tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48515282450813033202024-02-19T06:05:41.613-05:00RemaindersWhere I read and write about the unread books on my shelvesKirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-35323872621074537232013-08-11T22:57:00.000-04:002013-08-11T23:11:34.144-04:00Statement of Intent<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I have a job. Like a nine-to-five, badge-in, PTO-accruing,
health/dental/holidays-type job. I pore over availability in Outlook before
sending meeting invites. I follow up the meetings with detailed action items
and due dates. I wear a button-down (up?) shirt and slacks every day, the pair
of jeans in my top drawer reserved for the weekends when I am at the park with
the boys or (less frequently) at some after-hours social event. The job that
supports my family is Not Writer, yet when people ask me what I do I say, I am
a playwright.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The most disheartening aspect of spending the majority of my
life in the workforce is that I realize just how little I have in common with
the rest of the world. What did you do this weekend, a colleague asks. I went
to a play, I say. What play, she asks. A reading of a new work by a friend of
mine, I say. Oh, she responds. Interesting…. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s not that there is anything wrong with the people with whom I work. I like
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like but that feels like it should come next.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So you ask about “engag[ing] with a community of writers,”
and I have to tamp down the part of me that says Are you kidding? I’m on a
train at eight, back home at six, where I squeeze in whatever quality time I
can with the family, before settling into my second job at ten, the one that
doesn’t appear on my W-2 but that I nonetheless claim during those weekend
conversations, and I write and rewrite and print and three-hole punch, and
troll for other opportunities while resisting the urge to follow-up with the
ones I haven’t heard back from (You haven’t read it, <i>yet</i>?). <o:p></o:p></div>
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This is my life, and you’re going to make me make a case?<o:p></o:p></div>
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But…. But you don’t know me, which I guess is the point, so you
have to ask the question, and I have to answer. I understand. Which, I suppose,
is the short version of my response: I understand. I understand that,
considered against the rest of the world, there are very few of us out
there<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">—</span>theater artists, that is, and playwrights, fewer still. I understand the
value of having a room of one’s own when I need it. I understand the driving
force of a guaranteed reading at the end of a draft (!). And I understand that
a whole bunch of people who are not playwrights but who are still passionate
about new plays make opportunities happen. Most of all, I understand that when
writers are not writers they are audience members, and that part of being a
member of a community is recognizing what you can give rather than sizing up
what you can take. I understand community. I want to be part of yours.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I also hate these things. These statements. I really do.
What do you think is the artist’s role in society? Who are your influences and
how do they shape your work? How is this play representative of your aesthetic?
Make sure your response is no more than one, double-spaced typed page. It’s in
the work, I want to shout. Just look at the work.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But, like I said, I understand. I get it. I’m a playwright.
It’s part of my job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-23845095476349204192012-05-04T18:40:00.000-04:002012-05-04T18:40:16.468-04:00Pass the Mic: RIP MCA<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
NOTE: This originally appeared on PopMatters, so click <a href="http://www.popmatters.com/pm/feature/114947-mcas-heavy-news/P0/">here</a> if you want to see it all gussied up. Otherwise, read below. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My mom was admitted to the hospital on the day that MCA
announced he had cancer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m tempted to
say that it was nothing serious, but did I mention that she was admitted to the
hospital?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She had been sick for a week,
but she felt like she was on the mend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her appointment with her doctor that morning was supposed to be a
check-in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I live in New York, she in
Missouri.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I spoke to her on the
phone, she was going through the admissions process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said, “I’m OK, Kirb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t worry about me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gotta go”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And she hung up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An hour later I received an email from BeastieBoys.com.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The subject read, “HOUSTON WE HAVE A
PROBLEM”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The body said, “hey all,
there’s been a change in plans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>please
click this link to see a statement from me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>thanks, yauch”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I clicked the
link.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was MCA, sitting to the left
of a bearded Ad Rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took me a
minute to identify Ad Rock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
video, they are in a studio, but in front of the soundboard rather than behind
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something seems amiss from the
beginning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They aren’t clowning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“OK.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Um.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So”, they start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then they laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s not funny”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s not”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>MCA starts by preparing us for “some pretty heavy news”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have to cancel their upcoming shows, delay
the release of their new album.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
that’s not the heavy part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The heavy
part is that two months ago he felt a lump in his neck, MCA did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thought nothing of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A swollen gland like when you have a
cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it persisted, so he had it
checked out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Turns out it’s a form of
cancer in a gland over here….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He points
with his index finger just below his left ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’ll have surgery the following week, radiation treatment to
follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s localized, not in the
rest of his body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They checked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice should be fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ad Rock keeps his head bowed during most of
the announcement, pipes in with a “that’s good” at the part about his
voice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ad Rock says that Yauch didn’t
tell him why he was coming down and that he’s usually dressed real tight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s a little bit of a setback and a pain in
the ass”, MCA says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And to all of you
who were looking forward to seeing us this summer, “I apologize”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was at work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent
the link to my friend Mike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said,
“Everything about this is weird”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I IM’d my wife:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“This day is not going very well”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There’s a version of this discussion that says I was more
moved by MCA’s announcement than I was about my mom being admitted to the
hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Beastie Boys are more like
family to me than my own family and that kind of thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But don’t worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not that conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Line up my mother and Adam Yauch and tell me
to choose and that’s no choice at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>If the situation were reversed, he’d do the same.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You would too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You should.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is more about the surprise I felt when an hour after my
heart ached for my own mother it ached again in a similar way for someone whom
I have never actually met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I’ve spent
days probably months listening to his music.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>So what?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This gives me the
right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The short answer is “Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yes, it does”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I admit the distinction is fine, but it’s the difference
between knowing how important someone is in your life and realizing it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The real surprise is that I was surprised at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was 12 years old, I stepped into Blue
Meanie Records in El Cajon, California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve known the importance of pop culture in my life since that day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s why I’ve spent a lifetime underlining
passages in books, insisting that an album’s first listen is uninterrupted, and
crying during the movie when I know how it’s going to end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But my reaction to MCA felt different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In those other instances, the emotion is
inspired by a phrase, a tune, an image, and in many cases all three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a goddamned conspiracy of influences,
and it’s no wonder I respond the way I do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I can’t help it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With MCA, though, it was so stripped down, so emotionally
open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were no production values;
there was no manipulation; he didn’t hide behind a press release.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was one take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lights up, lights down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With MCA it felt personal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Just me and his millions of fans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Beastie Boys have long been a fan-friendly act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Criterion release of a DVD of their
greatest video hits (through <i>Hello, Nasty</i>) includes enough
goodies to more than justify the $29.95 sticker price.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their Web site maintains a truly communal
space, one that not only connects fans but also encourages them to create and
share remixes of their favorite songs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They recently released two free audio recordings of them listening and
commenting on <i>Paul’s Boutique</i> and <i>Check Your
Head</i> (think of them as kind of DVD commentary tracks for CD’s or I
guess now MP3’s).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of course, their most famous and ambitious foray into fan
involvement occurred when they distributed cameras to 50 lucky fans and asked
them to film their triumphant concert at Madison Square Garden in 2006.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The result was a feature-length concert film,
<i>Awesome, I Fucking Shot That</i>, which was ostensibly
“directed” by “Nathan Hornblower”, AKA MCA, AKA Adam Yauch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In recent years, their relationship with their fans has been
conducted primarily over electronic mail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They’ll send out information about upcoming (re)releases or presales for
shows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Granted, email is tricky.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A name like “Nine Inch Nails” or “The
Strokes” under the “sender” column doesn’t necessarily mean that you are
corresponding with Nine Inch Nails or The Strokes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In all likelihood, you are corresponding with
their representatives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not so with
“BeastieBoys.com”, or at least I think not so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The emails from BeastieBoys.com feel authentic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would come home from work and say to my
wife, “Guess who I got an email from today?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She’d say, “Who?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d say, “The
Beastie Boys”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’d say, “Yeah, right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I got an evite from Eminem”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d say, “I’m serious”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yauch seems to be more involved than the others with these
messages, probably because he has more to plug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He’ll see a movie like <i>The 11<sup>th</sup> Hour</i> and
then send out a message urging everyone else to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or he’ll remind us all to see
<i>Gunnin’ for That #1 Spot</i>, a movie he directed about
high-school basketball players and their spot in the NBA draft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, the message about <i>Gunnin’
for That #1 Spot</i> was one of his more memorable missives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tell me this isn’t Yauch himself:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“<span style="color: black;">this friday i'll
be at a couple of the screenings at the AMC Loews Village 7 to do Q and A's, so
if yr into that kind of [sic], thing, come and hang out with me. and if you are
one of those turrets people that screams out things at a Q and A like ‘i love
you dude, remember when we smoked a bowl up on the roof of the defjam building?’
that's ok too. see you there!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the beginning of the summer they sent out a message that
outlined their five-point plan for world domination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It included a reissue of <i>Ill
Communication</i>; festival shows at Bonnaroo, All Points West,
Lollapalooza, and Outside Lands; the release of their new album, <i>Hot
Sauce Committee, Pt. 1</i>; and a culminating concert in September at the
Hollywood Bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A subsequent email suggested
that the plan was well under way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
the Summer of the Beastie Boys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, on July 20<sup>th</sup>, 12:12 PM:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM”.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had the opportunity (and fortunately the money) to see
the Beastie Boys four times in the past two maybe three years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a band whose individual members are
pretty much indistinguishable from one another in the public consciousness, I’m
amazed at how their distinct personalities emerge onstage.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ad Rock is clearly the leader of the band; he plays guitar
when they switch to their instruments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mike D and his ‘fro bouncing behind the drum kit are by far the coolest
of the three.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And MCA watches his
fingers when he plays bass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s the
least ostentatious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With his salt and
pepper hair (mainly salt) he looks like the oldest of the three (which is just
as well because he is).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just like
Dylan’s voice shot itself out sometime before <i>Time Out of
Mind</i> (and many would say long before), MCA’s voice went before they
recorded <i>To the 5 Boroughs</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But like Dylan, he uses it to great effect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He features rather than hides that
raspiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a perfect complement to
Ad Rock’s nasal and Mike D’s bravado flows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When MCA takes the mic, he’s low the ground, his arms loose
at the elbows and the wrists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks
like he’s perpetually on the verge of falling down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A standing-eight count.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet he keeps on going.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At All Points West, Jay-Z filled in for the Beastie Boys as
the headliner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a hunch that he
might throw an homage their way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He did
not disappoint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He and his full band opened with “No Sleep ‘Til
Brooklyn”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He didn’t even change the
lyrics.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Born and bred Brooklyn in the
USA”, he rapped.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“They call me Adam
Yauch but I’m MCA”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
sought it out the following morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
YouTube clip is grainy as shit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gave
me chills.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what I know I know about MCA:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He likes Bad Brains and the Knicks, he
supports a Free Tibet, and he’s got no love for George W. Bush.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s what I think I know about MCA:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he had a traditional Buddhist
wedding, complete with a parade down the streets of Brooklyn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he stopped doing drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think am pretty sure that I used to see him
in Soho when I was walking from my apartment in Chelsea to my job in the
Financial District.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He had a beard, a
longboard, and a kid. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw him at the
same place every morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured his
kid went to school somewhere around there and that he walked him/her to school
and then skated home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We made eye
contact once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The eye contact said,
Yeah, I’m who you think I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or so I
thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t push it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My friend said he—MCA—lives in Brooklyn, but
I think he—my friend—was just jealous.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It doesn’t really matter which of this is true and which
isn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It all informed my reaction when
I saw him on the clip announcing his heavy news.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What must his wife and school-age child
think?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When will he skate again?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
*****</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hard part about this whole thing—the part that nearly
prevented me from going down this road in the first place—is that the story
doesn’t really have an ending.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not yet,
anyway, and hopefully not for a long, long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m already mindful of a last-remembrances
tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I certainly don’t want to be
accused of burying someone before he is gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things are going better for my mother.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was released a week after she was admitted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Longer than she thought; longer than any of
us wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But she’s better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The intravenous antibiotics did what the oral
ones could not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She’s back at work next
week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We all think it’s too soon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things seem to be going reasonably well for MCA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was an email last week.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one titled “what i did over my summer
vacation”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s worth quoting in full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reads:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span">aug 5 2009</span><span class="apple-style-span"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">hey all, </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">hope you are doing well. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">so i'm about a week and a half out of surgery now
and rapidly recovering from it. i haven't taken any of the pain meds, which
supposedly speeds along the healing process, or should i say, taking them slows
it down. anyway, i spent 1 night at the hospital after the surgery. the
hospital was too crazy to get any rest so i headed home to relax, have home
cooked food and hang out with the family. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">i'm pretty well detoxed from the anesthesia that
they pumped me up with to keep me under for all that time. that took several
days to get out of my system. my neck and jaw are still pretty stiff from the
surgery, but it gets better everyday. had the stitches out this past monday...
so things are moving along. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">but no sooner am i on the mend from this first
torture than are they lining up the next one. the next line of treatment will
be radiation. that involves blasting you with some kind of beam for a few
minutes a day, 5 days a week, for about 7 weeks. that will start in a few
weeks... </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">saw the jay-z cover of no sleep, and the coldplay
one of fight for your right from APW on youtube. good shit. and i heard karen o
wore a "get well MCA" armband, and that q-tip gave a shout out
too..... very kind of them. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">just wanted to thank them and everyone else who
sent </span><span class="yshortcuts"><span style="color: black;">positive thoughts</span></span><span class="apple-style-span"> my way. i do think that all of the well wishes have
contributed to the fact that my treatment and recovery are going well. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">much love back at all of you! </span><br />
<br />
<span class="apple-style-span">adam</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span class="apple-style-span">*****</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span">In lieu of a new album a new
single has emerged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A song called “Too
Many Rappers” that they made with Nas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They debuted it at Bonnaroo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s
a quality audio version of the song on YouTube.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span">Ad Rock gets the best line when
he says “Oh my god just look at me / Grandpa been rapping since ‘83”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That made me laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="apple-style-span">But the most poignant lines
belong to Yauch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s the first of the
Boys to solo on the song.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He rasps, “</span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">Yo, I been in the game since
before you was born / I might still be emceein' even after you're gone / Strange
thought, I know, but my skills still grow /<br />
The 80's, the 90's, 2000's and so / On and on until the crack of dawn / Until
the year 3000 and beyond / Stay up all night and I M.C / and never die, cuz
death is the cousin of sleep”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I
admit that I don’t really know what that last part means, but the part
before—the part about rapping until “the year 3000 and beyond”—that part got to
me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">It’s
a great lead single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The beat is a
little <i>Check Your Head</i>-ish, but the song is definitely its
own thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something both familiar and
new.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">I
can’t wait to see them play it live.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">*****</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">A
final word:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since the original version
of this essay was written, MCA has sent out another message to his fans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This one is called “post india update”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apparently he went to India to see some
Tibetan doctors (and, as it worked out, to drop in on some class that the Dalai
Lama was teaching).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says, “</span><span style="color: black;">i'm feeling healthy, strong and hopeful that i've beaten
this thing, but of course time will tell</span><span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">”.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="color: black; mso-ansi-language: EN;">The
Tibetan doctors told him to eat vegan/organic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He says that this is easier to do here than there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This surprises him.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
He then talks about a nunnery that
he visited and he provides a link.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“[I]t's
about $350 a year to sponsor a nun if you are interested”, he writes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not sure how I feel about this.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
He wraps up with a final update
about the new record and his health:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“we
have not set a new release date for the record yet, but i'm hoping it'll be in
the first half of next year. looking forward to that, but in the meantime, i'm
just enjoying a little downtime in massachusetts,
taking walks in the woods and hanging out with the family”.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Just yesterday—the day on which I
received the latest MCA update—my mom was back in and out of the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It sounds like I’m making this up, but I’m
