealed my fate.  It tasted so sweet as it touched my tongue only to burn all the way down.  It settled somewhere deep in my chest, inebriating me for the better part of a year.  All I could do was hopelessly hope until it was gone.

I thought I had sobered up.  I thought time had made Her nothing more than a postcard addressed to my forgotten dreams.  But as I lie awake, I can feel that she's still here.  A souvenir that I can never give away.

Prisoners: A Battle for the Soul

(No Spoilers)

When a religious man's daughter and her friend go missing, he sacrifices his own humanity and faith in an attempt to save her.  Dennis Villeneuve's Prisoners may not be a great movie, but it certainly is a thought-provoking one.  I'd like to believe most parents would trade their lives for their children's, but would they sacrifice their souls too?    That is the question I've been pondering since leaving the cinema late last night.  Without having children, I can only speak to the mother and child dynamic I've been a part of and the transference I've experienced within this bond. We've been taught to view this idea largely in the negative, a parent's hopes and dreams put upon their children and the overwhelming pressure it creates.  I don't see it that way.  I believe the worst thing I could say to my Mom is "I'm unhappy," because for better or worst, I understand that her happiness is tethered to my own.  So in Prisoners, when a child goes missing and is feared to be in the worst possible scenario, I felt that it wasn't just a girl's life at stake, but an entire families' spirit since his being was inexorably tied to his children.  And thus the paradox:  A father fights for his soul as he simultaneously destroys it.   I guess as my thoughts on this picture continue to evolve, I question whether that is a good thing. To have one's happiness tied to someone else?

Jewish Dieting Tips

The Jewish people have been trendsetters in the health and fitness world for ages.    It started with  Moses about three thousand years ago when he introduced the Atkin's Diet under the guise of bread being unable to leaven.  By combining his Low-carb diet with daily walks in the desert for forty years, Moses whipped the Hebrews into shape so they could enter the promised land minus unbecoming guts.  Unfortunately,  at some point Judah and those overweight Maccabres revolted and had the toned and tanned Jewish people binging on Potato Latkas with sour cream and apple sauce like they'd just emerged from the famine of '72....3772 BCE that is.  Balance was only restored upon the arrival of Yom Kippur, when the Jewish people were reminded to atone for all those unhealthy meals by partaking in a much needed fast.

The Nightdreamers

A major part of my adolescence was spent discussing the future. For the first two years of high school, my three friends and I would hang out, drink whatever cheap beer we could get our hands on, and assuredly talk about how great things were going to be for us someday soon.  The parties, the girls, the insanity of teenagedom that would rival any fictitious account of youth.  It was all going to happen when we could drive.  That's the way it was supposed to be at least.  Unfortunately, it didn't really go down as we planned it.  Those coveted licenses that were supposed to be the key to our foursome's triumph, well, they ironically became the vehicle in leading us apart.

There was one night though, before the chain inevitably broke.  We didn't have our licenses, but we did drive. Off the road and onto farmland in the middle of the night.  Under the moonlight and the headlights of a minivan, we drank cheap beer and gazed towards a creek.  Like every other night, we talked about how great things were going to be.  But for a split second, I think we realized that this was the moment to hang onto.  There would be plenty of parties, girls, and insanity, but right then and there, it was about us.

Don DeLillo wrote that "nostalgia is product of dissatisfaction and rage. It's a settling of grievances between the present and the past." While it's true that I grieve for the past and long to once again clasp onto that fleeting moment, I also believe a night like that should never be forgotten.

Corporate Effects of Marijuana

As more and more states put forth legislation that will ostensibly legalize (or at least decriminalize)  marijuana usage, has anyone stopped to think about the poor smalltime drug dealers that will be adversely affected by the new laws?  You know who I'm talking about,  Joe College and Johnny High School.  Dudes and dudettes looking to make a few extra bucks while getting their smoke on for free.  What will these once invaluable resources and lifelines to recreational drug use do when their economically blessed friends/clients trade in shadier dealings for pot cards?

If we view marijuana within the scope of the legitimate business world (which it is now entering), smalltime dealers who once rather harmlessly served a valuable purpose in their respective communities will naturally be overwhelmed by larger shops.  In Denver, marijuana dispensaries now outnumber Starbucks 3 to 1.  And while that might have been every pothead's childhood fantasy, the idea of franchised weed shops on every street corner seems to run counter to counter culture.  Within a few years, I predict weed will go corporate.  The weed lobby, aka The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws, will change its name and grow powerful, ultimate outlining policy in Washington just like every other special interest group.  Prices for weed will astronomically rise (What did coffee cost before Starbucks?), which in effect will once again make the dealings of Joe College and Johnny High School necessary for the economically less fortunate.  Although by this point, the weed lobby will have aided in legislation aimed at extreme sentencing guidelines for unsanctioned dealers, thereby putting the illegal weed trade in the hands of the no longer white collar Joe College and Johnny High School.

Having written that, and it's just one extreme (albeit possible) future based on how this all plays on the federal level over the next few years, I still think marijuana should be legal.  Nonetheless, something isn't sitting right with the thought that one day, marijuana joints will be sold in packs like cigarettes behind the counter at convenient stores across the country.

The Freshman of 2001

It was just shy of autumn the morning fall came.  At first it was a tragedy.  Then an attack.  By the afternoon, it was over.  As our initial shock and fear turned into anxiety and confusion, we longed to be comforted.  By our Parents. By our School. By our President.  Perched up against a bay window, we quietly waited.  When nothing came, we looked to each other...

30 Things to Avoid After Turning 30

Turning thirty is more than a metaphorical rite of passage.   It's a time to take stock of where you're at in life and an opportunity to make changes to improve the path of your existence.  It's also a time to let go of some behavior that was once "okay."  In presenting this list of 30 things you shouldn't do after turning the big 3-0, I suppose I could say that you should stop paying attention to the things society says you should and shouldn't do.  And while I often agree with that sentiment, it sort of defeats the purpose of the omniscient* guidance I'm about to bestow upon you.   So in no particular order, grow up!

1) Sex with an Ex

Falling back into something comfortable is easy and in the short term might feel good.  It's also catastrophically unhealthy and counterintuitive to the principles of moving on and finding a more compatible companion, and you should know that by now.  Don't even call you ex.  It's best to assume he or she is married with kids.

2) Smiley Faces

Texting is something all us thirty-somethings lived without for the majority of life.  We've also lived without smiley faces since fourth grade.  So unless you are communicating with a ten year old (and let's hope that's your niece or nephew), do yourself a favor and skip out on texting smiley faces...and LOL

3) Empty Pantries

Hummus and expired milk shouldn't be the only thing you have in your fridge anymore.

4) Wearing Shorts

Yeah, this might be controversial, but outside of the gym or a BBQ pool party, appearing like you're permanently on spring break to Neverland isn't a great look

5) Roommates

You can apply for an artist exemption, but otherwise, it's probably time to venture off into a world free from some dude or dudette lounging on your couch and watching Keeping up the Kardashian's when you bring home a date.   The worst roommate of course is someone you call "Mom" or "Dad"

6) Making Out at a Bar

PDA is a staple of fun living from the ages of 13-29.  But once you hit thirty, you are no longer in that voting demographic.

7) Going without Health Insurance

You wouldn't go without a roof over head, food in your belly, or money for social activities.  Time to safeguard yourself from a cataclysmic event if nothing else.  

8) Tanning 

Being as wrinkle free as possible and presenting a youthful glow should take precedent over the rubbery bronze look achieved by visiting tanning salons or by using sunscreen lower than SPF 15 or 30.    

9) Watching Jackass

Or really any other programming originating on MTV.

10) Buying Gum with a Credit Card

This falls into the category of carrying around more cash than a five year old, withdrawing more than twenty dollars when visiting the ATM, and filling your gas tank all the way up.  

11) Frozen Food

Hot Pockets, Frozen Pizza, and Lean Cuisines might be a staple of 20s on the go lifestyle, but it would behoove everyone to learn to cook a few simple dishes not laden with preservatives...or at least discover the food bar at Whole Foods.

12) Owning a Futon

Enough said.

13) Traveling in Sweat Pants

It used to be okay to put comfort over class, not anymore.  Sweat Pants in public, not okay.

14) Smoking Cigarettes

In college everyone used to say, "I'll quit when I graduate."  When college ended, it was "I'll quit when I'm 30."  Well, you're 30. And this might be the last chance to avoid some serious health repercussions down the road.  It's obviously not going to be easy, but now is the time to make a painful effort.

15) Not Owning a Vacuum  

The days of living in a total sty that only gets cleaned up when the potential for getting laid exists should come to an end.

16) Wearing old Fraternity or Sorority T-shirts

Sigma Chi Forever!  No. You should have willed that junk in college, but since you haven't, I recommend googling Good Will or turning your old letters into a nice rag to wash up the car.  