not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This visit was completely unrelated
to the other.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
She’s fine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A minor thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But did I mention that she was in and out of
the hospital?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I talked to her earlier
today, in fact.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sounds tired.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
There’s something to be said here
in the end about family:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MCA hanging out
with his; me being far away from mine; all of us getting older and experiencing
some variation of the same thing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Family, immediate and otherwise.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
I’ve read and re-read this piece
some dozen times over the past two months, and, despite my initial insistence
to the contrary, I’m just now realizing that this is what it was about all
along.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjA8HokVCfokQe-siY5TzxSN7rbNj-V7OB6ryi4NiM2yIkCuTTFMaGcvTE28CTXTvgwGwg-5oPjr_DSO2PS3tmU6Up6pD8G5s5EyMEH1IK5206RInsPAXBX1K9P2A4ffF8MnM6Hgut_0/s1600/mca.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbjA8HokVCfokQe-siY5TzxSN7rbNj-V7OB6ryi4NiM2yIkCuTTFMaGcvTE28CTXTvgwGwg-5oPjr_DSO2PS3tmU6Up6pD8G5s5EyMEH1IK5206RInsPAXBX1K9P2A4ffF8MnM6Hgut_0/s640/mca.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-3060865921372783842012-03-27T22:21:00.000-04:002012-03-27T22:21:47.949-04:00Monologue #1: "Brothers Get Paid Nowadays for Making Beats"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Brothers get paid nowadays for making beats. Repeat: For making beats, brothers get paid. And when I say “paid,” I don’t mean no punching-the-clock-forty-hours-a-week-paycheck-directly-deposited kind of paid paid. When I say “paid,” I mean <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">paid</i>. Like “check,” as in chickity-check it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(He busts a beat, human-beatbox style.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That right there is 75,000 large. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(He busts another.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That? That one’s going for 250K. And this, this one: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(He busts yet again.). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, like the guy at the Swap Meet says, “If you’ve gots to ask, you can’t afford.” When I heard how much beats was going for, my life suddenly got a whole lot easier. Because, I’m telling you, man, I’ve tried it all. I’ve flipped the burgers. I’ve marketed the telephone. I even had my own Web site: www, dot, backwash, dot, b-i-z. The idea was to grab the domain before anyone else did and then sell to the highest bidder. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(He taps his temple three times as if to say, “real smart like,” then shakes his head disappointingly.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fucking tech bubble. But now. Now…. I don't have to worry about that no more, because all that shit is in the rear-view on account of this beat thing. You see </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(he looks around, leans in, and continues all confidential like)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">my pops got me a keyboard when I was just a young buck. One of those Casios with the different percussions already pre-programmed: the waltz, the cha-cha-cha, the rhombus. And those little yellow pads you could hit for the snare or the cymbal. Pa-da-pow! Pa-da-pow! Tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch-tch. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Man, I used to drum on that thing without fail. Like all day and all night and most afternoons too, when I wasn't playing Super Mario. And I know that I hit on damn near every beat there ever was. Damn near every single one. So the way I see it: it’s collection time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next time you see some fool snapping his fingers or tapping his toes, you tell that sucker to pay up. That’s my intellectual property he’s bouncin’ to.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdD-ryCoRwMvshe8BWE_JlGSoYT-IM_-dbWpVpnoAsnD4HhQHlig_EIBgM6NbDkN96FxONNSftg64DnFAhw7nlMM1fvW2bu-F0LhqqoSge0_8A4Tltb32zkJLdM5sn9jkAWE9LXnX68iU/s1600/beatbox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="620" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdD-ryCoRwMvshe8BWE_JlGSoYT-IM_-dbWpVpnoAsnD4HhQHlig_EIBgM6NbDkN96FxONNSftg64DnFAhw7nlMM1fvW2bu-F0LhqqoSge0_8A4Tltb32zkJLdM5sn9jkAWE9LXnX68iU/s640/beatbox.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-30453536699392324702012-02-28T22:40:00.000-05:002012-02-28T22:40:16.741-05:00Short Play #3: "At Loon Lake"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">“At Loon Lake”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">a new one-act play</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">by </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Kirby Fields</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Produced as part of the New York 15-Minute Play Festival on April 29, and May 6-7, 2011, featuring Sue Berch, Dave Brown, Jeffrey Nauman, and Scott Sowers, directed by Kel Haney.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u>The Characters</u></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">MITCH – male, 40’s</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">MAUREEN – female, 40’s, Mitch’s wife</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">ROBIN – male, 40’s</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">CODY – male, teenager, Robin’s severely disabled son</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The beach at Loon Lake.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u>The Time</u></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The present.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif][if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">“At Loon Lake”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.0in;">At rise: Sounds of birds chirping, water lapping, children playing. MITCH and MAUREEN on a blanket on the beach. Assorted beach-appropriate items are scattered. MAUREEN holds a tube of sunscreen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Fucking Loon Lake. I’ve got to be as crazy as one to be out here. How’d you ever talk me into this anyway?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I didn’t talk you into anything. You’re here because you love me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is that so?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">And because you forgot our date night on Friday and instead played poker with the boys.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ah, right.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(Beat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MITCH sighs, discontentedly.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why don’t you go get in the water or something?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Are you kidding me? It’s one of the most polluted lakes in the state.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Don’t be ridiculous. Look at all the people out there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m telling you, it’s a fucking cesspool. When their doctors diagnose them all with Hepatitis C, they’ll be sorry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since when do you know about polluted lakes anyway?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I read an article.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since when do you read?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Since your meatloaf gave me plenty of time to do nothing but.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">My meatloaf. As if you need an excuse.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ll tell you one thing right now though, next weekend, this keister isn’t moving so much as an inch from the couch, certain biological obligations notwithstanding.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mitch!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Cody gets in next weekend.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cody? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s only got two weeks after the semester before summer school.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">You didn’t tell me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was hoping you two could—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nobody told me, Maureen. Not you and damn sure not—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, I’m telling you now. His last final is on Thursday. He’ll be home on Friday.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">That fucking kid.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mitchell!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">No. He’s been at that school for, what, two years now? And he’s called me a grand total of one time, and that only because the battery on your phone had died and he needed someone to send him some money.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sure that’s not—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">One time, Maureen. </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, maybe if you would actually have a conversation with him when he did call.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have a conversation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hello, son. How are your grades? Don’t fuck up. Here’s your mother.”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s a conversation.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">No “How are you doing? What did you do today? Are you seeing anyone?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s implied.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">In which part? The “don’t fuck up” or the “here’s your mother”?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s implied. He understands. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Men</i> understand. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">boys </i>don’t. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s changing his major. I don’t know why he never called you before, but this time it’s because he’s changing his major and he’s afraid of what you’re going to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s changing his major? To what?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">To Sociology.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">The fuck he is.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">See.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sorry, Maureen, but—.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is exactly why—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s wrong with Business?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s nothing wrong with Business, except, apparently, that it’s not Sociology.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s a perfectly respectable career path.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">You know what they say, don’t you?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">No. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">You want to help people, study Sociology. You want to get a job, study Business.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure they say that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, they should. Or something like it, anyway. Fucking Sociology. It just doesn’t make any sense. Do you know what I would have given to have the opportunity that boy has?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A diploma, Maureen. A college degree. He’s going straight to the top, not stall halfway up the corporate ladder.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, baby, you haven’t stalled.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wasn’t talking about—.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course you weren’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; tab-stops: 0in;">(MITCH sees something offstage.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s 20 years old. I’m sure he’s just—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey. Check it out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(MAUREEN looks off. Sound of an inarticulate moan from offstage.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh my god. There but for the grace of god go—.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know, right? Can you believe this shit? I mean, like you said, we’re trying to have a day here. We’re trying to have a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">good</i> fucking day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(another piercing moan)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just don’t know what I would have done. I just—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know what you would have done. You wouldn’t have let it get to that point in the first place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">But—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">No buts about it. It’s unconscionable. Bringing something like that into the world. After all, there are tests for these kinds of things nowadays. After a certain point, the only ass you should be required to wipe is your own.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hush up. They’re coming this way.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(ROBIN enters. He’s a pleasant-looking, middle-aged man. Behind him is CODY. CODY is a severely disabled teenage boy. His face, hands, and body are contorted. He communicates via yelps and moans.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY bellows.)</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s right. We’re going to go for a swim in the lake.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it will be a little on the cold side, but it’s so hot out, I bet it’s going to feel good.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Colder than your bath, yes, but with less soap in your eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY)</div><div class="MsoNormal">No. You’ll still have to get a bath.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Because bathing and swimming are two different things, that’s why. One is hardly a substitute for the other.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY)</div><div class="MsoNormal">True. But they’re different kinds of water. Think about it. After you’ve taken a bath, you hardly feel like you’ve gone swimming, right? Well, the same idea works in reverse.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(ROBIN makes eye contact with MITCH and shakes his head as if to say, “The questions just never stop, do they?” Then, to MITCH:)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Beautiful day, isn’t it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m telling you, the sky on days like this.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Supposed to be turn by the end of the week.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is that so?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">What the news says, anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, enjoy it while it lasts.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">You too. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thanks. Come on, Cody.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mitch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I heard, Maureen. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sorry, did I—?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">No.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s just—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s just nothing.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s just that we have a son named “Cody,” too.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is that right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">We do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">My Cody is named after his grandfather, my father. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s so sweet. Ours is named Cody because it’s the only name Mitch and I could agree on. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s important too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s thinking about changing his major, our Cody is. He’s starting his junior year at college and he’s—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s not changing his—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s thinking of changing from Business to Sociology.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s quite a change.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It is. I tell him whatever makes him happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Provided it keeps him out of the line at the soup kitchen.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(CODY whimpers. He stares at MITCH. MITCH stares back, uncomfortably.)</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, I can’t speak too much to the business angle—I teach math to sixth graders, myself—but Cody here has taken a real shine to his caretaker. He’s almost become like a member of the family like. It’s a little different than briefcases and spreadsheets and, well, whatever it is business people do, but it’s rewarding in its own right, I suppose. You said it best, yourself: Whatever makes him happy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY continues staring at MITCH.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Speaking of taking a shine. I think he likes you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(CODY bellows.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah. He likes you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can really understand him?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">As much as anybody understands anyone, I guess. You can respond to him, you know. He is capable of carrying on a conversation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wouldn’t know what to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Just say whatever pops into your head.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s not a good idea.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m sure it’s—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, she’s right. That’s probably not a—.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Come on… Whatever pops into your head. Really. It makes his day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(Beat as MITCH looks at MAUREEN. She shrugs.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cody. Now, you listen to your dad now, you hear. I read an article, you see, and that lake there is one of the dirtiest in the state. Now, I’m not saying you shouldn’t go out there and enjoy yourself. A little dirt comes with life. And on a day like today, it should cool you off something real good. But you make sure when you get home that you get yourself a bath tonight, you understand? I know it may not make much sense to you now, but your dad is just watching out for you, just making sure you do what’s best.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(MITCH stares at CODY, searching for some kind of recognition.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;">Are you sure he’s able to—?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(CODY reaches toward MITCH’s face. MITCH recoils.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s OK.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(CODY reaches up and strokes MITCH’s cheek. He moans loudly.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;">Yeah. You too.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(After a pause, ROBIN takes CODY by the hand.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Come on. We don’t need to impose on these fine people anymore than we already have.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(ROBIN and CODY begin to exit.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">You decided to name him after your old man before he was born?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we learned it was a boy, yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">And you knew that…. You knew he was going to be that way?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes. We knew.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">How’d that make him feel? Your pops?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ROBIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Are you kidding me? He was honored. Have a nice day.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(ROBIN and CODY exit.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(Pause as MITCH and MAUREEN listen to CODY’s cries recede into the distance.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">See. What I fucking tell you, huh? I mean, talk about a buzzkill. I’m not saying that they shouldn’t be let out of the house. I won’t go so far as to say that, but I will say—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Shut up, Mitch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Excuse me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I said shut the fuck up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(She reaches into her purse and pulls out a cell phone.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hey. Just because they ruined your day at the beach doesn’t mean—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(MAUREEN holds the phone to MITCH.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Call.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">What?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You heard me. Call.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">What are you talking about? Who am I supposed to—?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You know damn well who.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">And what am I supposed to say? We just saw a retard on the beach and thought of you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">If that feels right.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maureen.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’ll think of something.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s not going to answer. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s my phone. He’ll answer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">But what am I supposed to—?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you call. Now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(MITCH takes the phone.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Why don’t you get into the water or something?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">In that water? No way. I hear it’s a cesspool.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh, for Christ’s—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">But I’ll tell you what, I will take a stroll along the shore, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if</i> you promise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I promise.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are records, you know, on the phone. There are ways of knowing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Logs that list numbers called, even lengths of conversations.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know, Maureen. I know. Go take your walk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(She kisses him on the cheek.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MAUREEN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re a good man, Mitchell. Or at least there’s a good man in there somewhere.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(She exits.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(MITCH looks at the phone. After a few seconds, he calls.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">MITCH</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hello. Cody? No. It’s your dad. I said, It’s your dad. Yes, I know. No. She’s fine. We’re at the beach, actually. I know, right. How she ever talked me into this one. Hey, listen. I know you’re busy and all, and I’ll let you talk to your mom in just a minute, but first I wanted to…first I just wanted to say….</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(MITCH pauses, searching for the right words, searching for any words. He is unable to find them. After faltering for a few seconds, he rocks his head back—the phone still to his mouth—and unleashes a primal scream.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(end of play)</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-52669191188759375732012-01-26T22:24:00.000-05:002012-01-26T22:24:59.714-05:00Short Play #2: "Job Hunting in the Age of Farmville" (a one-minute play)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">“Job Hunting in the Age of Farmville”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">a One-Minute Play</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">by Kirby Fields</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">Produced as part of Spare Change Theater's One-Minute Play Festival, New York, September 10-11, 2010, and again as part of the Best Of Festival, July 29, 2011 </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.0in;">At rise:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>GLADWELL on one side of the desk, RUPERT on the other.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, Mr. Rupert.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">Your education is impressive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Your past experience exactly what we’re looking for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And your references impeccable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">Great.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when do I—?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m afraid, however, that we’re not going to be able to hire you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">But, why not?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">Well, we were all ready to make an offer, and then we checked your Facebook page.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">I see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>May I ask what it was exactly that—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d really rather not—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">Was it the picture of me getting tazed on the field in Philly?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or the one of me doing a line of coke off a hooker’s ass?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or wait a minute!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the beer bong with Mike the Situation Sorrentino, wasn’t it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re a very tolerant company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t any of those things.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then what was it then? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s your status updates.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">RUPERT</div><div class="MsoNormal">What about them?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">GLADWELL</div><div class="MsoNormal">They’re just not very funny.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">(end of play)</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BfUmeiwxuZWRJGtOr5W6NXk-JED6Qhim_loIZd1golfi_uxCBRqYxsSqHQjwWv1KJhdczHyIKosX7-Dk02HxQFSrBJzYsQlMo1wAagzKCU5JQe50H8XEarbi6nSCQQxLu0PYGxHJhl4/s1600/farmville-mona-lisa-by-kevin-johnson.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BfUmeiwxuZWRJGtOr5W6NXk-JED6Qhim_loIZd1golfi_uxCBRqYxsSqHQjwWv1KJhdczHyIKosX7-Dk02HxQFSrBJzYsQlMo1wAagzKCU5JQe50H8XEarbi6nSCQQxLu0PYGxHJhl4/s640/farmville-mona-lisa-by-kevin-johnson.png" width="640" /></a></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-82592659840491389672012-01-11T22:36:00.000-05:002012-01-11T22:36:26.562-05:00Guest Blogger: "Stepping Back," by Craig Weiner<div>I don't read anymore. Not like I used to, when I spent hours in used bookstores desperately seeking performance-enhancing supplements to my English major and two subsequent masters degrees. Now, I'm lucky if I can get through a Sports Illustrated before the next one comes in the mail. My wife will turn to me in bed and say, "You should read this book, but I know you won't." I don't even give her an empty promise. I just roll over and go to sleep to numb the shame. </div><div><br />
</div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_132632680727888">I've thought a lot about books since reading Kirby's inaugural Remainders post. I have a lot of them. Each time I've moved, I've faithfully packed them up in new cardboard boxes that I've had to purchase for the occasion because the last thing you want to do after you move is look at cardboard boxes, let alone keep them. Five different apartments in six years in St. Louis, a year in Boston, to a storage unit while searching for myself abroad for a few months, a year in New York, two in Pittsburgh, and then seven more and counting back in New York. I'm in my fourth apartment here. The last three apartments have come with a wife and two of those have included a small child. The last time I moved, I didn't even bother to organize the books on the shelves. Ernest Hemingway rubbed shoulders with whoever wrote the "I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski" trivia book based on the Coen brothers film and no one cared. When space got tight in our daughter's room, we moved the bookcases into a narrow hallway that has essentially served as stroller parking and storage. Suddenly, it appeared that there were no books in our apartment, save for the hundred or so books for two year-olds, many of which extol the myriad virtues of not defecating in one's pants.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUezFLczTptLfqgbb_fSX8-fkoK5eeMZY20tlDrKSQQxHeeq_YCAGDpFU2PZl7ZV6y5tgknvwHs8OE7ytnFyAh005dKzTT4FFKTqNW3BWjM4VnDBeqkOqYJ3CiHzfiq6zGdLjLJVNnI8/s1600/Poop+Book+II.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSUezFLczTptLfqgbb_fSX8-fkoK5eeMZY20tlDrKSQQxHeeq_YCAGDpFU2PZl7ZV6y5tgknvwHs8OE7ytnFyAh005dKzTT4FFKTqNW3BWjM4VnDBeqkOqYJ3CiHzfiq6zGdLjLJVNnI8/s400/Poop+Book+II.jpg" width="366" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know he claims that this is his daughter's, but don't let him fool you. I've shared a hotel room with the man. I know the truth.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1326326807278100">It seemed strange to me that the bookcases were not the central feature of the living room, like trophies on a mantelpiece to show off how well-read I once was. You ought to be able to tell a lot about a person by the books on their shelves. What did it say about me that I had no books? Or rather had hidden from them like a former best friend with whom you no longer had something in common, yet always rode the same busy subway train each morning, avoiding eye contact, perhaps moving to another car during a stop. I was angry that the books had been relegated to obscurity, but of course I was only angry at myself for arriving at this point. I had all the excuses, including the scarcity of space and the compromise that comes with not living alone anymore, but I was finally resolved to do something about it. Our apartment was closing in on us. Toys mounted. I tried to counteract the expanding force by exercising in the hopes that a smaller ass might allow us to live here another year without moving to a three bedroom in Queens. My last resort was to redesign the apartment.</div><div><br />
</div><div>"Redesign" is probably a generous description of what can be done on a $300 budget. "Rearrange" is really the word. Move a dresser here, throw out a dresser there, buy another dresser, throw out a broken bookcase, buy a smaller used dining room table, move a nursing chair from here to there, and now we have the makings of a roomier home. In a stunning transformation, the bookcases have been moved to a more prominent part of the hallway, just off the living room, visible to anyone who wants to stand near our hallway. Last night, I arranged the books. One entire bookcase of plays, another one for literature, i.e. anything written before 1970, plus contemporary fiction on the lower shelves. The remnants of my other major in History now sit neatly atop two dressers, as well as in a smaller bookcase, in the bedroom. There is still a box of my wife's cookbooks in the hallway. We need another bookcase, but I oughtn't push my luck. To purchase a new hideously wood-colored Ikea bookcase to match the relics from graduate school that persist in our lives is a design folly my wife would not stand. </div><div><br />
</div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1326326807278105">What made this event momentous was not so much the return from banishment of the books, but the fact that I voluntarily removed nearly a dozen books from my collection, to be donated to Housing Works, where no one else will read them, either. Big, thick books that I packed and unpacked, year after year, but certainly never re-opened. Textbooks about Dramatic Theory & Criticism, Theater Production & Management, even an old French textbook from God knows when. It was liberating in a way I hadn't imagined, not because I had freed up space, but because I had come to terms with my new life. Not only do I no longer read, I no longer write. </div><div><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1D7_JRhKto6FFmCG8rPS5QOLvk3S9AA-XLsY3KEJNJ4EL3kOETa0rrNF5c-Yx9wiWq4dA34aYzguT6lGPyQZeNwUer1FjGVIy8gnlmoMc5GG4eyzIwTHS0TRKFKowBuh-Hsqr5mCJ0Q/s1600/Camus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv1D7_JRhKto6FFmCG8rPS5QOLvk3S9AA-XLsY3KEJNJ4EL3kOETa0rrNF5c-Yx9wiWq4dA34aYzguT6lGPyQZeNwUer1FjGVIy8gnlmoMc5GG4eyzIwTHS0TRKFKowBuh-Hsqr5mCJ0Q/s400/Camus.jpg" width="263" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ask Craig about this one between innings of a Red Sox game sometime. Just don't expect him to be conversant in English.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div><div id="yui_3_2_0_1_1326326807278108">I used to be a playwright. I haven't written a new full-length play since the day my fingers grasped the diploma that came with my MFA. Yes, I've written some shorter pieces, even had some some minor productions of them. I've tinkered with and retooled a play that I began in 2002, but haven't quite been able to adequately finish. I attend meetings with a writer's group, but it is more an excuse to see my friends than it is to workshop any pages. I used to consider myself a serious writer, always with some sort social or political theme in mind, whether it be race or war. I used to write angry, which I felt spurred my productivity, but I don't get angry anymore. Now, the news is just minor indigestion, and the moment passes. I don't have the energy for anything more. Maybe my priorities have changed. Maybe I'm just getting old. I'm more interested in dabbling in writing sitcom pilots that only tangentially deal with identity or injustice, and I'm lucky if I make time for that once every other week.</div><div><br />
</div><div>So, I don't need to hold onto obscure textbooks that I once thought I'd refer to when I joined the faculty of a college theater department. That ship has sailed, so there's no longer any need to pack for the journey. I am content to spend whatever free time I have with my daughter, tickling her and dusting off my reading skills to help put her sleep. Or I'd rather go to a bar and watch football with my friends and have a pint or three. Or just have a date night with my wife, which I will do tonight, instead of writing something not terribly important to me. Maybe one day I will be fired up about something, or strike a brilliant idea for a play, but I'd list myself as "doubtful" on the injury report for that game. I'm certainly a little remorseful that I am not living the life of a successful playwright, but it's not something that tears me up inside, and it seems like something that should.</div><div><br />
</div>Now, I take a step back from the hallway and into the living room and look at my books--arranged, but not yet alphabetized. I am the curator of my own museum. I am a little lost, but I know I am home. I should look for something to read.</div><div> </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxhjcitLXWG44aYaD9f8l4ZnR5kC1JkhlmsPvrOErSS-Sr9eyyfPsC-g33Lyrpxd0RVJkMI2H60VBHVDgdk4DpqJXoW2sEnHfR12IT1bKnwFeCMw-MFIkpwN-P-0f0H_XL3ZrEodbCL9o/s1600/home+for+lost+boys.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxhjcitLXWG44aYaD9f8l4ZnR5kC1JkhlmsPvrOErSS-Sr9eyyfPsC-g33Lyrpxd0RVJkMI2H60VBHVDgdk4DpqJXoW2sEnHfR12IT1bKnwFeCMw-MFIkpwN-P-0f0H_XL3ZrEodbCL9o/s640/home+for+lost+boys.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A still from the New York production of Craig's play, <i>The Home for Lost Boys</i>.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div> </div><div><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-26376305382748059502012-01-03T22:46:00.000-05:002012-01-03T22:46:41.251-05:00Short Play #1: "Dead on Our Feet"<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">“Dead on Our Feet”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">a ten-minute play</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Produced in Allentown, Pennsylvania, on January 8, 2005, as part of the Kennedy Center American College Theater Festival, directed by Victor Maog.</div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u>Characters </u></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>ALVIN – 37 year old banker</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>OLIVIA – 35 year old part-time real estate agent</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u>Setting</u></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">ALVIN and OLIVIA’s upper-middle-class bedroom:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a bed flanked by floor lamps; also, a vanity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eleven o’clock on a weeknight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>July.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>At rise:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ALVIN wears his pajamas and reclines in bed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reads a copy of <u>US News and World Report</u> through his reading glasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OLIVIA enters the bedroom from the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sits at the vanity, reclines her head, and examines the underside of her nose in the mirror.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She touches a Kleenex to her nostrils and inspects it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She repeats this action twice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is satisfied with the results of her inspection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 3.0in;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I read today that most women would rather be widows than divorcees.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That doesn’t bode well for us husbands.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Something about coping more easily with a permanent loss than a loss you would have to interact with on the weekends.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I could see that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">What with the children and the joint custody and all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got the reference.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’d be awful, wouldn’t it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Uh-huh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">If something were to happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Something catastrophic.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That would really be something.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">What would we do?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t like to think about it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Me neither.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal">But really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">What would we do if something bad, something really bad happened?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia, not tonight, please.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">OK, OK, Mr. Grumpy.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal">If something bad were to happen I hope it would happen to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hope I die first.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">So do I.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So do I?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What is that supposed to mean?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">What is what supposed to mean?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So do I.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“So do I” like so do you hope to die first?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or “so do I” like you also hope <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> die first?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">That one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So do I hope you die first.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s a terrible thing to say.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just agreed with what you said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was I not supposed to agree?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course you weren’t supposed to agree.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You were supposed to say, “Olivia, honey, don’t think such things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither one of us will ever die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, if one of us has to go I would rather it were me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t bear going on without you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you want me to try again?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Would you?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll say my line.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then you say yours.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(a beat)</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope I die first.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia, honey, don’t think such things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither one of us will ever die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, if one of us has to go—.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Ever.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Excuse me?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">You forgot the “ever.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I said “ever.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">You said the first “ever,” but not the second.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">There are two “evers”?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Neither one of us will ever, ever die?”</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">No.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It comes after.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Neither one of us will ever die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second one punctuates the first.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">So it does.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Again.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; text-indent: .5in;">(While OLIVIA gathers herself, ALVIN rolls his eyes.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA (cont.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hope I die first.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia, honey, don’t think such things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither one of us will ever die.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, if one of us has to go I would rather it were me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn’t bear going on without you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">That was good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did you mean it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(meaning “no”)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yeah.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Al!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">What?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really, I did.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I want you to mean it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Say it like you mean it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I did say it like I meant it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You even said so yourself.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">But now I know you didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">What do you want from me?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I want you to say it like you mean it and really mean it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jesus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How do you expect me to take you seriously when you’re always clowning around?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I do not “clown around.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Say this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Do that.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Not like that, like this.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’re doing it all wrong.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">So what if I play games?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s the only way I can keep you from being so clinical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if you want me to be serious I can be serious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can be as serious as a preacher on Easter if you would prefer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you want to play, we can play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can play.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Al, don’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the event that something catastrophic did occur, how long should I wait before I begin dating again?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am not having this conversation.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">What length of time is respectable but reasonable?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not listening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Clearly, bringing somebody to the service is in poor taste.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is me ignoring you.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two major holidays?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">You are speaking another language.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">What if they’re back-to-back?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like Christmas and New Years?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">We aren’t even the same species.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not sure she should stay over in any case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">We are not amused.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">If things get serious, do I introduce her to your sister?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(OLIVIA looks devastated.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ALVIN realizes he has crossed </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">the line.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia, I’m sorry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(The apology does not take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>HE tries a new tack.)</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m joking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know I’m joking.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I don’t think it’s very funny.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(OLIVIA gets into bed and turns off her light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ALVIN returns to his magazine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a moment, OLIVIA abruptly turns on the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She again touches her nose and inspects her fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sits on the edge of the bed.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Honey?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Earlier tonight, as I was preparing for bed, I turned, I turned my head, in the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was in the bathroom and I turned my head and I felt something seep, escape from my nose, and I was confused, and I saw there, on the floor, a drop, a single drop of blood, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> blood, that had flown from my face to the tiles of the bathroom floor, and just kind of splashed there, a red drop of blood on the white tiles of the bathroom floor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">So you had a nosebleed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">A spontaneous nosebleed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This perfectly healthy person just happened, without cause, to discharge blood from her body onto the bathroom floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal">And you are un-alarmed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was the air conditioning.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">What?</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">The air conditioning dries the capillaries in your nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you sneeze or blow your nose the capillaries burst and your nose bleeds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Had you sneezed before going to the bathroom?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I sneeze from May to September.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">There you have it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(turning towards him)</div><div class="MsoNormal">I get headaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Crippling headaches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Balls of pain the size of a pearl nestle behind my left eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They expand to the size of cue balls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Millions of people suffer from migraines.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’ll ask Doctor Chase to increase the potency of your painkillers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I have . . . episodes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seizures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I lose consciousness.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You blackout?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m discombobulated.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stand in the aisle at the grocery store and I can’t remember why I’m there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t remember what vegetable oil is called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forget what the children look like, what brand of peanut butter they prefer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I forget their names.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You forget their names? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sometimes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">You’re exhausted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You need sleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s what everyone says.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Drink more fluids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Take your vitamins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What if it’s more than that?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s not.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know it’s not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what if it is?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Illness today is crafty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It hibernates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It squirrels itself away into your breast, your colon, your immune system.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or it strikes without warning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A bomb rupturing a pipeline.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A volcano smothering a civilization unawares.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">That woman in Santa Fe died from a brain tumor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her husband recalled only that she was forgetful and occasionally her nose bled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was thirty.</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">We no longer confine the unwell.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They’re among us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">OLIVIA</div><div class="MsoNormal">Look around you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We’re all dead on our feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we don’t even know it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">ALVIN</div><div class="MsoNormal">Olivia!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don’t think such things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither one of us will ever die.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ever.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>(pause)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 1.0in; margin-right: 1.0in; margin-top: 0in;">(OLIVIA smiles a bittersweet smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She reaches up and kisses ALVIN on the cheek.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She lies down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>OLIVIA sneezes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sits up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She touches her fingers to her nose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She turns and shows ALVIN the blood on her hand.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 1in 0.0001pt;">(end of play) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-right: 1.0in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-26671315158969671212011-10-26T22:41:00.000-04:002011-10-26T22:41:04.073-04:00PlaceholderI'm working on another project right now but expect to be back soon with essays inspired by <i>What to Listen for in Music</i>, <i>What's Your </i>Cheers<i> IQ?</i>, and Lollapalooza.<br />
<br />
Until then, I hope you are enjoying whatever you are reading.Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-15348595969719448572011-09-20T11:52:00.001-04:002011-09-20T23:08:12.539-04:00Playwright's Note: Kickstart Me, Baby<div style="font-family: inherit;">There are few things that I find less interesting than an artist talking about his or her own work. My feeling is that everything you need to know about a painter's relationship with her painting, a composer's relationship with his symphony, or a novelist's relationship with her novel is in the painting, the symphony, or the novel, respectively. You want to hear what the artist has to say? Look at the work. She's said it already.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;">(Don't even get me started on cast-driven DVD commentaries.)</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;">So when I was invited recently to contribute some Playwright's Notes for a show that was being produced, I resisted the request to talk about the work and instead opted to write about the way in which the production was funded, which was through a Web site called Kickstarter, which matches projects to donors. </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Enough people contributed who were unable to actually attend the show and, thus, never received my attempt at a public thank you, so I thought I would re-run the note here. </div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">By the way, Amanda Hamm gets the shoutout, only because she's the oldest of my friends to kick in, but that lead paragraph could also have been about Lisa Osio, Christine Stanley, Stephanie Brady, or any number of other supporters, each of whom would have brought with them their own histories.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">Of course, the more interesting stories might be about the scores of other names that I don't even recognize.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: inherit;">The number of donors eventually swelled from the 87 referenced below to a final tally of 108, though the math still pretty much remains the same, not that I'm any good at math.</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;">In any case, the note:</div><div style="font-family: inherit;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;">“The future belongs to crowds.” – Don DeLillo, <i>Mao II</i> </div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I kissed Amanda Hamm (then “Helms”) in the first grade. Broke ranks from the boys' line, crossed over to the girls', and planted one right on her cheek. This was in Richmond, Kentucky, where I lived through the fourth grade, before I moved to San Diego. I returned to Richmond once, the summer after my seventh-grade year, where I saw Amanda at a party. This was 1986. Ronald Reagan was president. <span style="font-style: italic;">Top Gun</span> was in theaters. I haven’t seen Amanda since, yet she has funded part of tonight’s show.</div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Amanda and (as of this writing) 87 others fueled this production through a Web site called Kickstarter. Kickstarter—which has been featured on NPR and in <i>The New York Times Magazine</i>, among other national media outlets—is one of a growing number of sites that matches (usually) artistic projects with potential donors. These sites strike me as being a crucial component of the future of the arts in this country. I’m not bitter enough to say that the American government doesn’t care for the arts, but I do recognize that they have to make choices, and, for example, no play or painting or symphony is as important as a textbook or a bottle of milk or a vaccination.</div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" id="yui_3_2_0_1_131653183756186" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So, in the absence of government support, private donations fill that vacuum. Only the term “private donation” has been replaced by this terrific new phrase, “crowd funded.” “Crowd funded.” If “private donation” is roughly akin to “money to burn,” then “crowd funded” is more like “I can’t really afford this, but I like/believe in you so here you go.” We found 88 people who like/believe in us. One generous donation skews the numbers (thanks, ma-in-law!), but remove it from the equation, and the average donation was approximately $70, which is one of the cheap seats in a Broadway house nowadays. </div><div class="yiv1829170812MsoNormal" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"></div><div style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Think about that. Rather than paying $70 to see theater, these donors have paid $70 to make theater. Many of the contributors—like Amanda—won't even be able to see that which they have supported.<br />