17) Getting Your News From Twitter 

I know you're busy, but there's a whole world out there that you should be somewhat informed about.  And no, reading headlines that your friends quote as fact doesn't count. Neither do Page 6 or Us Weekly.

18) Drinking Like You're 20

It was never okay to throw up in someone's sink or toilet.  But, once upon a time it "happened to everyone." It shouldn't happen anymore. If you run the risk of pissing yourself, I'd advise you to stop drinking period.

19) Jumping to Conclusions

We've been programmed to assume the worst in people. But as we mature, it should become obvious that not everything is black and white.  And talking in a clear and honest fashion is much better than avoiding issues, harboring grudges, and rash behavior.

20) Fast Food and Drive-Thrus

The next time you roll up to Taco Bell or McDonald's, it should be either on a long road trip with no other options or with your children in search of a happy meal.  Ramen Noodles and Easy Mac not excluded

21) Sexting and "Casual" Romance

You're probably old enough by now to understand that any form of "booty call" or casual romance is rarely casual, at least for one of the parties involved.  And if you like seeing someone late at night, you might just like them during the light of day as well.

22)  Crashing on Couches and Other Hospitality Services

When it comes to requesting rides to the airport, crashing on couches, or asking for help moving, Barney Stinson summed it up best, "Call a cab, book a room, hire some movers, and repeat after me, friends don't let friends come to see their crappy play."

23) Skateboarding as a Mode of Transportation

Skate or die dude! Just don't do it as an adult unless you're hanging out with Jason Lee.

24) Facebook Stalking

Stop keeping tabs on your ex, the high school prom queen, and whoever else that's distracting you from living your life.

25) Tween Fiction

I know there is an entire section at Barnes & Noble devoted to supernatural teenage romance fiction.  But do you know who that section is for?  That's a rhetorical question.

26) Be Afraid to Go Out to by Yourself

It's time to stop abandoning the notion that it's uncool or socially unacceptable to go out by yourself.  Why shouldn't you enjoy dinner, a drink, or alone?  It's better than staying in alone.

27) Exotic Pets

Don't own any reptile as a pet.  It's creepy.

28) Cheap Alcohol and Mike's Hard Lemonade

The days of drinking Aristocrat Vodka and Evan Williams Whiskey aren't even ironically funny anymore like they might have been in the years following college.  And if you have to drink Mike's Hard Lemonade or Smirnoff Ice, it's time to admit to yourself that you don't like drinking,  so stop.

29) Posters

Drinking Posters, Sports Posters, NSYNC Posters.  Pretty much any poster that you wouldn't frame should be avoided.

30) Ignorance and Prejudice

You are your own person now.  You should have been for a while, but you can no longer hide within your past or upbringing.  So if you can't overcome your youthful ignorance to display not only tolerance but genuine compassion for people of all races, ethnicities, lifestyles, etc. then you should probably hole up in the desert by yourself.




*This potentially hypocritical list reads more like last year's new year's resolutions than my philosophy on life.

JD Salinger

I saw a pretty terrible documentary on JD Salinger this afternoon.  It was riddled with cliches, overstuffed with sentiment, spectacularly unfocused, and pretty much at odds with everything I believe this stoic icon stood for.  Case in point, do you think Jerry would choose Coldplay to help score his life story?  Anyway, the damage is done and based on a 33% approval rating on Rottentomatoes, we don't have to worry too much about anyone adopting this piece of pedestrian garbage as the definitive word on the elusive JD...well, except maybe for some hipster posers reading Catcher in the Rye on bus benches in Los Feliz.

To be totally honest, I'm glad Salinger sucked.  JD is one of my heroes (well antiheroes), and it's his enigmatic genius and refusal to be pigeonholed into any category other than a fiction writer that makes him so special to me.  To explore the man outside the page is to fail in understanding the man.   The first time I read Catcher in the Rye was in Mrs. Kotzen's fifth period English class.  Like Holden Caulfied, I was seventeen years old and pretty disappointed with everyone.  I suppose you could say Holden despised everyone (I know I did), but I think that would be a extremely limited interpretation despite his often scathing critiques.  Holden seemed to be searching for someone who could help guide him through adolescence and into adulthood. When he discovered that such a person did not exist, he envisioned himself as the potential savior, the person who could save all those once sensitive children from going over the edge.   When I read this passage that gave the novel its name for the first time, a transcendent feeling enveloped me.  The person I'd been hoping to come along, to show me the way, was speaking to me directly through the words on the page.  Of course the irony of that message was that there is no one else.  The only person who could catch me from falling off a cliff was...me.