</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Nonetheless, we intend to give them their money's worth.</span> It's the best thank you we can offer.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfXyEl7M-ERHy-tVrhK1g-kfGiLInpr3pFo_h_GLOnWHN-RyCgCUd_N7zOXTSlJ8UQSsEWPnazeAPnGo7YFxrYgI_0NR4eEtnCiRYIykl90fyYg8ZSSANebXezqcMXLBuOWFUW7WWNU-U/s1600/Kickstarter-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfXyEl7M-ERHy-tVrhK1g-kfGiLInpr3pFo_h_GLOnWHN-RyCgCUd_N7zOXTSlJ8UQSsEWPnazeAPnGo7YFxrYgI_0NR4eEtnCiRYIykl90fyYg8ZSSANebXezqcMXLBuOWFUW7WWNU-U/s640/Kickstarter-logo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-70943047206887821482011-08-28T23:57:00.000-04:002011-08-28T23:57:12.052-04:00July 17, 1980: "For Your Eyes Only!"I bought my hardcover copy of Dan Brown's <i>The DaVinci Code</i> for fifty cents at a church book sale on the corner of 181st and Ft. Washington in Washington Heights. At that same sale, I also bought Luc Sante's <i>Low Life</i> and John Stadler's <i>Hooray for Snail!</i>, in which a snail hits a homerun and then takes a really, really long time to circle the bases. The Sante book might ultimately warrant an entry on this site. The Stadler book, probably not, though Jonah and I have certainly earned our quarter's worth.<br />
<br />
<i>The DaVinci Code</i> had no dust jacket. There was not a single note on any page anywhere in the book. No "If lost call" plea. No address written on the inside of the back cover. There was nothing anywhere to indicate anything about the previous owner. <br />
<br />
Except a card that was postmarked "Berne, New York, July 17, 1980." I'll keep specific names confidential in the wildly unlikely possibility that somehow this gets back to them, but I will say that the recipient was "c/o Camp Fowler" and that Camp Fowler is located in the ridiculously appropriate name of "Speculator, New York."<br />
<br />
Despite the name, I'll resist the temptation to do just that and instead relate as objectively as possible the contents of the letter. You can draw your own conclusions about the relationship, as I have. I should say that my conclusions have shifted. Yours might, too.<br />
<br />
The card looks to be a stock card that one might have on hand in case a "thank you" is needed. The image on the front is decidedly Southwestern, a Native American riding a white horse with those cliffs that Wile E. Coyote falls from in the background. The quote on the front of the card says, "Wishing for you the fullness of life, / I go forth upon the trails of our Earth Mother. - Adapted from Zuni Fetiches." The back of the card says, "American Indian Quote Cards." There is no bar code or price on the card, which supports the notion that it was purchased en masse. <br />
<br />
The card is over 30 years old. What it is doing in a book published in 2003 is a mystery. How strange that it was important enough to keep for all of those years, yet not important enough to retrieve before being left on the charity pile.<br />
<br />
OK. Enough.<br />
<br />
The first line is in the top-left corner. The second line is one line down, flush right. After that, it follows standard letter format, in legible cursive of blue ink. The first line is the only one that is not cursive. The card is landscape, the text taking up the top and bottom of the opened card, as if it is a continuous sheet. The last five lines and the closing are on the back. The paragraphs are indented.<br />
<br />
It reads:<br />
<br />
"For your eyes only!<br />
<br />
"July 17, 1980<br />
<br />
"Dear B.,<br />
<br />
"There's one person at Camp Fowler who doesn't get enough recognition, and that is <u>you</u>! You have done a marvelous job at building up the camp, the staff and the volunteers. You do a great job with the kids, too.<br />
<br />
"I want to be personal for a minute. Each year I have come to camp, I always have a fun time and I always go home with something extra. The 'extra' is always something you have shown me. I wish we could have had more time for one of our 'talks' this year as we have had in the past years. You are so caring and so sensitive, both to campers and staff people. I am in awe of that and I want to be more that way myself. Each year you show me by your example that it is possible to 'see' people and not just look at them. You see so many things that I miss when I look at others. God had truly blessed you with this gift and you have used it well. May God continue to bless you, your family, and your ministry.<br />
<br />
"We will be camping at Fowler from August 7-11. If you aren't too tired and would like company, we'd love to talk and share with you, K. + kids.<br />
<br />
"With love and admiration,<br />
<br />
"N."<br />
<br />
Put that in your Kindle and smoke it.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0x7X-uXH8h1I25kawg-TOHbm2NbWopNH6WtfYXIdoS9c3MaBxiUQbtYGYe-c95DSMG6hRZZbvY3rUN9z_f1RX_tD-UwCYL6wTUybEFWLQexCmO1E42QlyjtTP4hsOz3Rvm6ZzuqQ3EcU/s1600/Camp+Fowler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0x7X-uXH8h1I25kawg-TOHbm2NbWopNH6WtfYXIdoS9c3MaBxiUQbtYGYe-c95DSMG6hRZZbvY3rUN9z_f1RX_tD-UwCYL6wTUybEFWLQexCmO1E42QlyjtTP4hsOz3Rvm6ZzuqQ3EcU/s640/Camp+Fowler.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you're ever in Speculator....</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-56562032483648884662011-08-24T00:43:00.000-04:002011-08-24T00:43:32.501-04:00No Louvre Lost: THE DAVINCI CODE, by Dan Brown (A Hasty Conclusion)Picking on the poor little ol' <i>DaVinci Code </i>hasn't been nearly as illuminating as I had anticipated, and, yes, all snark aside, I did expect the exercise to illuminate. I honestly believed that a book that achieved such unprecedented popularity--if not exactly critical acclaim--could teach me a lot about storytelling. I realize that it's the A Billion Chinese Can't Be Wrong argument from <i>The Lost Boys</i>, but, in general, I trust the masses. I do not equate "popular" with "least common denominator," and I appreciate when I see the same cover over and over and over again on my morning commute that it represents the zeitgeist, and that's not nothing. Rather than resist, I would much rather understand.<br />
<br />
In the case of <i>The DaVinci Code</i>, the best that I can gather is that there are a whole bunch of people out there who are drawn to controversy and/or the Catholic church. The crux of the novel is that Jesus hooked up with Mary Magdalene and that their coupling created a child. Oh, sure, Brown enjoys dropping the phrase "sacred feminine," and he calls out the church for scrubbing the records of powerful women throughout history, but make no mistake, there are really only three questions at play here: One, did Jesus do it? Two, if so, did he create offspring? And, three, does a vestige of that line still exist today?<br />
<br />
I suppose I understand how this could excite a certain audience and rankle another, but I just don't care. Blame it on my feelings toward Jesus, but Langdon and Sophie were running around and hollering about how their discoveries--if discovered--were going to rock the very foundation of the Western world, and my reaction was, Yeah. So?<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBrNZ651kJrOuENdYfuElNZwktIox1J9LG-akmMhQgQuCqiaBOXaiWEhVuvoeFq36qzLOxRMsQk3xSBsGprxEK8oo04exfwXllC3YkFYfTefGZPp38aNhrJKBkvnXzN59sS54ESKxHsk/s1600/lastsuppertongerlocopyz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJBrNZ651kJrOuENdYfuElNZwktIox1J9LG-akmMhQgQuCqiaBOXaiWEhVuvoeFq36qzLOxRMsQk3xSBsGprxEK8oo04exfwXllC3YkFYfTefGZPp38aNhrJKBkvnXzN59sS54ESKxHsk/s640/lastsuppertongerlocopyz.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of these figures is supposed to be a woman. You can rule out the people with beards. Or can you...?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>So, in the case of <i>The DaVinci Code</i>, allow me to borrow a phrase from Ian MacKaye and simply say that I was out of step, with the w-o-o-r-r-l-d. There was a disconnect between me and the material, and no matter how deftly Brown pulled it off, he was only going to achieve a certain amount of success with me as his audience. It's kind of like the best U2 album. It's still a U2 album, to betray another of my biases.<br />
<br />
Yet, even as it became clear that I was not an audience member that was naturally drawn to the material, I left open the possibility that there was something to learn from the way the story was put together. Turns out, there wasn't. Previous entries have cataloged a number of ways in which I find Brown's narrative lacking. There's no point rehashing them here. The short version is that <i>The DaVinci Code</i> feels more like a 450-page screenplay than a novel, which is to say that it feels like the thing before the thing that it really wants to be. Call me old-fashioned, but I like my novels to feel like novels.<br />
<br />
Even so, the book does not deserve to be mocked. The initial idea was that a serious examination of a flawed text is a worthy endeavor. Problem was that I opted to be obnoxious rather than serious, which is less about the relative merits of the book and more about Look at me! Dan Brown made some choices. He made a whole bunch of choices. I don't agree with many of them, but a lot of people apparently did, and who am I to ridicule that which so many people enjoyed?<br />
<br />
I'm reminded of the Beastie lyric, "It takes a second to wreck it / It takes time to build." I'd rather build.<br />
<br />
So I'm stopping this strand of the blog now. Honestly, the worst part, it's not even fun to write. Just too negative. Depending on how this entry went, I was also thinking of applying a similar technique to other popular fare such as <i>Twilight</i> and <i>The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo</i>. I have no plans to do so now.<br />
<br />
I still intend to read them--the Billion Chinese argument again--but I'll be keeping all of the mean-spirited quips to myself.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJ5lWuxLq04BeuyadMHS8UzOg5OEzxL113HoX2pb4PTsfTiXQ4lr8R3uxKrRT1Ctzdq7zvlcGJA3prMMuB6h1wFgWV2ALAVpX7VCTm5Vp_kYN3eomgJkMuEIOELnL-EfS58OJTj8DAbk/s1600/DanBrown_TheDaVinciCode.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJ5lWuxLq04BeuyadMHS8UzOg5OEzxL113HoX2pb4PTsfTiXQ4lr8R3uxKrRT1Ctzdq7zvlcGJA3prMMuB6h1wFgWV2ALAVpX7VCTm5Vp_kYN3eomgJkMuEIOELnL-EfS58OJTj8DAbk/s640/DanBrown_TheDaVinciCode.jpg" width="414" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Currently #10,992 on Amazon's list of top-selling books, though it has sold over 80 million copies worldwide.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-88010301557170359402011-08-09T23:58:00.001-04:002011-08-10T00:04:34.020-04:00No Louvre Lost: THE DAVINCI CODE, by Dan Brown (Chapters 13-20)You thought <a href="http://readingremainders.blogspot.com/2011/06/beach-read-1-buttafuoco-you.html" style="color: red;">Joey Buttafuoco</a> was bad, check out the deepest, darkest crevices of Dan Brown’s mind: “She [Sophie] pictured her grandfather’s body, naked and spread-eagle on the floor.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then, later: “It was an image she could barely believe to this day.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Believe me, Sophie, you're not the only one having a difficult time shaking that one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Few authors handle flashbacks as inexpertly as Dan Brown. Whether it is Langdon remembering a key piece of information from a lecture he delivered (and in which he was utterly charming and beloved by his students) or Silas (the bad guy by virtue of being an albino) recalling the upbringing that turned him into an all-too-willing goon for the Catholic church, Brown’s transitions are reminiscent of the old <i>Saturday Night Live</i> sketches in which the actors would put their arms above their heads and sway back and forth to indicate that they are now going back in time, only the <i>Saturday Night Live</i> sketches were funny on purpose.</div><div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I’m reminded too of Donald Bartheleme’s <i>Snow White</i>, in which he just drops a resume into the middle of the book when a new character appears, which is about as subtle as Brown and all the better on account of its transparency.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXFzLF93DKmt09uXqfnByYcc0wUVNMm9LVaVcxpcOz-x5VpWMe3A39_1PJReFftZa48LMeR8FhWW2tpS3cfLU1whN3k9VsIMhJGexg0_GbQACE6JdwSqCo4vfnTodeeKPiXRDLwPUvH4/s1600/cute-cat-sleeping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoXFzLF93DKmt09uXqfnByYcc0wUVNMm9LVaVcxpcOz-x5VpWMe3A39_1PJReFftZa48LMeR8FhWW2tpS3cfLU1whN3k9VsIMhJGexg0_GbQACE6JdwSqCo4vfnTodeeKPiXRDLwPUvH4/s640/cute-cat-sleeping.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You don't even want to know what "naked spread-eagle grandpa" turned up in Google Images. Consider this an antidote.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Anyhoo, Sophie has a number of flashbacks that are intended to pique the reader’s interest. This one, however, strikes me as being especially loaded: “Sophie could suddenly hear her own heart. <i>My family?</i> Sophie’s parents had died when she was only four. Their car went off a bridge into fast-moving water. Her grandmother and younger brother had also been in the car, and Sophie’s entire family had been erased in an instant. She had the newspaper clippings to confirm it.”</div><div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Oh, well, newspaper clippings…. I guess that’s that.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">One of my favorite aspects of noir is that it typically include an average guy (and, yes, it’s almost always a guy) who, through a series of escalating events, finds himself in a very un-average situation. Sure, there are babes, money, and guns, but what is noteworthy is that the guy face-to-face with the babes, money, and guns has never encountered them before. He just wants to sell insurance or get his car fixed or, in the case of the Dude, clean his rug. Saving the world is the farthest thing from his mind. What I like about this kind of story is that someone who is decidedly not a hero is asked to behave heroically. If you want to get sappy about it, you could say that noir allows for the possibility that there is a hero in us all, but I don’t want to get sappy about it.</div><div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I admire this part of Brown’s story, anyway. Robert Langdon is an academic, and, even though Brown asks us to believe otherwise, he is no Indiana Jones, who, let’s face it, is a professor by day and a superhero by night. Langdon is a lecturer, and that’s about it. I really do like watching him outmaneuver his pursuers, and the way in which Brown leads Langdon farther and farther down that path of no return is, at the very least, identifiable. I never faulted Langdon for any of his choices. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The problem is that it would be a more interesting story if I did, for the other defining characteristic of noir is that the average guy who suddenly finds himself in un-average situations might be average but that doesn’t mean that he’s flawless. Something haunts him, whether that something be drink, a dame, or a bad decision years ago that he’s just never been able to shake and if only he could have that one shot at redemption, if only.</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Characters in noir behave selfishly, cravenly. They are driven by greed, by sex. In short, they behave like human beings, which makes them all the more sympathetic because they are relatable. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Robert Langdon displays none of this complexity. To pull for him is to pull for a robot, and not even an interesting robot like Hal from <i>2001</i>. Rather, a robot that is programmed only to do good. </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And that’s no fun. That’s no fun at all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxzJui61IfM94-xNF4AvDNReB3oMEOICtSjk5ts4gy4M9BBnaInhx4e13pB-moTlx2ULeOApLlJ0wLeMAvrCddOTdbtDkfxMdOk5voFQXSH55OrWBC8Qpj6bL7NnPeGHsOlA-K0qVGLgg/s1600/lebowski_rug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxzJui61IfM94-xNF4AvDNReB3oMEOICtSjk5ts4gy4M9BBnaInhx4e13pB-moTlx2ULeOApLlJ0wLeMAvrCddOTdbtDkfxMdOk5voFQXSH55OrWBC8Qpj6bL7NnPeGHsOlA-K0qVGLgg/s640/lebowski_rug.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The DudeVinci Code</i>. Now that's a book I would like to read.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div></div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-53700785526004273052011-08-04T22:49:00.002-04:002011-08-04T22:59:39.003-04:00No Louvre Lost: THE DAVINCI CODE, by Dan Brown (Chapters 5-12)<div class="MsoNormal">Another quote from the I’m-Not-Making-This-Up file: The bad guy is in an airplane, crossing the Atlantic, and he whispers to himself, “They know not the war they have begun,” as he “[stares] out the window at the darkness of the ocean below.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know not why I’m reading this book.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">OK, so, the detective leads Langdon to the dead body of Jacques Sauniere, the renowned curator of the Louvre who was doing all of that staggering and lunging and heaving in the Prologue. Sauniere’s body is contorted in a mysterious way that will set Langdon on his quest. Brown describes the scene: “Using his [Sauniere’s] own blood as ink, and employing his own naked abdomen as a canvas, Sauniere had drawn a simple symbol on his flesh—five straight lines that intersected to form a five-pointed star.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently the symbol was so simple that Brown had to make it complicated, which, come to think of it, isn’t a bad summary of the book itself. Why he had to specify that the “five-pointed star” was drawn with “five straight lines” I don’t quite understand. I suppose there are other ways to draw a star—is a non-straight line an option?—but something like “Sauniere had drawn a simple symbol—a five-pointed star” seems to do the trick. Hell, use the word “pentagram” and shave off two more words.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In any case, Brown’s overwriting set me to thinking about other common objects that he could write to death, so I wrote “Olympic symbol” in the margins and had some fun thinking of how he would describe such an image: “The first thing the athletes saw when they entered the arena were two rows of circles of equal size, the top row containing three circles and the bottom row containing two. On the top, from the athlete’s left to right, the circles were blue, black, and red. On the bottom, also from the left to the right, the circles were yellow and green. The bottom two circles were centered beneath the top three. They both overlapped with the middle circle and also with the circle on their corresponding side. All five circles were set against a white background.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then, two pages later, in one of a number of passages that exalt the goddess Venus, Brown writes, “Nowadays, few people realized that the four-year schedule of modern Olympic Games still followed the cycles of Venus. Even fewer people knew that the five-pointed star had almost become the official Olympic seal but was modified at the last moment—its five points exchanged for five intersecting rings to better reflect the games’ spirit of inclusion and harmony.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Holy shit! It’s as if he knew. I wrote “Olympic symbol” in the margins, and then two pages later—poof!—there it is.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Maybe the figure in the painting is me!</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPC1q8tZbFaoEuWlwfrotM7tv-mW4vIs1nZ3ahgXFWd95snfBTXwxkRDy7uCb3cxi6xLoy6QagERqhoYH11AJBLSGd_VT3qgPozoivQ_qp2NSSCpf0gzh2thNsUuAwUUji5iv1x7LZWbo/s1600/olympic+symbol.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPC1q8tZbFaoEuWlwfrotM7tv-mW4vIs1nZ3ahgXFWd95snfBTXwxkRDy7uCb3cxi6xLoy6QagERqhoYH11AJBLSGd_VT3qgPozoivQ_qp2NSSCpf0gzh2thNsUuAwUUji5iv1x7LZWbo/s400/olympic+symbol.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wonder what event Mary Magdalene would have participated in if she were an Olympian? I'm thinking the one where you cross-country ski and then shoot at targets.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> *****</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Chapter 6 is also when one of Brown’s favorite and more annoying devices begins to become apparent: A character will see or realize something—usually something shocking—but Brown will not share this revelation with the reader until later. The other end of a phone call, a ritual in a basement, a detail in a painting—these are all of the utmost importance to the characters but apparently not so much for the reader. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, for example: “His [Langdon’s] heart pounded as he took in the bizarre sight now glowing before him on the parquet floor. Scrawled in luminescent handwriting, the curator’s final words glowed purple beside his corpse. As Langdon stared at the shimmering text, he felt the fog that had surrounded this entire night growing thicker.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This is near the end of the chapter, and the only reason why it doesn’t conclude here is because Brown has another revelation roughly 50 words later that trumps even this one. This is pretty representative of the pace at which things happen in this book: The reveals come fast and furious. They’re kind of like those scenes in the cartoons when everyone slaps their hands down on top of one another and the stack of hands grows so high that no one realizes that there are far more hands than there are people who belong to the hands. I appreciate that the metaphor is far from perfect, but sometimes <i>The DaVinci Code</i> has too many hands. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That said, I’m of two minds about this technique. On the one hand (no pun intended), I recognize that, as a storyteller, I am not very good at plot, so I’m mindful that any resistance I have toward this dizzy procession of events comes from an honest place rather than feeling of jealousy. Truth is, I admire the hell out of people who can craft an airtight plot in which the events flow naturally one from the next and ultimately culminate in a way that is both inevitable and surprising. I admit that part of my initial interest in reading <i>The DaVinci Code</i> was to learn some of the secrets of the trade so I could apply them to my own work. The guy sold a gazillion copies of this book. He has to be doing something right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the other hand, however, as a reader I like to be led rather than led on, and Brown’s reliance throughout the novel on what amounts to a literary ploy feels more manipulative than respectful. The idea that Brown is counting on is that you, the reader, will want to discover what happens next so badly that you’ll just keep turning the pages until you find out, at which point he will give you another mini-mystery that needs to be solved. It’s a soap opera, I realize, and I also realize that soap operas have their place, but subjecting yourself to this kind of narrative tease is one thing when it’s once a week over the course of three months (hello, <i>Breaking Bad</i>!)<i> </i>and quite another when it’s condensed to an I Know Something You Don’t Know every five minutes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s something to be said for an early hook, and a dead body is always a good start. But the hook isn’t enough to capture the reader. You’ve also got to reel her in, which is where things like, oh, character and style come into play. Brown’s characters are so flat and his prose so unremarkable, I am only reading to learn what happens next, which might work on page 39 but gets a little tedious by page 339.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually I’m like, Fuck it, I don’t care anyway.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggocaFkQg_Y5j3q2gpsqzlsD_u1TzgWbcQ629Yi0dKtxJsYHF2GekSQeyt4KDMoynhy1mUv4bSziNjznxerQQkOW6R8R9jE6RhhHwaaKHjqCqQyEPZBf1xJc4dLZydHcCdrPEizqUj-X8/s1600/karate-kid-tournament-poster-all-valley-large-1984-2011-davesgeekyideas1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggocaFkQg_Y5j3q2gpsqzlsD_u1TzgWbcQ629Yi0dKtxJsYHF2GekSQeyt4KDMoynhy1mUv4bSziNjznxerQQkOW6R8R9jE6RhhHwaaKHjqCqQyEPZBf1xJc4dLZydHcCdrPEizqUj-X8/s400/karate-kid-tournament-poster-all-valley-large-1984-2011-davesgeekyideas1.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If <i>The DaVinci Code</i> is the All Valley Tournament, Brown just scored a point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And, yet, 30 pages later, when Langdon and Sophie Nuveu, the inevitable love interest who, by the way, was introduced on page 49, begin to crack the first of a series of codes, I could see the secret revealed on the opposite page. I was on page 66, and the answer to the riddle was on page 67, and, damnit, I confess, my eyes impatiently darted across the page to learn the answer. I simply couldn’t wait an additional 100 words.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, I was disappointed with the solution, but, still. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Point, Brown.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-8494506172767102502011-07-31T00:19:00.002-04:002011-07-31T00:40:00.351-04:00No Louvre Lost: THE DAVINCI CODE, by Dan Brown (Chapters 1-4)<div class="MsoNormal">Look, I don’t want to be a snob. I want to grant the possibility that a book that enthralls millions and millions of readers can’t be all bad, that generally people are good readers who respond favorably to accomplished storytelling, and that, even if intellectualism is the kiss of death, there is at least a place for ideas in popular fiction. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Chapter 1 of <i>The DaVinci Code</i> casts into doubt all of these possibilities.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You want to know where it lost me? Page 1 of chapter 1, when Robert Langdon rolls over after midnight and reads a flyer next to his bed: “The American University of Paris proudly presents,” it reads, “an evening with Robert Langdon, Professor of Religious Symbology, Harvard University.” Are you kidding me? You’re delivering exposition by having the main character blearily read his own press clippings? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On page 2 of chapter 1: “His usually sharp blue eyes looked hazy and drawn tonight. A dark stubble was shrouding his strong jaw and dimpled chin. Around his temples, the gray highlights were advancing, making their way deeper into his thicket of course black hair. Although his female colleagues insisted the gray only accentuated his bookish appeal, Langdon knew better.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On page 3, Brown mercifully forgoes the adjectives and just skips right to it, describing Langdon as “Harrison Ford in Harris tweed,” the repetition of “Harris” almost clever but too self-conscious to be entirely so, and Brown's attempt to separate himself from the description by couching the line in an embarrassing profile in <i>Boston Magazine</i> not quite working. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here’s the thing…I actually don’t think that authors need to pander to readers so brazenly. The first chapter is all of four and a half pages, and, though I appreciate Brown’s desire to get the action started, I do think most audiences will wait until later in the book to learn that Langon is a Harvard professor. The monogram on the bathrobe says “Hotel Ritz Paris,” for Pets’ sake, so the “American University of Paris” is wholly unnecessary, and the investigator knocking on his door at this ungodly hour—you know, before Letterman is over on the east coast—says “considering your knowledge in symbology,” so that info isn't exactly a mystery for long.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As a reader, I do not need everything up front. Authors, I will roll with you until you withhold so much information that I get frustrated. It is your job to figure out when that is. Chances are, it's not page 1.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCS8iYvSsTrIC107NHKOwN26HzVrArgwfQrf0KN6MWJ-MRgQ2DX-wFiCGmg4RYg1ctsTANz2a8GBOkQKCq_6dL5a15-TiS3N3FkEXeFpV-In9tcHEjAB7JJ_6drRWqizLWDBBJKrgWR3U/s1600/harrison-ford-indiana-jones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCS8iYvSsTrIC107NHKOwN26HzVrArgwfQrf0KN6MWJ-MRgQ2DX-wFiCGmg4RYg1ctsTANz2a8GBOkQKCq_6dL5a15-TiS3N3FkEXeFpV-In9tcHEjAB7JJ_6drRWqizLWDBBJKrgWR3U/s400/harrison-ford-indiana-jones.jpg" width="373" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not only does Brown give us a painstaking description, but he thinks we need this as well.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***** </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bad guys are introduced in chapter 2. This is how they talk (descriptions are cut out in favor of pure dialogue; note especially the Mr. Burns-like “excellent”):</div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">“I assume you have the information?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“All four concurred. Independently.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“And you believed them?”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Their agreement was too great for coincidence.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Excellent. I had feared the brotherhood’s reputation for secrecy might prevail.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The prospect of death is strong motivation.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“So, my pupil, tell me what I must know.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Teacher, all four confirmed the existence of a <i>clef de voute</i>…the legendary <i>keystone</i>.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“The <i>keystone</i>. Exactly as we suspected.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“When we possess the keystone we will be only one step away.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We are closer than you think. The keystone is here in Paris.”<br />