Since that day, I've read everything of Salinger's that I could get my hands on.  I've enjoyed it all,  but it's Catcher that still serves as my literary bible. And all I can say to Shane Salerno* is go back to writing crappy screenplays.**  So what if he never published another novel!  If he wanted to, he would have.  Mystery solved.  The important thing is that he left something behind that truly speaks to people.   And in my wildest dreams as I writer, I hope to do the same.  To leave one great work behind.  Something that twenty-five, fifty, a hundred years from now, people still cherish.  I've been saying this since the day I started writing. Not just because it's romantic or because that was JD's story, but because I believe to truly create something great, it takes the wealth of one's experiences, inspiration, dedication, and hurt.  All of that is limited, but it's the last one especially that makes it clear I have a finite number of attempts at greatness in me.  Every time I put pen to paper (or fingers to keys), and attempt to honestly mine the nuggets of truth that nest deep inside of me, I feel like I'm chipping away at my soul.  The better the writing, the more pain I experience.  And messed up as it is, it's hardly a surprise that almost every time I set out to write something, I simultaneously embark on a relationship that helps soothe the masochistic beating I'm levying onto myself.  What can I say?  Writing is a narcissistic and consuming venture.  The sooner I extricate this one tumor, the better person I'll be. And if I decide to write something else, well, it will be for me.


-Rye Frost



*Seriously dude, WTF was up with the reenactments and that idiot hauling a log of wood up a mountain. Are you kidding me???  And Phillip Seymour Hoffman. Why do I care what he thinks about JD Salinger?  Why didn't you ask Kim K?  At least that would be funny.


**Maybe Savages 2?

Varying Degrees or Rock Bottom

While I believe all men are created equal, desperation is definitely a sliding scale.  Thus the term "Rock Bottom" means different things to different people and should not be judged against those "starving children in Africa"  the adults of our youth continuously referenced when we cried out hungry.  Rock Bottom might be applying to be on Extreme Makeover Home Edition or staying in by yourself and renting Adam Sandler's latest disaster in comedy.   Although my ERB (Estimated Rock Bottom) is probably approaching, I'm not exactly sure what form it will take.  It'd obviously be easier to predict it if I was a compulsive gambler or addicted to heroin or jujubes,  but since I am not, I can only predict it's status is relative to time.  That is,  if a couple of years from now I am still in the same position as I am now, I will probably be "code red" on the official Rock Bottom scale I've devised. 

In college, my friends and I referenced the level of our inebriation using the Lucky Charm Rainbow Chart.  Sober was obviously white, but as you got progressively drunker, you'd progress to purple, then khaki,* then brown, and finally black, which usually meant waking up face down and shirtless on Cary Street with a unicorn tramp stamp.  Anyway, in terms of ERB,  I've adapted Homeland Security's Advisory System since drinking is fun, and the threat of terror seemed more appropriate in rating the brimming frustration of life.  We've got green, blue, yellow, orange, and red.   I'd say right now I'm at the elevated alert of dark yellow making a push towards Orange.   

Believe me, I'm well aware of how much I have and what a charmed life I have lived.  I've got good health, good looks, good food, and a good roof (knock on wood for all of that).  It's just that, there is this forcefield of sorts that inhibits me from reaching out and grabbing the joy that rests in all those little niceties of life that could help preserve my sanity while striving towards a goal without a time table.  I don't want anyone's empathy.  In fact, the day I seek or receive emotional charity is most likely the day I'll be able to officially declare myself ready to start a course in Rock Bottom rehab.  Nonetheless, because of my fortunate upbringing in comparison to those starving children in Africa that I've never met, it's selfish to feel "boo hoo"  about my code yellow status, which only makes me feel worse about my moments of melancholy.


*Being "in the Khaki" was the wheelhouse of drunkenness, when you were first starting to feel really good while also taking stock in the ultimate preppy college experience.

100 Favorite Albums

One of my greatest passions is listening to rock music.  Very little gives me as much joy as grabbing a few albums and cruising down the PCH late at night. Not only do I find these aimless journeys relaxing and reinvigorating, but they are also an essential part of coming up with and brainstorming ideas to write about.  Of course when I sit down to turn these musing into stories, I tend to do a fair amount of procrastinating.  And the greatest source of procrastination comes in the form of making lists.  Top Movies' List.  Favorite Vacations.  I even have list of stuff I'd keep in my metaphorical Wheel House which has ballooned up to the size of a small town.  Anyway, I guess it was only natural that these two opposing forces would combine like chocolate and peanut butter to make the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup of lists.  So without further adieu, please enjoy my 100 favorite albums.  I've tried many times to rank them, and I'm not saying I never will succeed, but at various moments in my life they've all  had a handle on the top spot, so I'll leave that up to you for now.    Oh and if you are a mathematician or can count as high as a preschooler,  you may just find more than a hundred. And if you know your ABCs, you'll see that every letter is represented.