“Paris? Incredible. It is almost too easy.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And...scene. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Typically, when books are adapted to screenplays, the screenwriters have to select only the pieces of dialogue that capture the essence of the story that the movie tries to tell. I recently read Richard Russo’s <i>Empire Falls</i> and then followed up the reading with a viewing of the four-hour HBO movie, and, though the movie is excellent, it can best be described as a kind of outline for the much more excellent book. “Dumb down” is harsh, but a typical movie (120 minutes) can only hope to reduce the complexity of a novel to a narrative that has its moments.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There’s book-speak and then there’s movie-speak: Books develop; movies advance.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I haven’t seen the film version of <i>The DaVinci Code</i>, in large part because I’m still pissed at Ron Howard for stealing either David Lynch’s or Robert Altman’s Best Director Oscar that year, back when I gave a shit about that kind of thing (look it up). I thought about watching the movie, but then I realized that Brown has wasted enough of my time, so why would I want to give him more? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In any case, as I was reading the bad guys’ exchange above, I thought, “They’re actually going to have to make this dialogue less transparent for the screenplay.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">People don’t talk this way. Not even in movies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eQWJvwGyUlyvg6O32DTybKP0qiTYMse6tgefaErcOWVpFpGqe5lpG7VkHimL9PJYxJOyZQqgRBBUdshI91l3S_m6XAIYUsIfOl6pqUWy0jhX73alej-8bVMYDQM-aDrPIKarsiPg394/s1600/excellent-mr-burns.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eQWJvwGyUlyvg6O32DTybKP0qiTYMse6tgefaErcOWVpFpGqe5lpG7VkHimL9PJYxJOyZQqgRBBUdshI91l3S_m6XAIYUsIfOl6pqUWy0jhX73alej-8bVMYDQM-aDrPIKarsiPg394/s400/excellent-mr-burns.gif" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Even this cartoon is richer than Brown's villains.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">***** </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In chapter 3, Langdon is in a car, racing to the Louvre to help solve a crime. His trip takes him past the Eiffel Tower, which Langdon looks at admiringly. The Tower reminds him of a parting kiss with a previous love.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At this moment, the agent who is along for the ride says, “Did you mount her?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Langdon replies, “I bet your pardon?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">The agent motions to the Tower: “She is lovely, no? Have you mounted her?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m not making this up.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For the record, at the end of chapter 3 (page 20), I wrote, “He needs a cohort,” which can be interpreted to mean either a partner or a romantic interest. Of course, in this book, she’s going to end up being both, but there’s certainly no need to wait any longer to introduce her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We watched <i>The Adjustment Bureau</i> last night, which was wildly disappointing, in part because the rules they established were both necessary and arbitrary. I won’t give too much away, but I will say that the mysterious figures in this movie should suffer from the same phobia as the Wicked Witch of the West, who is also undone by a pretty silly weakness, if you ask me. (In fairness, I’ve not read either the Frank L. Baum series or the Philip K. Dick story on which <i>The Adjustment Bureau</i> is based, which might explain these limitations more satisfactorily than the movies do.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The best thing I can say about <i>The Adjustment Bureau</i> is that it got Leu and me talking about the necessity of weaknesses in characters and the degree to which they either work or don’t. Personally, I rather like the notion of an “Achilles heel,” for example, because there’s a kind of logic that guides dipping someone in the River Styx. You have to hold him somewhere, which means that something ain’t getting dipped. (By the way, is the Green Lantern really bothered by the color yellow? Please tell me this isn’t true.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thinking about it now, I would say that Hitchcock handled Jimmy Stewart’s character in <i>Vertigo</i> about as well as you can, which is to say that his weakness, which prevented him from acting earlier, had to be overcome in order for him to behave heroically in the end.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm not breaking any news here. This is a guiding tenet of stories for all time: You get a second chance, and this time you'd better not fuck it up. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Brown introduces Robert Langdon’s weakness in chapter 4: He’s claustrophobic. Once he arrives at the museum, he has to take an elevator. Brown writes, “Langdon exhaled, turning a longing glance back up the open-air escalator. <i>Nothing’s wrong at all</i>, he lied to himself, trudging back toward the elevator. As a boy, Langdon had fallen down an abandoned well shaft and almost died treading water in the narrow space for hours before being rescued. Since then, he’d suffered a haunting phobia of enclosed spaces—elevators, subways, squash courts. <i>The elevator is a perfectly safe machine</i>, Langdon continually told himself, never believing it. <i>It’s a tiny metal box hanging in an enclosed shaft!</i> Holding his breath, he stepped into the lift, feeling the familiar tingle of adrenaline as the door slid shut.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I mean, obviously, so much is made of this moment that the climax of the book must feature Langdon mastering this fear in order to win the girl and save the world, right?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>Right?</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">P.S. “Squash courts” is supposed to be funny, isn’t it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nQUpHNMP7Y8ObWbAj6YEA9tjSNkmtLyH1Zw62TZ5ebVsA_M-GnGe_k6QeHo-3W7oomOnmgO4tjCCgUGio0sTX9XyZZbHFKalO6Ja35KL91J__N0I3smqx5FL0NzIZCAGI8tG4G-5_lY/s1600/SquashCourt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-nQUpHNMP7Y8ObWbAj6YEA9tjSNkmtLyH1Zw62TZ5ebVsA_M-GnGe_k6QeHo-3W7oomOnmgO4tjCCgUGio0sTX9XyZZbHFKalO6Ja35KL91J__N0I3smqx5FL0NzIZCAGI8tG4G-5_lY/s400/SquashCourt.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Any hero's greatest fear.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-10266484823712206662011-07-26T19:44:00.000-04:002011-07-26T19:44:08.722-04:00DaInterlude: More IntroductionsI had so much fun sifting through introductory paragraphs for the first post on <i>The DaVinci Code</i> that I thought I would list some that didn't crack the top two.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I know this blog hasn't been the most interactive endeavor--that one shot at a poll died a merciful death--but I would be curious to see what kinds of opening paragraphs you, dear readers, find compelling, so do feel free to share in the comments section below and I'll post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I'm refraining from commentary, as I think the introductions speak for themselves, but you do not need to demonstrate such restraint.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So, some more of my faves:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSIulsqiM_G18E5YiHhqNKms4eA-GHpN4BHMg_QJcprCPlWmSYPUufFwd_AJaNh9mvsnvSbaTUeSbWJIvOxtyWzAevLBrg93tcQ8a9uSe6VoiTmEHloXBcs5e8IpEtyYrIkG5qExJBww/s1600/paradisecov.gif" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTSIulsqiM_G18E5YiHhqNKms4eA-GHpN4BHMg_QJcprCPlWmSYPUufFwd_AJaNh9mvsnvSbaTUeSbWJIvOxtyWzAevLBrg93tcQ8a9uSe6VoiTmEHloXBcs5e8IpEtyYrIkG5qExJBww/s400/paradisecov.gif" width="277" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“They shoot the white girl first. With the rest they can take their time. No need to hurry out here. They are seventeen miles from a town which has ninety miles between it and any other. Hiding places will be plentiful in the Convent, but there is time and the day has just begun.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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“When I finally caught up with Abraham Trahearne, he was drinking beer with an alcoholic bulldog named Fireball Roberts in a ramshackle joint just outside of Sonoma, California, drinking the heart right out of a fine spring afternoon.”<br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Corduroy is a bear who once lived in the toy department of a big store. Day after day he waited with all the other animals and dolls for somebody to come along and take him home.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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“Tuesday, September 11, 2001, dawned temperate and nearly cloudless in the eastern United States. Millions of men and women readied themselves for work. Some made their way to the Twin Towers, the signature structures of the World Trade Center complex in New York City. Others went to Arlington, Virginia, to the Pentagon. Across the Potomac River, the United States Congress was back in session. At the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue, people began to line up for a White House tour. In Sarasota, Florida, President George W. Bush went for an early morning run.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>“If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth. In the first place, that stuff bores me, and in the second place, my parents would have two hemorrhages apiece if I told anything pretty personal about them. They’re quite touchy about anything like that, especially my father. They’re nice and all—I’m not saying that—but they’re also touchy as hell. Besides, I’m not going to tell you my whole goddamn autobiography or anything. I’ll just tell you about this madman stuff that happened to me last Christmas just before I got pretty run-down and had to come out and take it easy. I mean that’s all I told D.B. about, and he’s my brother and all. He’s in Hollywood. That isn’t too far from this crumby place, and he comes over and visits me practically every weekend. He’s going to drive me home when I go home next month maybe. He just got a Jaguar. One of those little English jobs that can do around two hundred miles an hour. It cost him damn near four thousand bucks. He’s got a lot of dough, now. He didn’t use to. He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home. He wrote this terrific book of short stories, <i>The Secret Goldfish</i>, in case you never heard of him. The best one in it was ‘The Secret Goldfish.’ It was about this little kid that wouldn’t let anybody look at his goldfish because he’d bought it with his own money. It killed me. Now he’s out in Hollywood, D.B., being a prostitute. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s the movies. Don’t even mention them to me.”<br />
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</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-55250349213560813012011-07-25T00:16:00.001-04:002011-07-26T00:24:20.718-04:00No Louvre Lost: THE DAVINCI CODE, by Dan Brown (Introduction and Opening Paragraph)<b>Quick note: Regular readers will know that I am more longwinded than this upcoming series of shorter entries indicates. Truth is, life is busy enough right now that if I wait to finish my essay on Dan Brown's <i>The DaVinci Code</i>, I won't post for another month, so I'm just going to post in a series of shorter entries. This introduction to why I'm reading and writing about this book in the first place will be the longest of the bunch.</b><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal"><i>The DaVinci Code</i> is exactly the kind of book that I have been trained to hate: plot-driven, contemporary, and—horror of horrors!—<i>popular</i>. Actually, though, it’s even worse than that. <i>The DaVinci Code</i> is the kind of book that I have been trained to disregard completely, which means that I wasn’t even allowed to hate it myself. I had to hate it from afar, casting judgment on those who held it in their common little hands, without actually reading a single word of it myself, which, I believe, shows up in <i>Webster’s</i> as the first entry for the word “scoff.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I hold multiple degrees in the various English language arts, a few of them are even of the graduate variety, which means that I have read <i>Tristram Shandy</i>, <i>Clarissa</i>, and <i>The Waves</i>, but not a word by John Grisham, Mitch Albom, Stephanie Meyer, Wally Lamb, or Patricia Cornwall. Until recently, I didn’t consider this much of a loss. I held the standard academic view that any text worthy of my time was a text that rewarded multiple reads, and, judging by the pace at which people flew through the titles by these authors, these were single-serving books, to borrow a phrase from Chuck Palahniuk, another bestselling author whom I’ve never read. If I’m going to devote the time it takes to read a book—even a bad book—then I want to devote it to something that is ultimately worthwhile, and there’s something to be said for the vetting process of time. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, what “reward[ing] multiple reads” really means is that they must be good fodder for research papers, but never mind about that.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mood started to change with a piece that appeared in <i>Playboy</i> about a series of books that were being published by Hard Case Crime. The books were exactly what you would expect from a publishing house called “Hard Case Crime”: They were hardboiled tales about money, femme fatales, and ordinary Joes who get sucked into seedy situations. They had titles like <i>Somebody Owes Me Money</i>, <i>Say It with Bullets</i>, and <i>The Corpse Wore Pasties</i>, and their covers were of the throwback variety, with guns doubling as phallic symbols and breasts just, well, doubling. To intellectualize this would be to fall into the very trap I am trying to avoid, so let’s just say that the books provided something for me that I didn’t even know I was missing. I immediately ordered three, flew through them, and then ordered three more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKFx8-U4tTTWKGfkJYgTAhixJbTFTrbnYQCLiqoBFHsNYBgQ14bfHySon9LCVsGJUBYNacBE7oTKAX8W3LVM4HRzOBzV_nscoMCo1kX9ZZAI4rFGe88KyRH7hi1Kg8LWBWp5MedZYJ5c/s1600/the-vengeful-virgin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfKFx8-U4tTTWKGfkJYgTAhixJbTFTrbnYQCLiqoBFHsNYBgQ14bfHySon9LCVsGJUBYNacBE7oTKAX8W3LVM4HRzOBzV_nscoMCo1kX9ZZAI4rFGe88KyRH7hi1Kg8LWBWp5MedZYJ5c/s640/the-vengeful-virgin.jpg" width="396" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">See what I mean.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">Some of them are contemporary potboilers, but the best of them are books that have been long out of print and that are being rescued by Hard Case for a new audience. Many of these authors are the Dean Koontzes of their day. Sadly, I’ve not read Koontz either, but I’ll give him the benefit of a doubt and say that, like Koontz, these authors are good at what they do. I would be proud to have written any of the numerous titles I have read. Sure, they are plot-driven, but to say that a story with a story is somehow inferior to a story that is instead a rich, brooding character piece is to unfairly preference the skill it takes to develop character rather than spin a yarn, when the truth is that both types of books take an inordinate amount of skill, neither one being inherently “better” than the other (whatever that means).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My appreciation of the Hard Case series made me realize what a snob I’ve been. I am absolutely guilty of equating “popular” with “inferior,” which meant that <i>The DaVinci Code</i>’s popularity has worked against it in my mind. However, when I saw a hardback copy at a church book sale on 181<sup>st</sup> Street, I knew that now was the time to put aside my prejudices and read the book for myself. The book costs five dollars. There is no dust jacket. It is the 15<sup>th</sup> printing. There are no notes of any kind in the margins of the text, though there was an interesting letter included, which will be the subject of a later post.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My idea is to basically keep a journal of the experience of reading <i>The DaVinci Code</i> and just jot down my thoughts as they emerg from page 1 on through page 454. Believe me, whoever inherits this copy from me is going to have some notes to sift through. You think deciphering <i>The Last Supper</i> is a chore, wait until they see my penmanship.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A final word before I dive in: The spoiler alert is that this whole entry is a spoiler. I am coy about nothing. If you haven’t read it yet and you don’t want anything spoiled for you, stop reading now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">OK, on to the book.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's really no need to post these anymore, but I just like them so damn much.</td></tr>
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first word of Dan Brown’s crowning achievement: “Fact.” As in, it is a fact that the Priory of Scion and Opus Dei actually exist and are not just products of the author’s imagination. I’ve never understood this. Who cares if a story is true or not? What matters a “based on real events” that precedes a book or a movie? I figure by the time that it makes it to its finished form, so much has been manipulated that the “factual” elements are dubious, at best. The most honest promise of “This is a true story” is the one that appears before <i>Fargo</i>, because the whole damn thing is made up. Well, it’s not entirely made up, but it is cobbled together from multiple sources and then reconfigured to suit the needs of the artists. Now that’s true. But OK, Dan Brown, “fact.” We can start there.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I love first paragraphs. The best first paragraph establish a tone, introduce a character, or pose a question, and hopefully they pull off all three, which is really just to say that the best first paragraphs make you want to read the second. Here are a couple firsts that definitely nudged me on to seconds:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">From <i>The Big Sleep</i>(1939), by Raymond Chandler: “It was about eleven o’clock in the morning, mid-October, with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder-blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark blue clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaven and sober, and I didn’t care who knew it. I was everything a well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was calling on four million dollars.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And this, from <i>Gilead</i> (2004), by Marilynne Robinson: “I told you last night that I might be gone sometime, and you said, Where, and I said, To be with the Good Lord, and you said, Why, and I said, Because I’m old, and you said, I don’t think you’re old. And you put your hand in my hand and you said, You aren’t very old, as if that settled it. I told you you might have a very different life from mine, and from the life you’ve had with me, and that would be a wonderful thing, there are many ways to live a good life. And you said, Mama already told me that. And then you said, Don’t laugh! Because you thought I was laughing at you. You reached up and put your fingers on my lips and gave me that look I never in my life saw on any other face besides your mother’s. It’s a kind of furious pride, very passionate and stern. I’m always a little surprised to find my eyebrows unsigned after I’ve suffered one of those looks. I will miss them.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Here is the first paragraph of <i>The DaVinci Code</i>: “Louvre Museum, Paris. 10:46 P.M. Renowned curator Jacques Sauniere staggered through the vaulted archway of the museum’s Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a Caravaggio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-six-year-old man heaved the masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and Sauniere collapsed backward in a heap beneath the canvas.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I like the bold gesture of the beginning and that it immediately establishes a character and a place, even if the description of the character settles for demographic information rather something richer. The introduction includes “staggering,” “lunging,” “grabbing,” “heaving,” and “collapsing,” which sets up an action-packed ride.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, if I’m browsing in a bookstore, I put this one back down. On our rather exclusive list of introduction here, I rank this one a distant third.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpecHiHHRFrGuPLkY-o_X9N1eVFCT8RCgwncCkpGng3oEx7IbSBa2jiCOAxlk4VOD2_hqa_SZZjFf0_OFQlra5eC5HuyCwFQSEF96WWESiAoThsM3uVbwWt5V-tbkY7ZSzjidZ07Xwu0/s1600/Diet+of+Treacle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRpecHiHHRFrGuPLkY-o_X9N1eVFCT8RCgwncCkpGng3oEx7IbSBa2jiCOAxlk4VOD2_hqa_SZZjFf0_OFQlra5eC5HuyCwFQSEF96WWESiAoThsM3uVbwWt5V-tbkY7ZSzjidZ07Xwu0/s640/Diet+of+Treacle.jpg" width="396" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, hell, why not?</td></tr>
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</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-89478545211697655092011-06-21T21:33:00.000-04:002011-06-21T21:33:51.290-04:00Beach Read #1: Buttafuoco You<div class="MsoNormal">You don’t know Dana, but if you did you would know that <i>Amy Fisher: My Story</i>, by Amy Fisher and Sheila Weller, is exactly the kind of thing that he would give as a gift: pop cultural, bargain bin, and connected in some way to a shared experience. The first two points are apparent enough, but the third requires a little context: In the summer of 1992, Dana and I drove from San Diego to St. Louis to Seattle and then back to San Diego over the course of a five-week stretch, all the while following the Long Island Lolita’s story by reading the top half of the <i>USA Today</i> in the paper dispensers that were outside whatever Denny’s we were eating our Grand Slams at that morning. That’s how simple the story was: You could get all of the pertinent details by reading only the top half of a paper that was known more for its use of color than it was for its journalistic integrity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were obsessed with the story—obsessed with the thought of a 17-year-old girl ringing a doorbell and then shooting a woman in the face, obsessed with Jan Hooks’ impersonation of Mary Jo on <i>Saturday Night Live</i>, obsessed with the coverage that was over the top, even for tabloid journalism, but obsessed mostly with the last name of the young girl’s alleged lover and accomplice: Buttafuoco. <i> Buttafuoco</i>. We couldn’t get enough of this word that was a proper noun but that sounded so common. We would use it when someone cut us off in Wyoming: “Hey, get a look at that Buttafuoco.” We would use it to casually refer to one another: “What are you having this morning, Buttafuoco?” We would resort to it as an exclamation in moments of frustration: “Buttafuoco!” Along with American Music Club’s <i>Everclear</i>, which got stuck in the tape deck of my dad’s borrowed car and was consequently the only thing we could listen to for thousands and thousands of miles, Buttafuoco, and by extension Amy Fisher, defined that trip.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which is why I was hardly surprised when, four years later, as a birthday gift, I received the book in the mail. The inscription, dated 10/4/96: “Kirby, there’s a little Buttafuoco and a little Amy Fisher in all of us. But a lot of Buttafuoco in Amy Fisher. Prepare to meet your savior. Happy birthday, Dana. Yo, Joey!”</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How much do you think she hated having her weight broadcast to the world?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">This is the book that Leu is talking about when she points to the shelf and says, Do you really need them all?, if not by title then at least by kind: The kitschy novelty book that served its purpose as a gift or as a joke but that was never actually intended to be read all the way through and thus does not deserve to occupy the space that could be otherwise reserved for something that’s, you know, useful. Can we at least agree to keep only the books that you have either read or intend to read someday? is the implied question. Is that too much to ask? Nope. Not too much to ask at all. Only problem is that I plan to read them all. Someday. And as I recently discovered, even a memoir by Amy Fisher can teach us a lot about storytelling, passion, and Buttafuoco. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now, without further ado, from the home office in Nassau County—aka, Long Island 90210—the Top 5 things I learned from <i>Amy Fisher: My Story</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>5. Don’t put out in the first 106 pages.</b> For a young woman who, by her own account, has hardly mastered the art of self-restraint, Fisher the Narrator comes across as a bit of a tease. Oh, sure, she front loads the story with details that are just lurid enough to make you want more—on page 1 she reveals that “Joey himself never wore underwear” and on page 3 she lets us in on some of her extracurriculars when she claims “I never did tricks at night—just after school”—but the majority of the first third of the book withholds information in a way that entices the reader to continue with thirds two and three. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I knew what I really wanted from Mary Jo, what would have made everything different that day and all the days after that,” she writes on page 6. “You won’t believe me if I tell you, now, what it was. But I think you’ll understand once you know a little bit more about my life. So I’ll save it for later in this book.” Translation: Don’t put me down just yet! Please! Pretty please!! Pretty, pretty please with some Sapphic undertones on top!!! What? The Sapphic undertones did the trick?! OK. You got it. How about this, from page 85: “I <i>think</i> I’m strong and tough, but then an attractive man comes along and I turn to Jell-O. (Sometimes it can be a girlfriend, as you’ll soon see.)” And, finally, if girl-on-girl action isn’t your thing, then maybe family drama is: On page 105, she resorts to the tug of a good old-fashioned family feud: “This was the beginning of me choosing Joey over Mary Lynn [an influential aunt]: a dangerous choice. The forced rift would be complete in a few weeks. But I’ll explain that later.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You have to hand it to someone at Pocket Books who might not have had a corner office then but surely does now. The only people who are going to pick up this book are the people who are already familiar with the story, and this is a tabloid- rather than a book-length tale, so you have to give the casual browsers some reason to keep reading, especially when they have heard it all before. What better way to do so than by promising that the really juicy stuff is just up ahead?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The kicker: I still don’t have any idea what Amy wanted from Mary Jo—my best guess, seriously, is a hug—and if there was any lesbian action that may or may not have included Jell-O, I must have missed it. And don’t think I didn’t double back. Repeatedly.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vdusNhyphenhyphenmz0p8tnQNzUxW_BRvrDvBfj1-W8MdE4oHZqIctBR7uOmPRfVg0hFRHh_xTG5yT3I3Vsqo7JNLgiNiUxUAecGe7AAn6dluyarWW8jjWri13G0YyZZywO9TUZsAwZQMWrXj3q0/s1600/buttafuoco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3vdusNhyphenhyphenmz0p8tnQNzUxW_BRvrDvBfj1-W8MdE4oHZqIctBR7uOmPRfVg0hFRHh_xTG5yT3I3Vsqo7JNLgiNiUxUAecGe7AAn6dluyarWW8jjWri13G0YyZZywO9TUZsAwZQMWrXj3q0/s640/buttafuoco.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If I ever cut a record, this will be the cover.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>4. The <i>auto</i> part of a celebrity autobiography writes even less than I thought, and I thought they wrote jack fucking shit.</b> <i>Amy Fisher: My Story</i> claims to be “by Amy Fisher with Sheila Weller,” though a more accurate billing might be “by Sheila Weller, with Amy Fisher somewhere in the room stretching her gum and twirling her hair while Weller clacked away at the keyboard,” a credit that, admittedly, would have struggled to fit on the front cover. Fisher might have related the story to Weller, but if she actually wrote five words of it I’ll eat Joey Buttafuoco’s tracksuit. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Weller smartly gives herself a little room to maneuver by delineating between Fisher’s (allegedly) first-person account and Weller’s more objectively journalistic sections, but even the parts that belong to Fisher are owned by Weller. “The two men, Joey and my father, were doing this little dance with each other, and I was almost the conduit, the link,” writes, um, Amy. Uh-huh. Riiiight. Or: “As I walked through the cool sand next to my supportive mom—both of us hugging our chests in our big sweatshirts—it actually seemed that my messed-up life was a piece of deadwood I could toss out to see till it sank to the bottom of the ocean.” Or…. You know what? Never mind. You get the idea.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Look, it’s not that I don’t think Fisher is capable of telling her own story. After all, Weller includes an anonymous, “authoritative” source that says, “Amy Fisher is a very bright girl. If two or three things had been different in her life, she could be on her way to becoming a doctor now,” and who am I to argue with an anonymous, authoritative source? No, it’s not that I don’t think she’s capable of telling her own story. It’s just that I know she didn’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>3. Nothing dates a story like a reference to a technology that was once cutting edge but that is now passé.</b> Beepers are to the Amy Fisher story as cell phones were to <i>The X Files</i>, which is to say that neither Fisher/Buttafuoco nor Mulder/Scully could have existed without their respective enabling devices. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the morning that Mary Jo was shot—well, technically pistolwhipped then shot—Joey “beeped” Amy three times while she was in class (hello!), and she had to excuse herself to call him back from a pay phone in the hall. How great is that? <i>Beepers</i>. <i>Pay phones</i>. Can you picture Amy asking the girl who sits in front of her for some change. “PSST! Do you have a quarter? I’m conspiring with sleazebag boyfriend to kill his wife, and he wants me to check in.” Then, 20 minutes later, five minutes after she has returned from the first call. “PSST! Sorry. This is so embarrassing, but….”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s even funnier than the technology itself is that Weller felt a need to justify teenagers carrying portable gadgets that would make them accessible at all times. She writes, “A teenager having a beeper was not the big deal the media made it out to be. Although the beeper’s origins as a device to help crack dealers wheel and deal gave it an outlaw cache, it and the car phone were becoming teen communication fads.” Footnote after “fads”: “Beepers were not allowed at John F. Kennedy High. Amy’s ability to use hers surreptitiously in the school relied on her habit of setting it on Vibrate [cap hers], which made its beeping noiseless—and undetectable by her teachers.” Insert Dramatic Chipmunk music here.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This tendency to over-explain bogs Weller down throughout the book. Take, for example, her need to translate guido culture’s slang. She sensitively glosses a code that is as rich as the Navajo language that baffled the Axis forces in World War II when she identifies “What’s up?” as the translation for the otherwise impenetrable “‘Sup?,” though she does think her readers savvy enough to keep the “s” contracted.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUc7vqMo0plc28FfZBpKXax23rXY8TY9VyLn1B9rg8E57_K1bBU1iptH8eRMop2UACPvwqXi2otPSUuvwCpQO_yOqQuNpMptm82Nf7i5RbBy-ba6333tjDiZSWgeCozJYVrVsYOhVS1Xg/s1600/1-1-Mary-Jo-Buttafuoco.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUc7vqMo0plc28FfZBpKXax23rXY8TY9VyLn1B9rg8E57_K1bBU1iptH8eRMop2UACPvwqXi2otPSUuvwCpQO_yOqQuNpMptm82Nf7i5RbBy-ba6333tjDiZSWgeCozJYVrVsYOhVS1Xg/s640/1-1-Mary-Jo-Buttafuoco.jpg" width="507" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honestly, I don't know if this is Mary Jo or Jan Hooks.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><b>2. I’ve got a lot to learn about the sex-trade industry.</b> First of all, I didn’t even know that Amy Fisher was a prostitute. Somehow this piece of the story slipped right by (must have been below the fold of the USA Today, though it sure feels above to me). In any case, the marketers at Pocket make sure that anyone who picks up the book doesn’t stay similarly uninformed. This, from the back of the dust jacket, under the heading “Amy, on her entry into prostitution”: “So here I was by the fall of ’91: After trying, unsuccessfully, to convince me to have sex with his friend while he watched, to have lesbian sex, to be a stripper, and to be erotically massaged at a Korean massage parlor, Joey had succeeded in getting me into prostitution.” <br />
<br />
To hear Amy tell it, though, she wasn’t a prostitute prostitute. She would prance around the room in the lingerie that Joey bought for her while her clients took care of themselves. Basically, Amy would be in the room while someone else did all the work. Come to think of it, Amy the Prostitute wasn’t too dissimilar from Amy the Writer.<br />
<br />
The book actually sheds a lot of light on the escort industry, including the way in which they launder their money (they pay to use the credit card machine of legitimate businesses such as florists, laundries, and car services) and the role of the driver, who is not only the driver but also the bodyguard and the collector. Joey was kind of a driver and kind of a cocaine dealer—he was known in those circles as “Joey Coco-Pops”—but in Joey’s typically classy way, he was also the poacher, as he would hang around the parking lot where the working girls would be waiting for their next call and he would pass out the card of the competing Madame for whom he worked, essentially trying to lure them into free agency. Leave it to Joey to solicit the solicitors. Times like this, I swear, I find it damn hard not to love this man.<br />
<br />
Weller doesn’t focus exclusively on Joey’s involvement in the prostitution ring, however. One story illustrates an inventive way in which the girls make sure they get paid: “Often they [the prostitutes] just roll their johns; get them into motel rooms, even doorways, grab their wallets out of the pockets when their pants are down, and split.”<br />
<br />
Note to self: going forward, keep your wallet in the glovebox.<br />
<br />
<b>1. Joey is soooooo Buttafuoco.</b> And finally, I leave you with this image, which requires no setup or subsequent elucidation and which garnered a “Whoa!” from yours truly in the margin, and if you are underage or even the least bit squeamish just stop reading now. No, I’m serious. OK, but don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. Here it goes, brace yourself. Amy writes, “Joey was so sexual, he could go much longer than I. When I was exhausted and couldn’t do it anymore, he would jerk himself off and, like a kid with a squirt gun, spray his semen around the room.” <br />
<br />
I think the only thing left to say after that is “You’re welcome!”<br />
<br />
Buttafuoco.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjImmWHhvSpfm6LTvYrtYSv8ATg2tdbofIyrZs8Q95WKz3xSji67HSqd63OlTpuqCQpUE2zmDeCty-EqapUpq7xS1_bNlQYkH-KFVIoXwx2pNhYBYV2Un_b0B_9zesNZjfnbuNgZdynJ8/s1600/amy+fisher+my+story.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjImmWHhvSpfm6LTvYrtYSv8ATg2tdbofIyrZs8Q95WKz3xSji67HSqd63OlTpuqCQpUE2zmDeCty-EqapUpq7xS1_bNlQYkH-KFVIoXwx2pNhYBYV2Un_b0B_9zesNZjfnbuNgZdynJ8/s640/amy+fisher+my+story.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number 764,961 on Amazon's list of bestselling books. Prices range from one penny used to $223.18 new. Seriously. Maybe I shouldn't have marked it all to hell.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-37770173606622615252011-06-05T23:58:00.001-04:002011-06-05T23:59:36.651-04:00No Success Like Failure: UNLIMITED POWER, by Anthony Robbins (Conclusion)<div class="MsoNormal">“No, seriously, today’s the motherfucking day. I mean it this time.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The final piece of the puzzle that is my relationship with Tony Robbins and <i>Unlimited Power</i> stems from something my friend Kevin said when we met for coffee. Kevin and I sometimes go long stretches without actually seeing one another, but when we do finally reconvene it doesn’t take more than 20 minutes of idle chitchat before one of us asks the other, What are you reading? Often the question doesn’t need to be asked, as whoever arrived at the rendezvous point first is finishing up a paragraph when the other arrives. In such instances, a nod of the head and a That any good? suffices.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On this particular day, however, I had been reading Robbins rather than any of the other authors who typically dominate our conversations—authors like Virginia Woolf, Jonathan Franzen, or Richard Dawkins—and, I don’t know, maybe shame played a bigger factor than I’m willing to admit, but mostly I just didn’t feel like going into the whole reason of <i>why</i> I was reading Tony Robbins, so I hid the book as best as I could hide it in plain view: I turned it upside down and made sure the spine was facing out.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Kevin must have sensed that strange things were afoot at the Astor Place Starbuck’s because he immediately asked, in his way, Watcha reading?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, this….” I shook my head, as if to say “nothing, a trifle, next question.” But he was undeterred.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Come on, what is it?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Realizing that things had already gotten bigger than they needed to be, I turned the book over and waited for his worst.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, my.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I thought you might like that.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I proceeded to explain why I was reading Robbins, the project, how it fit into the larger whole. By the time I was finished, he was warming up to the idea, though he still had his reservations.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My problem is that I’d be embarrassed for people to see me reading that on the train,” he admitted. (This from the guy who had recently read, in public, <i>Between a Heart and a Rock Place: A Memoir</i>, by Pat Benatar.) “I’d need a sign that said, ‘I’m being ironic.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I won’t act as if I hadn’t wondered how I might be perceived on the train—I’m self-conscious enough that this was one of the first thoughts that crossed my mind—but I had settled on an outside perspective that was more comical than anything else: Hey, get a load of the clearly unemployed, full bearded man in tattered jeans and red sneakers reading Tony Robbins. Does he really think he’s a page away from turning it all around? Shut up and read your Stieg Larsson, I would reply. And, oh, and by the way, Frankie says he loves that cover.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWkuUhkNQoa_wlbxuLV10jyZe6MQNlYyQh8p87xDd2zXw_sy0N21PGcToV2t9jHL8BvAYbkQUZJYCIhqJmkztk-bTktONm9tlvCWHj2KdHOXYfLJu4gC77VXhb-bduAWXV96wjFkgVtM/s1600/the_girl_with_the_dragon_tattoo_book_cover_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHWkuUhkNQoa_wlbxuLV10jyZe6MQNlYyQh8p87xDd2zXw_sy0N21PGcToV2t9jHL8BvAYbkQUZJYCIhqJmkztk-bTktONm9tlvCWHj2KdHOXYfLJu4gC77VXhb-bduAWXV96wjFkgVtM/s200/the_girl_with_the_dragon_tattoo_book_cover_02.jpg" width="133" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hopefully Frankie is getting paid enough to make a... </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7UlHMKyHWbbU5-GyC_DKcoxTpxpN-PQhyphenhyphen8VpfBPVw359NtJPPbPEUllvTmxKujMCH0Qv-bdpIQBjX791ThmqwsREfhynFZyU8XEsG6HvP2NTRQ7lFrj9gHjXMRQoKdG1Y5mOrMDhQmM/s1600/frankie+says+relax.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7UlHMKyHWbbU5-GyC_DKcoxTpxpN-PQhyphenhyphen8VpfBPVw359NtJPPbPEUllvTmxKujMCH0Qv-bdpIQBjX791ThmqwsREfhynFZyU8XEsG6HvP2NTRQ7lFrj9gHjXMRQoKdG1Y5mOrMDhQmM/s200/frankie+says+relax.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...video with more lasers this time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal">No, I was OK with whatever image I projected as I read. What I wondered about for the first time in response to Kevin’s statement was the bigger question of irony. As unbelievable as it sounds, given some of the fun I’ve had with Robbins’ book, I honesty never thought that I was being ironic. Sure, I could certainly stand accused of approaching the text in a less-than-reverential manner, but I don’t revere anything, and, besides, what thinking person wouldn’t? That’s the point of testing ideas in the world, isn’t it? Those that withstand the scrutiny stick. I would hope that, in the spirit of shoring up the soundness of his argument, Robbins would want his readers to think critically, to ask questions, to raise their hands when somehow something didn’t sound quite right. This is called “reading responsibly,” not “reading ironically.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, a questioning mind is not always a receptive mind, and Robbins doesn’t seem like the kind of a guy who enjoys fielding questions that deviate from the FAQ. As I countered his every move, I could hear his rebuttal, as carefully packaged as all the rest: “This book will not help you because you will not let this book help you. When you are ready to listen, only then will you hear.” Like so many platitudes, this sounds like it means something, but it really doesn’t. I can’t help you unless you want to help yourself, says the counselor to the addict. Not a bad gig, since all of the heavy lifting falls to the addict. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Without a doubt, the ironic reading tempts, but so too does it cheapen. The truth is that I would never have reached for <i>Unlimited Power</i> had I not lost my job and had every decision I had ever made not consequently been called into question. One day, this book, out of all of the hundreds of books on my shelf, called to me when for all of the thousands of days previous it had remained mute. There’s no irony there, no knowing wink. I needed this book. I, who had absolutely nothing figured out, wanted to be in the presence of someone who claimed that he knew it all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was certainly not the first person to do so, and, in fact, I was not even the first person to do so with this specific copy of <i>Unlimited Power</i>. I knew the book was used—I purchased it for 50 cents at a library book sale in Lawrence, Kansas, remember?—but much to my delight, the previous owner left behind a number of clues as to what drove him to the text. (For the sake of the scene that follows, I will refer to the imagined previous owner as “he.”) Unfortunately, the more interesting story—why he gave it up—remains in the ether, but the hints he left behind tantalize too much to ignore. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He read with a yellow highlighter, so we are kindred spirits in that regard, anyway. (I prefer pencil, but the principle is the same.) Sometimes he highlighted whole passages, but just as often he highlighted the odd line or phrase. “Today is the day.” “W.I.T. – Whatever It Takes.” “Kentucky Fried Chicken.” All of the brief quotations that separate the larger passages in this essay—those are all lifted from what the previous owner deemed important. They include no more and no less than the precise language that he highlighted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The highlights themselves rarely deviate from their intended lines—no sudden, seismograph-like peaks or valleys—which suggests not only a steady hand but more importantly a steady surface. This guy is not reading on a train, where too often a lurch turns a page into an Etch-a-Sketch. Neither is he on a plane, which rarely goes 10 pages without at least an air pocket or two. He’s not the guy who travels. He’s the guy who wants to be the guy who travels. Some of the notes lead me to believe that he wants to be a salesman—the sections that reference sales are inevitably noted—but would he be brazen enough to read on the job? Probably not. That would risk exposure, possible ridicule. Instead, I picture him hunched over the kitchen table in his apartment that he shares with no one. It’s after hours, after the TV shows that he watches dispassionately. He doesn’t have any other books on his shelf—as he flipped through this one at a friend’s house the friend said You want that? Go ahead and take it, so he did—and this lack of experience is why he has a hard time reading more than 12 pages in a single sitting. The highlighter is supposed to keep him focused—he remembers the same technique working for the smart girls at the community college, which all of his friends who went to a four-year program referred to as “13<sup>th</sup> grade”—but the long stretches between highlighted sections betray his lapses.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On page 14, he highlights “rejected 1,009 times.” On page 43, “no matter how terrible a situation is, you can represent it in a way that empowers you.” On page 49, “hit a golf ball perfectly.” Strangely, on page 87, some checkmarks and an asterisk with a pen. Page 89, a handwritten note in pencil, cursive, an effeminate hand: “John Chezick dealership—Gordon + Al Gottard.” John Chezick Honda is in Kansas City. On page 90, another handwritten note: “me <u>in</u> the picture.” The strength of the highlighter fades until, finally, on page 147 of 418 it disappears completely.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thinking about him led me to wonder what people would think about me. Not the “me” with the book in his hands—I’ve already said that they can snicker all they want—but, rather, I wondered what people think of the “me” I left in the margins. The previous owner had offered some morsels of an existence that I had used to piece together a—let’s face it—a pretty flimsy life. I, on the other hand, had left behind a full meal. I corrected Robbins’ errors (“When you find the specific triggers [submodalities] that cause you to go into a desirable state, than you can link these triggers….”). I wrote things like “But how much room does that take up?” and “Is this true?” and “X’d an unfortunate abbreviation” and “beer.” “How do you prove this?” “How to breathe.” I referred to my previous place of employment by name. I put a “?” next to passages that confused, an “!” next to parts that excited. Few books on my shelf so clearly capture within their covers my mental state as I was reading them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dylan, again: “You can learn everything there is to learn about me from the songs, if you just know where to look.” </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-x4uELLhSpJkJ1wD5PcBWNBbd86hP1f1ZcvoWChwBT9iB9M0o98wVRK38nBjvdJUpSqhnsE-tXZFZtg_OPXHwI1F__66Jq6qPhDRyq2AU5AisLMZmoC1XqeYb-P9HNnGSiTg2buYeagE/s1600/john+chezick+honda.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-x4uELLhSpJkJ1wD5PcBWNBbd86hP1f1ZcvoWChwBT9iB9M0o98wVRK38nBjvdJUpSqhnsE-tXZFZtg_OPXHwI1F__66Jq6qPhDRyq2AU5AisLMZmoC1XqeYb-P9HNnGSiTg2buYeagE/s640/john+chezick+honda.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A clue....</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;">***** </div><br />
The dirty little secret about <i>Unlimited Power</i> is that it’s hard to read it all the way through without getting something out of it. This pains me to say, but it’s true. That 14-year-old version of myself was wise to resist. Robbins isn’t still going strong a quarter of a century later because he’s unintentionally hilarious, even if he is. He’s still going strong because he’s good. I don’t suddenly have a desire to start a fast-food franchise, nor do I want to run for office or own a fleet of jets, but I can’t deny that Robbins has introduced me to a number of powerful tools that will help me better cope with situations of great adversity.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For example: One of the really underrated parts about being unemployed is that people heap pity upon you. They offer to babysit, they give you old Metro cards, and occasionally they take you to Knicks games. My friend Jim did just that. He’s in the medical profession, and a rep of some kind offered him two tickets to the Knicks-Hawks game, the last before the All-Start break, a game that will forever go down in Knicks lore as the Last Day of the Gallinari Era. Somehow I’ve made it this far in my life without attending a professional basketball game, and I actually count myself a fan of the Knickerbockers, so I leapt at the chance to go to the game.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This despite the fact that the game was on a Wednesday night and on Thursday morning I had (a) to get Jonah to day care and (b) a phone interview for a job that I really, really wanted.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">To say that Jim is a bad influence is unfair because I know damn well what I’m signing up for when I agree to a night with him: hard drinking, passionate arguments about sports, and stories we’ve told each other a thousand times before. But mostly hard drinking. I don’t know that I’ve ever outlasted him—on more than one occasion I’ve called it a night only to see him signaling for another while I’m on the way out the door—but on good nights (bad nights?) I can keep up, which is exactly what I did for the hour at the bar before the game, the two and a half hours during the game, and the two hours back at the bar after. The play-by-play is a little blurry, but at one point during the game I remember Jim turning to me and saying, Does it look like they’re playing defense to you? Because it doesn’t look like they’re playing defense to me. Then, a quarter/drink later: Did I ever tell you about the time I scored 60 for Donora High? Did I say stories we told each other a thousand times before? Make that a thousand and one. We stayed until the last dribble, even though the game was over long before. When we returned to the same bar we started at, I expected the bartender to greet us as if we were the ones who had secured the victory. “We’re back!” I bellowed when we swung open the door. No one as much as shifted in their seats. We ordered another beer and shot and got down to the serious business of arguing about Barry Bonds.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlWm3cU3g2nqysP_zGGBn3M7TpG6wXV32kQvJFRA2EBs3gqPiAkL9XK-uC4dsR7BqDz0ebdMYMnAtrEnjTsC-zL8Vel18h084WC4YzghMwVlUyr0lw6K-BuVn3wi5Hb6RLQr1mZKigj8/s1600/gallinari--300x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhlWm3cU3g2nqysP_zGGBn3M7TpG6wXV32kQvJFRA2EBs3gqPiAkL9XK-uC4dsR7BqDz0ebdMYMnAtrEnjTsC-zL8Vel18h084WC4YzghMwVlUyr0lw6K-BuVn3wi5Hb6RLQr1mZKigj8/s400/gallinari--300x300.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jim and I were there for the end of an era.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">At the end of the night, the Knicks had won their last game before Carmelo hit town, we had discovered a great bar with three-dollar pints of Harps just an avenue block away from the Garden, and I had consumed far, far more alcohol than any man should on the eve of a big job interview.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning, I had to pry my eyelids open like a character from anime. Everything looked sideways until I realized that I was the one who was sideways. And that was just the start. That idyllic morning with Jonah that I painted before? Hungover, that exact same morning is a hellish procession of torture. I sacrifice the quiet lap time that I had so treasured for 15 more minutes of sleep, which means that nothing is quiet, everything rushed. I know there are stripes on the banana, buddy, now will you please just take a bite please? Where’s your other shoe? We don’t need your gloves. Just pull your hands into your sleeves. On the walk, I cheat by taking advantage of the elevator at the subway. I shave off two minutes. The cold air should be invigorating, but it’s not. It’s just cold. I count it a victory just getting to Nana G’s, then remember that I have to get back. Can I just lie down for a minute? You have a cot or something for nap time, right? Just point me in the right direction. I’ll be fine. I promise Jonah who knows what when I come pick him up and begin the long trek home.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s nine o’clock now. My phone interview is at eleven. I can sleep for an hour and a half, mainline some coffee, and I’ll be fine. Only I can’t sleep. I’m afraid my alarm won’t wake me and I’ll miss the interview completely. A shower would feel good, but I can’t stand up long enough. Worst of all, my stomach feels heavy, like it’s full of cornmeal. Time advances at a pace that’s simply unfair for someone who counts the seconds based on the throbs in his temples. It can’t be that late already. I just laid down. It’s 10:30 now, 10:40. I hear the kids at the school next door yelling at recess. If I could just be sick, release this heaviness, I would feel better. I decide better to do so now than in the middle of the interview. Yes, sir, well that’s an excellent bluuuch. I stagger to the bathroom, drop to my knees, hug the toilet like it’s a buoy and I’m adrift at sea. It’s 10:50. Nothing. 10:55. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The cornmeal stubbornly lodged, I resign myself to my fate: I’m morally weak, and, as a result, my family and I are going to be destitute on the street. We’re standing on the sidewalk in our robes, clinging to what few possessions we can carry in our hands as they change the locks to the building. I look down at the key in my hand, let it fall to the cold concrete. Jonah clutches his favorite car to his chest. Leu is too despondent to even cry. Her stomach bulges, a communiqué from within, not even language, just from his still-developing mind to mine: What the fuck, Dad? You call this being a responsible adult? But you don’t understand, I…. You were what? I was…I don’t know.