Abacab:  Genesis

Abbey Road:  The Beatles

Abraxas: Santana

Achtung Baby:  U2

Aftermath:  The Rolling Stones

After the Goldrush:  Neil Young

Against the Wind: Bob Seger

All Eyez on Me: 2Pac

All the Young Dudes:  Mott the Hooples

All Things Must Pass:  George Harrison

Animals:  Pink Floyd

Astral Weeks:  Van Morrison

August and Everything After:  Counting Crows

Automatic for the People: R.E.M.

Bad Company:  Bad Company

Band on the Run:  Paul McCartney & Wings

Beggar's Banquet:  The Rolling Stones

Bella Donna: Stevie Nicks

Billy Breathes:  Phish

Blonde on Blonde: Bob Dylan

Blood on the Tracks: Bob Dylan

Born to Run: Bruce Springsteen

Breakfast in America:  Supertramp

Bridge Over Troubled Water:  Simon and Garfunkel

Buckingham Nicks:  Buckingham Nicks

Catch a Fire:  Bob Marley & the Wailers

Crash:  Dave Matthews Band

Crosby, Stills, & Nash:  Crosby, Stills, & Nash

Dark Side of the Moon:  Pink Floyd

Darkness on the Edge of Town:  Bruce Springsteen

Day at the Races: Queen

Days of Future Passed:  Moody Blues

Deja Vu:  Crosby, Stills, & Nash

Definitely Maybe: Oasis

Disraeli Gears:  Cream

The Doors:  The Doors

Duke:  Genesis

Eat a Peach:  Allman Brother

Electric Warrior:  T-Rex

Escape: Journey

Exile on Main Street: The Rolling Stones

Fight for Your Mind: Ben Harper

Fleetwood Mac: Fleetwood Mac

Goodbye Yellow Brick Road:  Elton John

Graceland:  Paul Simon

Green: R.E.M.

Greetings from Asbury Park:  Bruce Springsteen

Jimi Hendrix:  Axis: Bold as Love

Her Satanic Majesties Request:  The Rolling Stones

Hot Fuss: The Killers

Hotel California:  The Eagles

Houses of the Holy:  Led Zeppelin

Hunky Dory:  David Bowie

In Utero:  Nirvana

Jar of Flies: Alice in Chains

The Joshua Tree: U2

Kid A:  Radiohead

L.A. Woman:  The Doors

Ladies of the Canyon: Joni Mitchel

Led Zeppelin III:  Led Zeppelin

Led Zeppelin IV:  Led Zeppelin

Let it Bleed: The Rolling Stones

A Live One:  Phish

Loaded:  The Velvet Underground

Lost and Gone Forever: Guster

Lynyrd Skynrd: Leh-Nerd-Skin-Nerd

Madman Across the Water:  Elton John

Magical Mystery Tour:  The Beatles

Magnolia Soundtrack:  Aimee Mann

Mama Said:  Lenny Kravitz

Marshall Mathers LP:  Eminem

Mellon Collie & the Infinite Sadness: Smashing Pumpkins

Moon Safari:  Air

Monster: R.E.M.