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And then, cutting through my worst-case, another voice. This one deeper, resonant, as thick as Andre the Giant’s. Is it…? Could it be…God?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No. But close. It’s Anthony Robbins. “You can create your own world,” he intones. “Nothing is or is not, only what you make it. Only you can prevent forest fires.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m here, Tony. I’m here.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you want this job?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you want to turn your life around?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t hear you!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I said, Yes! Yes!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then you know what to do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I don’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You do.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can, you can. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s 10:58. I picture myself as I am, as viewed from an omniscient eye: huddled over the toilet, a sorry, pathetic, pitiful excuse for a man. Then, in the background, as if pulled back in the pocket of a slingshot, I picture how I want to be: upright, confident. I talk on the phone in a tone that communicates professional ease. That’s a really capital question, old boy. Let me address it first on a granular level. Just tell me if you’re looking for something more robust. At his desk in a skyscraper in Midtown, the interviewer stamps “HIRED” in big red letters across the front of my résumé. My teeth are as straight as piano keys. They gleam as brightly as something bright that gleams. I release the image. It gets brighter and more overwhelming the closer it gets. It lands right between my eyes, pinches them awake. My old self in shambles, mercury scurrying across the bathroom floor.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’m bare-chested, wearing nothing but boxer shorts. I’m paunchy. My arms without definition. I’m an underwhelming physical specimen in every possible way. My beard is mangy. I sweat. I smell sour. The phone rings. I put my hands on the toilet and push.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stand up like a man.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Whoosh. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKzc8Lm3uWIQfvVYBvQJzYDXRNQROVGjXZLaNL3ZHhxtbaHXKfsstkeeqyHDnZZDWEOMJydfQOi_y1yepxCrQqJ1R2h4NohFI2NNz__eWPJdZC8IuPuV2SGsaOBfhFdWhRuOFGeN2T15c/s1600/a+robbins+unlimited+power.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKzc8Lm3uWIQfvVYBvQJzYDXRNQROVGjXZLaNL3ZHhxtbaHXKfsstkeeqyHDnZZDWEOMJydfQOi_y1yepxCrQqJ1R2h4NohFI2NNz__eWPJdZC8IuPuV2SGsaOBfhFdWhRuOFGeN2T15c/s400/a+robbins+unlimited+power.jpg" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Number 8,282 on Amazon's list of best-selling books; number 16 in Business and Investing/Business Life/Motivation & Self-Improvement.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-2207382844843569162011-05-31T00:30:00.001-04:002011-05-31T00:38:08.472-04:00No Success Like Failure: UNLIMITED POWER, by Anthony Robbins (Part 5)<div class="MsoNormal">“with fears and frustrations”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of the many reasons why I live in New York, “project management” isn’t in the top 100. Hell, it isn’t even in the top 1,000; the top 10,000. On a list that includes “being able to attend theater every night” and “walking across the Brooklyn Bridge” on one end and “being stuck on the wrong side of 5<sup>th</sup> Avenue during the Puerto Rican Day Parade” and “six-dollar pints of light beer” on the other, “project management” falls much closer to “six-dollar pints,” <i>maybe</i> a notch above “waiting for the 7 train on one of those outdoor platforms in Queens on a windy night in January,” but just barely. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am here to write. To surround myself with other artists; to subject myself to other artists, yes. But mainly, importantly, to write. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the same way that Christians periodically retreat in an effort to remind themselves of their commitment to Jesus, so too do I have to occasionally step back and take stock of where I am and what I’m doing. I don’t require a What Would Mamet Do? bracelet to remind myself of my devotion—and, even if I did, the wiser course is probably What Would Mamet Not Do?—but every so often a mental check-in is valuable, nonetheless. Such a renewal of vows, as it were, does not require the public spectacle of, say, a Promise Keepers meeting, where I realize the sheer numbers are supposed to enhance the experience, though I’ve always thought they diminished it, trading, as they do, the intimacy of individuality for the Leni Riefenstahl-like mass of up-reached hands and streaming tears. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No, any issue my priorities and I have are strictly between me and my priorities, though I could maybe be talked into an AA-like support group, if things were to ever bottom out. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hello, my name is Kirby.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hi, Kirby!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It has been three months since I’ve written anything that was worth shit.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In their current form, however, the check-ins are brief, usually nothing more than an internal “What are you doing with your life?,” and they usually occur after things that really don’t matter—things like work—begin to seem as if they actually do. A blown deadline that nags more than it should. A prolonged stretch of going in early and/or staying late. Just generally not leaving it all behind at 5:00. Nothing at work should ever affect any part of my life that doesn’t happen at work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEyzFBPqWrPsRLFSYIiwXlk3KFCz5AjJiD-6RuFAQ2FlBhpZfeMni5dtKiIYa73oamdFq-kBrkP6jUflwStQb-CQE4EQEej0_Fqq8XMOis7ZUhgeYzfyB6nUPm0G_YxNHQDC9cKlF8xo/s1600/brooklyn+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSEyzFBPqWrPsRLFSYIiwXlk3KFCz5AjJiD-6RuFAQ2FlBhpZfeMni5dtKiIYa73oamdFq-kBrkP6jUflwStQb-CQE4EQEej0_Fqq8XMOis7ZUhgeYzfyB6nUPm0G_YxNHQDC9cKlF8xo/s640/brooklyn+bridge.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Project management" is at the opposite end of a list that includes this near the top.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">“Every complex system whether it’s a factory tool or a computer or a human being, has to be congruent,” writes Robbins. “Its parts have to work together; every action has to support every other action if it’s to work at peak level. If the parts of a machine try to go in two different directions at once, the machine will be out of sync and could eventually break down.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The great curse of my life—other than the fact that I can’t play guitar—is that society fails to value the skills that I possess enough for me to parlay them into something like a living. I don’t know how to buy or sell stocks. I don’t know how to scrape out the carotid artery when it becomes too constricted by gunk or even how to read a blood-pressure pump for that matter. I can’t throw a ball fast enough or jump high enough. I can tell you generally why the Ten Commandments shouldn’t be displayed in public classrooms, but I can’t argue precedence. Speaking of God, He sure knows I can’t carry a tune. I know enough about a few things that I feel capable to teach what I know to others, but I lack the requisite certification to make that transfer of knowledge official. I can’t really build anything. If I hammer a nail, it’s going to be crooked; if I saw a board, I’m going to lose a digit. I have no big idea for a business of my own. I don’t even have any small ideas. I barely understand how my bike works, let along my computer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You know what I’m good at? Here’s what I’m good at: I can fix your sentences (and write a few of my own), and I’m really, really good at noticing when the font that’s supposed to be Calibri is actually Cambria or when that 12-point heading is really 11 or when the period is mistakenly bold.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I have degrees in English, writing, and philosophy, which means I can read, write, and think. Plug that trifecta into a Craigslist search and tell me how many rewarding, full-time opportunities emerge.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We can learn to produce the most effective behaviors, but if those behaviors don’t support our deepest needs and desires, if those behaviors infringe upon other things that are important to us, then we have internal conflict, and we lack the congruency that is necessary for success on a large scale.” That’s Robbins again, obviously, in a line that stings not a little but a lot, for, the more I think about it, the more I realize that I’ve been incongruent my whole life.</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGZ_jENkmlcksBB3nddXFpW5EDiLiTFToKL84XWhWpPNWJIOC4SAzvHqSw2qKf9Ql3ajnQyC6jtMfuCPVhIcG5KO9IxNyuoPuLK6QV3Ofry575VhPzWU96bvofarNqjkOr67JLi19kjM/s1600/calibri+cambria.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguGZ_jENkmlcksBB3nddXFpW5EDiLiTFToKL84XWhWpPNWJIOC4SAzvHqSw2qKf9Ql3ajnQyC6jtMfuCPVhIcG5KO9IxNyuoPuLK6QV3Ofry575VhPzWU96bvofarNqjkOr67JLi19kjM/s640/calibri+cambria.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tell me something I don't know.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">I had occasion recently to sift through a number of old notebooks. They stretched all the way back to my freshman year of high school and then extended forward through my four undergraduate years and multiple graduate programs. As I flipped through, I was struck by how similar their contents were throughout those 15 years: The information in the first third of every spiral was the official notes for the class. Whether it was Journalism or Western Civ until 1660 or Psych or Soc or Algebra I or Biology or Performing American Culture or Contemporary Southern Women’s Fiction, I had all of the sanctioned information right up top, in enough detail that, give me two hours with any given notebook right now, and I could still ace the quiz.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the back of the notebooks, however, that’s where I kept the important stuff. In the back, without fail, for as many years as I have proof (and probably for even longer than that), I have story ideas, song lyrics, character sketches, snippets of dialogue. I would sit in class, give a shit for as long as I could stand to give a shit, and then flip to the back where I would release that which had been at the fore all along. Thankfully the quality of the back-of-the-notebook material improved from Ms. Admire’s ELA class in my ninth-grade year to that which appeared in the back of Dr. Schultz’s 19<sup>th</sup> Century American Novel class as I was finishing up the course work for my (never completed) doctoral dissertation. But the general idea stayed the same: What I was supposed to care about up front; what I actually cared about in the back.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The only time this didn’t hold true was when I was at Carnegie Mellon, where I studied playwriting. During those two years, everything that mattered was up front. There was no back. Those were two good years, where people thought of me as a writer and where it was my job to write.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The problem is that they were only two years, and once I entered the workforce, the old habits re-emerged: crack a notebook from my five years on the job, and you’ll find meeting notes up front and a revised outline for Act I in the back. Right now—I shit you not—right at this very minute I am hunched over a cramped cubicle on my lunch break at a temp gig, writing in longhand on the back of an agenda from a meeting we had last week (Item 1: Training Update).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It doesn’t take a world-renowned guru to see that my life might possibly maybe lack congruence. Huh, do you think?</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8vFc-FjeXAo4WTj1sL8PMZLbiU9RTQZQ4UVjGhr7BNNfakL16f252qX-hV2lxIHC22sx8usz4rXRuWcg51lMblAUdFcfzUt3RVal7qmFD4uLAhy-iuzLbpimZG7cwK9edIM0lgdPoeA/s1600/promise+keepers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig8vFc-FjeXAo4WTj1sL8PMZLbiU9RTQZQ4UVjGhr7BNNfakL16f252qX-hV2lxIHC22sx8usz4rXRuWcg51lMblAUdFcfzUt3RVal7qmFD4uLAhy-iuzLbpimZG7cwK9edIM0lgdPoeA/s640/promise+keepers.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Get congruent, baby.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">“It’s easy for people to put things like this [deep-seated goals] off and get trapped into making a living rather than designing a life,” Robbins writes. And elsewhere: “A lot of very smart people spend their careers totally frustrated because they’re doing jobs that don’t make the best of their inherent capabilities.” I like “designing a life,” by the way. There’s poetry in it. The Avett Brothers express the same idea, if only a little more melodically: “Decide what to be, and go be it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know people who live like this. Ask them at a party what they do and they’ll tell you that they’re a painter, when in reality the only canvas they’re in charge of is an Excel spreadsheet. I’m an actor. Oh, yeah, what restaurant do you work at? That kind of thing. I know writers who think it’s appropriate to apply for a copyeditor position by submitting a resume that lists their recent workshop productions. They aspire to nothing more than temp work, just in case they have to attend an out-of-town tryout ahead of their Broadway premiere. Ride the Greenway, and every cyclists who buzzes by—“on your left, your left!”—is wearing a yellow jersey.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I admire the hell out of these people. I love them for the ego it takes to blindly deny reality and to instead embrace their self-created fantasy. I love too that they refuse to be defined by what they do. I wait tables. That does not make me a waiter. Talk to me at a party and, firstly, I’m going to lead with my passion, not my occupation, and, secondly, fuck you for trying to pigeonhole me anyway. They would scoff at Robbins and his ilk, but really they’re not so far removed from one another. Robbins would applaud their ability to control their own minds. He might even include their story in the next version of the book: <i>Unlimited Power 2: Electric Whoosh-a-loo</i>.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I wish to god I were more like these people. I wish to god if, when you asked me what I do, I didn’t avert my eyes and sheepishly say, “It’s really too boring to go into right now.” I wish you didn’t have to wait for some other subject to come up before somehow I eventually allowed, “Oh, yeah, writing. I mean, I dabble.” But I’m not wired that way. I don’t believe that things are true just because I really, really want them to be true. In fact, quite the opposite. On the rare occasion that I do actually let myself envision something good happening it’s almost guaranteed not to. The surest way for me to lose something I think I’ve got a shot at is for me to picture myself getting it. If I didn’t cleave them in two after reading the words “we’re sorry but,” rejection letters would be crippling: It’s not that you didn’t give it to me; it’s that in my head I already have it, and you’re taking it away.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">According to Robbins, this defeatist attitude means that I’m getting what I deserve. My life is a self-fulfilling prophecy: I refuse to envision the best; therefore, the best will never come. My Pulitzer is an elbow-patched Tweed jacket away, but I’m just too stupid to realize it. As is so often the case with this book, Robbins undoes a keen observation with a gross oversimplification. Being a writer or fulfilling any kind of professional goal is not the same as being a reality-tv star, not even if your professional goal is to be a reality-tv star. You don’t call yourself a writer and then start writing. You write. That’s it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Even if all too often it is relegated to the back of the agenda. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For now, anyway.</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-61703599873662196802011-05-23T21:42:00.002-04:002011-05-23T22:50:38.486-04:00My Hometown<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">It just doesn’t feel right to post about books on a day when my dad woke up with no roof. He and the rest of my immediate family live in </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Missouri</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, which was devastated by a tornado on Sunday evening. At the time that the tornado twisted its way through the town, I was at Sushi Yu on </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">181<sup>st</sup> Street</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, trying to explain to the woman behind the counter that I had only ordered one shrimp-tempura roll, not two. Jonah put his hand in the goldfish bowl. “Come on, buddy. You know better than that," I said.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">At that moment, my dad was huddled in a closet as the wind scattered his belongings across the rapidly disappearing neighborhood. “It was amazing, Kirb,” he said in a spotty cell-phone conversation much later that night. “One minute it was just raining, and the next thing I know, all of my windows are shattering. It sounded like lightning. I tried to open the garage door, but the wind was holding it shut, so I got into the closet.” Five minute later, he re-emerged and found that he was now a part of the sometimes-not-so-great outdoors. “That beautiful picture of my mom and dad,” he said. A gold chain on the kitchen counter remained exactly where he had left it. The hummingbird feeder in the backyard swayed in the wind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I had heard the news from my mom, who happened to be in </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">West Virginia</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> at the time and who had received a call from her brother, who lives in one of the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Carolinas</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">. “Looks like a tornado hit </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> pretty good,” he said. “Everyone OK?” Their mother, my grandmother, is in a nursing home there. “I don’t know,” she said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">In </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">New York</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, you live your whole life hoping to avoid the cover of the <i>Post</i>. In the </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Midwest</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, you don’t ever want to be the lead story on the Weather Channel. They were live, cars stacked on top of one another in the background, pyramid-style, like it was a piece of modern art. They were in front of </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">St. John’s</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> hospital, where we used to get chased by the security guards for skateboarding in their parking garage and where a patient was rumored to have been sucked right out of a window during the storm. As was true with most of the images I scrutinized online that night, I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at. Reference points had blown away. At </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">St. John’s</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, the windows all looked to be broken, giving some credence to the story about the patient being vacuumed out, and there seemed to be some smoke billowing from somewhere. In general, though, the pictures just failed to capture it. From one angle, Joplin High, where I went to school, didn’t seem so bad; from another, it was rubble.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">That the Weather Channel had descended spoke to the size of the story, but the real information was being disseminated on Facebook. With cell-phone reception knocked out in the immediate aftermath, Facebook was the most effective way to check on friends and family. I followed the unfolding narrative by feverishly refreshing my screen. “I’m OK but </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> is destroyed,” read one early post from a good friend. “Just visited </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">South Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">,” read another. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Ex-pats like myself urged family to check in when they could. I stayed up to date through a series of exchanges with my 14-year-old niece. “Dad is OK, but not sure about PaPa,” she said before we tracked him down and learned about his house. “Attention </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">,” announced one popular post, “Walking wounded go to Memorial Hall. Critically injured go to Freeman. Repost.” One friend admirably managed some humor from </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Lawrence</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">. “Glad your cutie patootie is still, um…alrigty-rooty,” read his message to another friend. Yet another friend in nearby </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Carthage</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> offered her house to people who needed a place to stay.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">A kind of roll call developed where people logged on if only long enough to let others know that they were OK. I kept a mental checklist and ticked off names when they called out their virtual number. As the night wore on, I noticed that an ex-girlfriend had remained silent. I had stayed in touch with her pretty well over the years but had no idea where she lived. She had recently moved to a new house and talked a lot about her garden. I checked her profile. There were a host of messages wishing her well. Her profile picture was of her and her son. For a split second, I imagined the worst. “Please don’t be dead in a tornado,” I said to no one in particular. Minutes later, a note appeared: “We are OK.” I went to bed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">As anyone who knows me even a little bit can attest, I have a love/hate relationship with </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">, which is to say that I love to hate it. My dad had moved us there from San Diego right before I started my freshman year of high school, so I resented it from the start and never really warmed up to it. Growing up, I had always thought of it as small, narrow-minded, and constricting, and, let’s be honest here, my feelings really haven’t changed all that much as I’ve gotten older. We all need something in our lives to push against—whether that something be a political party, a sports team, or a religion—and Joplin has served that role well for me throughout the years. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">But I do know a whole lot of people who have stayed in town most of their lives and who have flourished. They are lawyers and musicians and city employees who stayed and fought to build the community rather than tearing it down from afar. For all of the times that I have wished </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> ill—and, believe me, there have been plenty—it’s something else entirely when it actually happens. That’s where I crashed the junior prom with Tommy Walkinshaw and that’s where we met for drinks every single Friday night after work and that’s where I took my grandmother for a drive that one time. God damnit, like it or not, that’s my hometown. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">When I went to bed on Sunday night, the death toll was at 34. By Monday morning, it was 89. Jonah was setting the timer so I could play with him “for just five minutes, Daddy” before going to work. He wanted me to assemble his train tracks. Leu was awake but not yet out of bed. I poked my head in. “Death count is at 89,” I said. “Jesus,” she said. “I would not want to wake up in </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> this morning.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">I knew what she meant, yet somehow, for the first time in my adult life, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;">Joplin</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> was the one place that I wanted to be. </span></div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-13325741645810302762011-05-16T18:51:00.000-04:002011-05-16T18:51:55.252-04:00No Success Like Failure: UNLIMITED POWER, by Anthony Robbins (Part 4)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal">“W.I.T. – Whatever It Takes.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Growing up and well into (what passes as) my adult life, unemployment insurance fell in with things like Stepping on a Jellyfish and Abandoning Your Car by the Side of the Road under the general heading of “Things that I Will Never, Ever Have to Worry About,” aka, “Shit that Happens to Other People.” These weren’t even people that I knew. They were friends of friends. Or friends of friends of friends, or, even more removed, just things that I knew happened because I saw the proof, even if I was a long, long way from the actual event. A story about a girl who was at the ocean in Virginia, took an innocent enough step in knee-deep water, and the next thing she knows she’s on the beach with her foot the size of an eggplant. A car in the ditch on the way to Kansas City, a piece of cardboard in the back window: “Pink Floyd or bust!” Apparently they busted. This was unemployment to me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Disconcerting, how quickly we are all on the verge of becoming “other people.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Though I absolutely believe that the government has the responsibility to help its citizens when they can’t take care of themselves, I have always prided myself on being one of those people who can take care of himself. Leu and I have never borrowed money from our parents, though we certainly don’t decline it when they offer of their own accord (we’re proud, not stupid). We’ve bought (and sold) two houses, on the strength of our own savings and credit. We paid/are paying for our own education. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Point is, when my wife was laid off after taking her maternity leave, part of me hesitated to collect the unemployment that was available to her. Why do you need it, I thought though was smart enough not to say. You’ll have another job soon enough. Three years later, “soon enough” has yet to arrive, and who knows what kind of financial weight we would be under now if she had been unable to collect unemployment for the majority of that time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But even so, part of me justified it as a supplement. We weren’t really <i>living</i> off of it. We were living off of my modest paycheck by living even more modestly. I’ve long held that stay-at-home moms should receive some kind of payment for the mostly unacknowledged work that they do, so there it was, unemployment as a stipend for stay-at-home moms. Even the sum that she collected fit this idealistic view: $405 a week could hardly be expected to sustain you in Manhattan. It was walking-around money. Buy the kid something nice, and with what’s leftover, get a little something something for yourself, complete with a condescending nudge to the jaw.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then suddenly the jaw was mine, and it wasn’t a nudge but a full on punch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If I didn’t have a pregnant wife and a son, I doubt I would have collected. I would have been too prideful, too stubborn. But I do, so I did. And to my surprise, I learned that many of my friends did as well. Friends who I just assumed were independently wealthy or amassing huge amounts of debt had really been living off the state all this time. This realization made me wonder if I had been missing something all along. Here I had been the one pitying them and their unsuccessful search for work when really I was the one who deserved the pity. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Did you hear about Kirby?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, what?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“He’s got a job.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, man.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nine to six, everyday.