My Aim is True: Elvis Costello

Nevermind: Nirvana

New Miserable Experience:  Gin Blossoms

A Night at the Opera: Queen

Nirvana Unplugged:  Nirvana

Nylon Curtain:  Billy Joel

No Dice: Badfinger

O:  Damien Rice

On An Island:  David Gilmour

One From the Vault:  The Grateful Dead

Pet Sounds:  The Beach Boys

Pretenders: The Pretenders

Purple: Stone Temple Pilots

Quadrophenia: The Who

Recovering the Satellites: Counting Crows

Remain in Light:  Talking Heads

Revolver:  The Beatles

Rubber Soul: The Beatles

Rumours:  Fleetwood Mac

Running on Empty: Jackson Browne

Rush of Cold Blood to the Head:  Coldplay

Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band:  The Beatles

Siamese Dream:  Smashing Pumpkins

Slowhand:  Eric Clapton

Some Girls: The Rolling Stones

So Tonight That I Might See:  Mazzy Star

Stadium Arcadium:  Red Hot Chilli Peppers

Sticky Fingers:  The Rolling Stones

Straight Up: Badfinger

The Stranger: Billy Joel

Streetlife Serenade:  Billy Joel

Tapestry:  Carole King

Tattoo You:  The Rolling Stones

Tea for the Tillerman:  Cat Stevens

Ten: Pearl Jam

Third Eye Blind:  Third Eye Blind

Throwing Copper: Love

Tim: The Replacements

Tommy: The Who

Tumbleweed Connection: Elton John

Turnstiles:  Billy Joel

Tusk:  Fleetwood Mac

Use Your Illusion 1 and 2:  Guns n Roses

Vs. Pearl Jam

Waka Jawaka:  Frank Zappa

Tom Waits: Closing Time

The Wall:  Pink Floyd

Weezer:  Weezer

What's the Story Morning Glory:  Oasis

The White Album:  The Beatles

White Ladder: David Gray

Who's Next:  The Who

Wish You Were Here:  Pink Floyd

The Wild, the Innocent, & The E Street Shuffle:  Bruce Springsteen

Willy and the Poor Boys:  Credence Clearwater Revival

Workingman's Dead:  Grateful Dead

X & Y:  Coldplay

Yield:  Pearl Jam

Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars:  David Bowie

Labor Day

Labor Day. For some it signifies the end of summer.  For others going back to school.   For me it's simply the last day to drink a Tom Collins.*   I don't like Labor Day.  The dormant angst from my adolescence seems to always reemerges like a lightning bug's shine.   It makes me want to lie down, but I know rest won't be coming today even if my mind sprints thousands of miles away.  So I will LABOR through this paragraph with nothing better to share than my twenty-four hour bug of despair.  And as the day progresses, I will attempt not to stain my seersucker suit** at a barbeque.

*Just ask Holden Caulfield

**No, I don't own a seersucker suit...thankfully.

Fade Into You

Every so often, when stars align and oceans collide, I hear a song that enables my transient spirit to travel back in time.   And I don't mean metaphorically.   Last night I was driving along a coastal highway when Hope leaned in and whispered to me, "I want to hold the hand inside you. I want to take a breath that's true. I look to you and I see nothing. I look to you to see the truth." I had somewhere to be, but it didn't really matter.  Her words caressed my body even as they cut into my soul.   I wanted to say something to her, to ask her for directions on this suddenly endless road but I felt hypnotized by the pursuit of her ethereal chant, "You life your life. You go in shadows. You'll come apart and you'll go blind. Some kind of night into your darkness. Colors your eyes with what's not there."  Her dreamy murmurs took me deeper into the melancholy of the unknown and yet, I knew what she was going to say next, because I'd been there before.

Fade into you

Stranger you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew

A wistful cocoon tingled inside my chest.  When it opened up, the Pacific transformed into the Atlantic and I was a child once more.   I'm eight years old and she's the firecracker smile of my parents.  I'm eighteen and she's the starry eyes of Sandy a moment before kissing my lips.  I'm thirty-one, and she is the final verse,  fading...

Fade into you

Stranger you never knew

Fade into you

I think it's strange you never knew

Fade into You
by Mazzy Star
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ImKY6TZEyrI

Stream of Thoughts

There's no such thing as a true stream of consciousness.   Only filtered thoughts and feelings, guided by the undefined impetus that seemingly distinguishes right from wrong.  Oh how it would be, to preserve the electrical energy that sparkles in my brain, to hold onto these tingling thoughts like lightning bugs, to know who I am truly am.  

My body is a coffee maker, taking beans of blood to produce a diluted pot of sensations and feelings.  Something surely must be lost. 

I've felt this feeling before. That welling in my eyes that springs down into my chest.  The forgotten wisdom of an amnesiac with life's answers dangled just out of reach.   If I knew who I really was, I wonder if I'd be able to recognize myself.

The lost song.  Ensconced in me somewhere, a melody goes unplayed. The lyrics of life, unsung.   

Tuesday's Gone

Tuesday is without a doubt my least favorite day of the week.  Most people would probably tell you Monday for obvious reasons.  But at least on Monday, there is a shared camaraderie amongst all those weekend warriors still mentally hung over, and it's the one day of the week when you can easily engage in required trite conversation.  As a kid, Sunday was the worst because I suffered from a perpetual state of dread for school on Monday morning that sometimes even bled back into Saturday night.   Wednesday is "Hump Day," a distinguishment in and of itself that is cool.*   Also, when I try and picture the crescendo people are referring to when they talk about "getting over the midweek hump," I envision none other than Joe Camel passing me a cigarette as I slide down the hump on his back.  Thirsty Thursday was definitely the best night of college.  There was never a plan, and yet it was always random, fun, and filled with unexpected happenings, like the time Beth Regan attempted to strangle me with my own tie at the Theta Social.  And Friday, who on earth doesn't like Friday?  With Saturday night of course comes the pinnacle of all weekend activity, but unfortunately once you reach that climactic peak, there's no where to go but downwards...which I'd say happens by Tuesday afternoon. That's the nadir of existence. Right now.

In spite of my dour outlook towards Tuesday, Rock n' Roll has immortalized this day more than any other.  Tuesday's Gone, Ruby Tuesday and Tuesday Afternoon are among the greatest classic rock songs of all time, and on the surface, all long for the second day in the work week.  Perhaps it's because Tuesday is such a terrible day that anything remotely decent coming from it inspires lyrical celebration.   But then again, if we look deeper into these song meanings, aren't they all actually rejoicing in the passing of Tuesday and a dawning of a new day, rather than commemorating its memory?   Lynyrd Skynrd's  "Tuesday's Gone with the wind" might sound like an anthem of nostalgia, but if you open your DVD of Dazed and Confused to the scene where the keg runs dry, you'll hear none other than Tuesday's Gone. The Rolling Stones'  Ruby Tuesday is rumored to be about Keith Richards' spastic groupie girlfriend who ended up leaving him with nothing but a pair of panties on the way to shacking up with Jimi Hendrix. Good riddance. And The Moody Blues' Tuesday Afternoon was originally titled Forever Afternoon, probably to point out that Tuesday can feel like an eternity.

So there you have it, the sword in the scrotum that is Tuesday.  Nonetheless, as Tuesday afternoon slowly turns into Tuesday night, I start to distance myself from this dreaded day.  And in the immortal words of Ronnie Van Zant, I sing, "Won't you please take me far away?"

*Wednesday is the night you are most likely to have sex with a stranger according to star statistician Nate Silver.  I wonder how many dudes use the term "Hump Day" in their hookup approach.   

Memorial Field

Nostalgia is the most powerful presence in my life.  I know not to trust it as it whispers sweet nothings in my ear, but I'm addicted to the impossible dream of life unlived.  In the coming weeks and months, I will be returning to Moorestown, New Jersey.   Memorial Field to be exact. There, amongst baseball diamonds and hidden four-leaf clovers, I'm going to rescue that lost boy I called my best friend.  I'm going to tell that girl who escaped Neverland that I love her.  I'm going to reopen those bedroom windows and write a story that will make things right.  If only I could fly.

The Nouveau Wild West

I’ve heard Los Angeles and the film industry in particular be described as “The Wild West.” And while I haven't seen any of my creative brethren gunned down, hogtied, or horsewhipped in the eight plus years I've spent in this desert, I suppose there is some truth to the metaphor.  Like those manifest destinyers who headed West in search of Gold circa 1850, dreamers like myself flock in droves to Los Angeles to search for fame and fortune. On any given day, there might be a million wandering souls, coming and going, vying to have their names carved out in the lights.  And just like the barren mines that inevitably defeated our musing ancestors, we modern day frontiersman attempt to dig for gold amidst a cratered land of broken promises.  

Some people call this place the Boulevard of Broken Dreams.  It's not surprising I guess.  From an early age, I've been pragmatic enough to understand that dreams don't come true for everyone.  And yet, I never for a second considered that mine wouldn't come to fruition...until recently.  I don't know if it's the harsh terrain or the perpetual thirst for something more, but I'm slowly wearing down.  And I've come to understand that I'm not immune to a forever melancholy address on the boulevard.  Nonetheless, I will begin to write my next script, and faithfully search for those nuggets of greatness that I hope will lead me to the promised land.  

The Book of Paul

It's Sunday.  A day of rest. A day of reflection.  Some go to church to pray.  Others go to brunch for bellinis.  I choose to wander the highways with only a pile of CDs riding shotgun.  On the road, I listen to the nomadic sermons of Dylan, Seger, and Springsteen.  The great ministers of rock preach of a nostalgic oasis that all vagabond spirits seek to find.  They promise an arduous journey, but offer little direction. Disillusioned, I exit onto a barren desert road and pull over. There is only silence when I see one CD hiding behind the rest.  The Beatles' Revolver. I pop it in and hear the faithful words of my salvation before they even come out of Paul McCartney's mouth...

I was alone, I took a ride

I didn't know what I would find there

I'm instantly taken back to my 18th year.  I was sitting in a parked car on the day after my birthday when I heard the psalm I swore to live my life by.   I was alone, I took a ride, and on Cardinal Street, I found something. A feeling.  A feeling by which all others in my life would be judged...and found wanting.    Somewhere along the way, I forgot about that feeling.  No.  I just stopped looking for it.  But I remember now.  

It's time to start up the engine and drive once again.  I'll be going east this time.  New York.   I don't know what I'll find at the end of this vagabond's journey.  But isn't that really the answer to what life is? 

Promises We Make Only to Break

My first week of blogging (well, calendar week at least) has come to an end.  I promised myself I'd write something everyday, and for five days now, I have.  I suppose I feel positive about my work and pleased that I haven't found a reasonable excuse to stymy this newfound creative outlet.  But deep down, something is definitely stopping me from massaging the balls of my ego any further.  And that's because I know that just about the only promising thing about a promise is the prospect of failure.

I don't mean to sound dour, but do promises really mean anything?  There are the secrets we promise to keep, that we tell.  There are the activities we promise to stop, that we only refrain from temporarily.  There are the people we promise to love forever, that we ultimately feel nothing for.  We continuously stuff our pockets to the brink with promises until they spill out (sometimes explosively) onto the street,  only so we can once again make room for more empty proclamations.

I don't think that anyone makes a promise they plan on breaking in the same way that  I don't think anyone one takes on the vows of marriage with plans of divorce. But why does it happen? Lets look at weddings.  Weddings today are more about the open bar than bringing two people together in holy matrimony.  And sure, getting toasted and dancing is the most fun part of the evening, but I think there has to be another reason why people bring together all the important people in their lives for this event. I think it's so that when these people make that vow about forever, the people in their lives witness it. They become participants.  In a sense, they become responsible for not only reminding, but holding the bride and groom to their commitments.

Obviously, this seldom happens.  Perhaps it's because we have too many broken promises of our own to hold anyone accountable to their vows.  Or perhaps it's because we understand that the human spirit can only live in the present.  It's actually kind of amazing how we assuage ourselves of responsibility from commitments. For example, when we fall in love, we assume those feelings will be forever and when we don't feel a certain way any longer, we simply look back at ourselves and say something like, "I was a different person then."  It's as if we are pleading not guilty but reason of temporary insanity.

"I wasn't myself." "At the time, that's what I wanted."  I've said those things before.  And I suppose right now,  I want to write...and so I am.  But I'm going to take back my promise before I break it.

Seemingly Great (but awful) Book Titles

I'm definitely late (I hope fashionably) to the blogging game, but that's better than being comfortably numb...I think. 

I've always enjoyed making lists:  Top 10 Movies, Top 10 Albums, Top 10 Hook-ups, etc.  It's truly one of my favorite tools of procrastination.  So, since I've decided to blog the musings of my own wayward demise, it seems appropriate to start with a list.    

With that, here are 5 seemingly amazing book titles that are actually idiotic if you think about it...

1) The Grapes of Wrath: 

Migrant workers and the dust bowl. It makes sense that the grapes take on a terrifying metaphorical presence until you start pairing up some other fruits and vegetables like....Tomatoes of Fury and Peaches of Pity

2) The Sun Also Rises

I mean, I think we all know that the sun rises and sets. That the sun also rises is kind of repetitive and obvious. Why not keep going at this point with....The Sun Also Rises in the Morning After It Sets at Night

3) The Catcher in the Rye

My favorite novel of all time is also the most difficult title to explain.

4) 1984

George Orwell was clearly no Nostradamus, who was wise enough to give himself hundreds of years to be incorrect about his apocalyptic vision. Orwell wrote his most famous novel in 1949, a mere 35 years away from dystopia. This may have provided some immediacy to his work, but when 1984 came and went with nothing but a Van Halen album, I think we can all agree the better title would have been...2084

5) The Beautiful and the Damned

I don't think the artistry of F. Scott Fitzgerald could ever be compared to a soap opera. And yet, I can't help but think of the Bold and the Beautiful, One Life to Live, and The Young and the Restless every time I think of this work of art.

There you have it, my first blog.  Can you come up with 5 more stupid titles?