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Everyday?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“That’s what I hear.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How awful.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I know.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How’s Leu holding up?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“She’s coping.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pOT058ZOqE12ZAYIE_-g2WSHyJofDecU3-YNJZoxEGZt6yfxebxmaofkOLZjRBBVUFifjwjAatvgES1HgNZIaSdgiDUG9gJar4w4GQG2RfhjBLlPMfSmOQA53kVPsyarpxcl4wL0F54/s1600/great-depression-unemployment-line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7pOT058ZOqE12ZAYIE_-g2WSHyJofDecU3-YNJZoxEGZt6yfxebxmaofkOLZjRBBVUFifjwjAatvgES1HgNZIaSdgiDUG9gJar4w4GQG2RfhjBLlPMfSmOQA53kVPsyarpxcl4wL0F54/s640/great-depression-unemployment-line.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You rarely see sushi lines for the unemployed, but that's because nowadays we just order in.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]-->When I started collecting, I felt like I had joined a secret club. My friends and I would eat sushi and discuss whether we qualified for Tier 1, Tier 2, or Tier 3. Until then, I never realized that the unemployed even ate sushi. I thought their diet was restricted to the odd tire or shoe.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Claiming your weekly benefits is hardly the bureaucratic hell that I envisioned it to be. You can do so online, which, I’m sure, goes a long way toward erasing the stigma. You just have to answer a few questions, though some of them do get surprisingly personal.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The questions for the great state of New York are as follows:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">During the week ending XX/XX/XXXX, did you refuse any job offer or referral?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How many days did you work, including self-employment, during the week ending XX/XX/XXXX?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Excluding earnings from self-employment, did you earn more than $405?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How many days were you NOT ready, willing, and able to work?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How many days were you owed vacation pay or did you receive vacation pay?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How many days were you owed holiday pay or did you receive holiday pay?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Have you returned to work full time?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At what point did you know it was just a matter of time?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How long did you feel like you were faking it?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How many of your friends have consoled you with the “things happen for a reason” defense?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of these friends, how many did you want to hit right in the fucking face, hard, like with a tire iron?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(circle one) This really was/was not the job for me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(circle one) Your résumé is over/under five years old?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Are you getting too old for this kind of shit?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you ever expect to actually retire?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Really? I mean, come on….</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Those commercials with the talking heads that are all animated like from <i>Waking Life</i>, how much of those commercials do you actually understand?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How much do you believe those commercials apply to you and yours?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you have any idea what COBRA costs for a family of four?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What is a 401K?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What is a Roth IRA?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh my god. You really are pathetic, aren’t you?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How seriously are you considering leaving the city?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How far would you have to fall to move back in with your parents?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How much farther, I mean?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Which is more important: making money or knowing that your children respect what you do?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(fill in the blank) My dream job is _______________.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(circle one) I do/do not expect to realize this dream.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(circle one) I’m giving myself more/less than five years before I chuck it all and settle for a life that I really don’t want.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">(circle one) More/less than three?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Yes or no: I’m ready to chuck it all right now.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On the night that you were let go, how long did you stand outside the door of your apartment and gather yourself before facing your wife and son?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do you prefer lying on your back with your pillow over your head or on your side with your legs curled in the fetal position when you lock yourself in the bedroom and stifle sobs?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Is it true that your wife said Don’t jump off the bridge when you told her you were going for a walk?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s your porn-to-job-hunting ratio? Two to one? Three? Don’t tell me it’s four! (For research purposes only, which site do you prefer? The place I usually go is getting a little stale.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Do your parents know?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If yes, at what point during the ensuing lecture did you put the phone down and just walk away, man, just walk away?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">If no, what’s the matter with you, you ungrateful son?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Are you finally willing to admit that your dad was right all along?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When you tell people that you are no longer working, do you say that you were let go, laid off, or fired? Were you axed, canned, or given the ol’ heave ho? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And, finally, please feel free to use the back of this sheet, if necessary: Do you have any plans for the future? Any plans at all?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My friend Jim says it used to be a lot worse. He says you used to have answer in person.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Ba-dum-pa!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhniGmGT_Oxbac651RF_AirlBfiDE7nkHfbyU6fUMVd5csXHX4deXLHi3TNbkmfXLPF7MZXgOZVK-sTbb6RE4rX32FcNgfl-gHtkzS45r1eUr8KvEq5-vmbV5OafrLKILeMVR7gDEg7ZLM/s1600/fort_tryon_park_600x.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhniGmGT_Oxbac651RF_AirlBfiDE7nkHfbyU6fUMVd5csXHX4deXLHi3TNbkmfXLPF7MZXgOZVK-sTbb6RE4rX32FcNgfl-gHtkzS45r1eUr8KvEq5-vmbV5OafrLKILeMVR7gDEg7ZLM/s640/fort_tryon_park_600x.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Tuesdays and Thursdays, I would sit here for as long as I wanted.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“[u]ncanny ability to focus on what is useful in a situation”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A day in the life of an unemployed man:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On Tuesday and Thursdays I drop the boy off at day care while Leuinda substitute teaches, which means I wake up at 7:00, hit “snooze” until 7:15, then drag myself to the coffee. I open the door to Jonah’s room while I pat about the apartment in the hopes that the creaking floors will wake him up without me having to do so. I get as much done as possible before he awakes: dress, teeth, bag for Nana G’s, unfold the stroller. Eventually he calls “D-a-a-a-d-d-d-e-e-e-e,” and I go in. What’s up, buddy? Where’s Mommy? She’s at work. He doesn’t know what to do with this information. He’s not a bad riser, but he doesn’t really wake up until he’s been out of bed for 15 minutes. I carry him, blanket and all, to the couch where he rests against my chest and watches <i>Sesame Street</i>. When he says, “I want juice, Daddy,” I know he’s ready to go.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I sit him at his little table in the chair that Nana got him (“Nana” my mom, not “Nana G” of the day care). I bring him a banana. We peel it together. Look, Daddy, there’s stripes on it. Do you want Cheerios or Rice Krispies? I want Puffins. We don’t have Puffins. Cheerios or Rice Krispies? Rice Krispies. I sit next to him on the floor and spoon cereal into his mouth while he watches <i>Curious George</i>. We’ve started buying the generic brand, but they still snap, crackle, and pop, if not quite as vigorously.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We hurry and get dressed between ten-minute episodes of <i>George</i>, so when 8:26 hits we can get right in the stroller. Day care is new enough that he still fights it, so much of the bundled trip on cold mornings consists of preemptively massaging the day. Are you going to see Gage and Oliva at Nana G’s? Do you think you’ll go to the park today? One way we’ve softened the experience is by bringing him treats when we pick him up, so we talk about whether he wants a red apple, a green apple, or an orange. I confirm the choice no fewer than five times. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s OK until we get there, but when we knock on the door he clings to me like a vine to a tree. I have to pry him off, gently, telling myself that it’s the right thing to do and then confirming by peeking through the window on my way out. He’s showing a car to a little friend. He’s fine. Better than me, actually.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walk to the deli across the street and buy a cup of coffee. They fill my travel mug for a dollar. It’s a good deal, much better than at the Starbuck’s across the street, where they don’t even give you a discount. It’s cold outside. Frigid. But still, I walk up Cabrini to Fort Tryon Park. It’s always pretty up there, but especially so when it snows. The wind bites my cheeks, but I kind of like it in the way that I would like the burn of aftershave lotion if I wore aftershave lotion. I sit on a bench and listen to a podcast. I watch the tugboats push the barges up the Hudson. This is the new image I go to when I can’t fall asleep: a tugboat pushing a barge up the Hudson. It used to be a pitcher warming up in the bullpen. I worry that with my headphones on I am vulnerable to attackers, but then I realize that I would see his shadow creeping up on me, and I feel better.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When I feel like it, I leave. I take the long way home, back behind the Cloisters and down the hill. I skirt Broadway by staying in the park. I consider all of the people who have jobs: the bus drivers, the woman trimming the dead branches from the tree, the clerks at the bodegas. There was a terrible snowstorm recently—one of the worst on record—and there are hordes of people shoveling, like they’re on a chain gang. They all have jobs. I go to the store and pick up stuff for dinner, Jonah’s apple/apple/orange. The guy stocking the shelves, the woman at the register, the manager with the keys? Job, job, job. Suckers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0FrpjNek0e99NEm2qo7cPp9WSa0Gsn4CrBVaKLlRfAiCYr4OHHH6LNxa6nxiz5jE6ZdBx02pb9LJURdx1EQf7bje8Zf4oi2Sy9SWMrXvr93nYsPrqE68UwzgNZB95oz7qzI0udx0cKg/s1600/sweeping_man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY0FrpjNek0e99NEm2qo7cPp9WSa0Gsn4CrBVaKLlRfAiCYr4OHHH6LNxa6nxiz5jE6ZdBx02pb9LJURdx1EQf7bje8Zf4oi2Sy9SWMrXvr93nYsPrqE68UwzgNZB95oz7qzI0udx0cKg/s640/sweeping_man.jpg" width="489" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This guy has a job.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="http://img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>
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</style> <![endif]--> I get home around 11:00. I fire up the computer, search for job listings. There are very few and those that are there are shit. At first I was energized by all of the opportunities, but I quickly learned that the same posts are there every day. I wonder if anyone is actually manning them. I send a few follow-up emails, hope that a friend suddenly has an opening where she works so I can just slide right in and thus bypass the actual application process. Nothing yet.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I read. I watch some TV. I write. I’m thinking of starting this blog thing, so I jot down some books that might be interesting to read and write about. Tony Robbins didn’t even make the first cut. I heat up a frozen pizza, some leftovers. I’m always surprised by how fast the afternoon passes. At three o’clock I select an album from my iPod—I’m on a Smiths kick of late, because of their edge, not their mope—and leave for a short walk before picking up Jonah at 4:00. We play Pick-a-Hand for his treat. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When Mommy gets home I retire to the kitchen to give them some quality time together. She was told by her doctor to eat more red meat, so I prepare steak or my spaghetti sauce with my mom’s secret ingredient (olive juice). We have a family dinner, go through the bath/books/bed routine.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">After he’s down, Leu and I watch an episode of <i>Friday Night Lights</i> on DVD, pass a quart of ice cream back and forth like we’re getting over a break-up. I ask how the baby is doing. She says Fine. I ask how she’s feeling. She says Ugh. I put my head in her lap, my hand on her belly, try not to worry.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Monday, Wednesdays, and Fridays are actually better, because I get Jonah for the whole day. On nice days we go to Central Park; on not-so-nice days we go to an indoor playground in our neighborhood called Wiggles & Giggles, only Jonah calls it Wiggles & Giggles & Giggles. We enjoy lazy mornings. He bosses me around. We have lunch together, he inevitably preferring what is on my plate to what is on his.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The best part, though, is nap time. I had feared nap time when I first knew I would be home alone with him during the day, because historically his mother was the one who could get him down, mid-day. But after a rough afternoon or two, we settle into a routine: I read him books in the rocking chair, then position him across my lap with his cheek to my shoulder. He squirms a little, but I hold him tight. I sing him songs—“My Name Is Mikey” or “Bushel and a Peck” or “Tender,” by Blur—and 20 minutes later we are both asleep.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My nodding head wakes me. I carry him to the crib like Swamp Thing brings the woman out from the lake. I put him down gently enough to avoid waking him—a skill I thought I’d never possess—marvel at how long his legs are getting, walk lightly out of the room, take a final peek, smile, and close the door.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I feel a little guilty, Leu having to work on these days, but I won’t lie: I love it. I love being unemployed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One way that Robbins measures success is that he asks his readers to contemplate their ideal day: “What people would be involved? What would you do? How would it begin? Where would you go? Where would you be?” The idea being that the person who controls his day controls his life. Robbins is on to something here, but I liked it better when Bob Dylan said it. “A man is a success,” he said, “if he gets up in the morning and goes to bed at night and in between does what he wants to do.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Of course, he also said that “there’s no success like failure, and that failure is no success at all.” <span> </span></div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-72132082821505691002011-05-14T00:31:00.001-04:002011-05-14T00:32:09.587-04:00"Thou poisonous slave!"First of all, we were easily the worst group. As I recall, there was a team of at least a dozen people that spliced together all of the death scenes from the tragedies (as opposed to all of those death scenes from the comedies) and did a really slick and funny performance. My favorite was a group of guys who did a drinking scene from something--Henry IV seems right, but I really don't remember exactly--complete with those steins that you walk around with at the Renaissance Festival. One of the guys--a wildly talented artist--even created special T-shirts for the event that really stole the show.<br />
<br />
These types of things weren't so unusual around the office, taking an hour out of the work day to celebrate Shakespeare's birthday. As one colleague put it, she knew exactly how dorky an office we worked at when there were competing Pi Day festivities. I didn't even know what Pi Day was until I started working there. (What is it, you ask? Why, it's March 14th, of course.)<br />
<br />
In any case, we were going to do a Beatrice and Benedict scene from Much Ado, but they were a couple so that felt wrong. When we landed on The Tempest and she saw just how mean Prospero was to Caliban, she got a little too excited, if you ask me. I reminded her that Prospero was the *king* and that there was no queen. She didn't care. All of those "props" were gathered from various desks right before we started.<br />
<br />
I remember huddling by the copy machine and going over my lines. I was actually nervous.<br />
<br />
Somehow we won the prize for "Best Duo," probably because we were the only duo. We were presented with paper certificates signifying our honor. It was one of the only things I kept when I left.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5OGyw-1bKO1EuOqVn8alCyQJl-xeBlz2DgdTSWfeAce7CdNba0ypCcS0Hh8TyLr0-oVK6UtxBy758kEf1SoMhCKMEox_7qSphWXvQ7nS17jeQkhNz1htvjQQ3cnR1E6L1SpZzQaISago/s1600/IMG_0507.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5OGyw-1bKO1EuOqVn8alCyQJl-xeBlz2DgdTSWfeAce7CdNba0ypCcS0Hh8TyLr0-oVK6UtxBy758kEf1SoMhCKMEox_7qSphWXvQ7nS17jeQkhNz1htvjQQ3cnR1E6L1SpZzQaISago/s640/IMG_0507.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr align="left"><td class="tr-caption">She's saying, "To-night thou shalt have craps, side-stitches that shall pen they breath up, [and] be pinched as thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging than the bees that made 'em." And she's loving it.<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvHqbMTTri15Dh9Ej4bkhDCaNY6fpMwz4oy1CMzxCDuzFxzpd-jwWfrJlSzhU1DFyUwbqHDM4pW_pDyIkI2YIdqj5pnWzMfIckeOumU-6LvXGyvLawd9PfhI-4BucJTGKmthctClrnmc/s1600/IMG_0510.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvHqbMTTri15Dh9Ej4bkhDCaNY6fpMwz4oy1CMzxCDuzFxzpd-jwWfrJlSzhU1DFyUwbqHDM4pW_pDyIkI2YIdqj5pnWzMfIckeOumU-6LvXGyvLawd9PfhI-4BucJTGKmthctClrnmc/s640/IMG_0510.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We're almost certainly arguing about capitalization.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-55571865707280088942011-05-09T22:31:00.002-04:002011-05-10T01:40:17.205-04:00No Success Like Failure: UNLIMITED POWER, by Anthony Robbins (Part 3)<div class="MsoNormal">“Hard, sharp…smooth, flexible…stiff.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The natural extension of controlling your own mind is bending the world to your will, for what is the world independent of your perception of it? If I’m sick, but I tell my mind that I am not, and my mind listens, then I am well. Mind 1, Reality 0. At least that would be the score if Robbins believed in reality. Instead, a more accurate tally might simply be Mind 1, or Mind Won. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite the ease with which a number of Robbins’ observations can be ridiculed, he does occasionally hit on a point that smacks of truth and, dare I say it, profundity. Take, for example, a line like “Nothing has any meaning except the meaning you give it,” which, if you presented to me divorced from its speaker—say, as a bumper sticker or beneath the signature on an email—I would have a hard time arguing against and might even stop a moment to consider its depth. I do believe that much of life is perception and that success and failure hinges on choices we make when opportunities emerge, opportunities that are, more often than not, of our own making. I draw a line at being able to “pop” into and out of clinical depression, and, indeed, I wonder if 25 years down the road Robbins might want to rethink that one, in the same way that he might want to rethink including the promise by a couple of overly ambitious entrepreneurs that air travel from New York to California will take 12 minutes by 1996. History has proven that goal to be preposterous, and, even with the allowance that hindsight is 20-20 and all that, I have a hard time believing that it was ever really seriously on the table. However, this represents exactly the kind of big-idea thinking that Robbins champions (or at least the kind of thinking that he wants to steal), and, in fairness, I am loathe to mock someone for having a dream, even if it is stupid.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">Where Robbins loses me is in his notion that bending the world to his will means that the world exists to serve him. This isn’t making lemonade out of lemons. This is demanding that the lemonade be made for you. Oh, sure, he makes some noise about ensuring the purity of your motives—“It goes without saying you do whatever it takes to succeed without harming another person,” he says in a footnote, though, apparently given Robbins’ audience, it had to be said—and he includes someone else’s recommendation (of course) about what percentage of your earnings should be earmarked for charity, but this emphasis on good deeds appears near the end of the book, long after everyone is done reading, and, in any case, the idea is to give because it will come back to you, which is really just giving to get, which is no kind of giving at all. His argument in favor of vegetarianism fascinates because he focuses exclusively on what it can do for him and fails to mention any environmental concerns or the inhumane treatment of animals, which—I don’t think I’m going out on a limb here—tops the list of why most people who don’t eat meat don’t eat meat.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I read, I kept wondering, “If everyone in the world adhered to this way of thinking, would the world be a better place?” The answer is that, no, it would not, because the philosophy expressed is, at its core, selfish, and, though Robbins cautions against letting your drive hurt others, I bet he allows for different gradations of “hurt.” What happens when my world bumps up against his? Since everything is created, accidents don’t exist, so any offense has a very specific agent if one requires retribution (or at least if one <i>perceives</i> he requires retribution, which, according to Robbins, is all that really matters).</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Failures are to be celebrated, because we should reward the person who ventured to take a chance. Robbins lists Great Men (and, yes, they are all men) failing and failing and failing again, the most famous failure being Abraham Lincoln who faced defeat repeatedly before finally breaking through and ascending to the presidency (and how’d that work out, huh?).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But what if your failures belong to somebody else? What if, say—oh, hypothetically— you and a number of people that you care about deeply all lost your jobs because of the whim of others?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know how Robbins would accommodate such an event—recast it as an opportunity, focus on what you can achieve with all of that found time, things happen for a reason and all of that fucking shit—but I find it unacceptable to advance a worldview that denies the reality of the situation and that refuses to admit that some things are beyond our control.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“If you don’t believe that you’re creating your world, whether it be your successes or your failures, then you’re at the mercy of circumstances,” Robbins writes. “Things just happen to you. You’re an object, not a subject. Let me tell you, if I had that belief, I’d check out now and look for another culture, another world, another planet. Why be here if you’re just the product of random outside forces?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Check out now”? You’ve got to hand it to the guy: Not many motivational speakers recommend suicide. The dead can’t attend refresher classes. The truth is that I know a whole bunch of people who would be on another plant right now, to steal Robbins’ phrase (see, I’m learning), if they actually adhered to this belief. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swear to god, I had no idea.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal">I worked for a company that was part of another company that was owned by a parent company, though the term “parent company” has never sat well with me because any parent who treats his children like most parent companies treat their offspring would expect a visit from the Department of Family Services. Come to think of it, that’s not a half-bad idea: A DFS for negligent parent companies.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Honestly, I was never sure just how far we were removed from the parent company. Mom and Dad seemed to be working through some issues, and we were caught in the middle like a summer house. Every six months or so someone would subject me to a new org chart, but it took longer than I care to admit to realize that “org” mean “organization,” which gives you an idea of what those charts meant to me. Speaking from the kids’ point of view, I rarely felt supported, let alone loved, by our alleged progenitors and instead felt akin to a foster child, a charity case that seemed like a good idea at the time but that had long ago been cropped out of the picture that graced the front of the Christmas card. This image of a modified holiday photo is actually more apropos than you might think, as, near the end that we didn’t yet recognize as the end, our little piece of the company was told to scrap our own holiday party and instead to crash the party that was being hosted by another branch of the company. I say “little,” but we’re talking 160 employees here, which made it all the more humbling when the larger group at the party that night absorbed us all and still I hardly recognized a soul. You think you matter, that you’re part of something, and then one day you realize that you don’t, you’re not. Talk about a charity case.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Not that any of the dysfunction at the top influenced our day to day. Our job was to create educational-resource books, and we did just that with passion, enthusiasm, and care. We were a young group, so details like whether page ranges should be separated with an en dash or a hyphen or whether the “f” in “F/ferris wheel” should be capitalized still mattered. Manuscripts would move from the writers to the editors to the proofreaders, and after each step of the process they would come back lousy with queries, each member of the team doing everything he or she could to make the book as sound as possible. One woman was so proud of her first project that she inscribed it with a note in her native Indian dialect and presented it to her parents.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There was some turmoil. For whatever reason the turnover rate was exceedingly high, which meant that people were forever shifting jobs to fill open roles (I didn’t once begin and end a calendar year in the same position during my five-year tenure), and one ominous December a restructuring cost a number of people their jobs. But even that was communicated as a kind of correction, a necessary cutting of dead weight in order to avoid sinking and to ensure that it would be smooth sailing from there on out. (Sorry, Dead Weight. Their line, not mine.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truth is that the only money we had in the first place was because of President Bush’s No Child Left Behind Policy, which flooded the states with money to spend on test-prep materials. When the president left office, so did our livelihood. At meeting after meeting, we would ask, What does the new administration mean for us? What are we making now? Who’s going to buy it? With what money? Everyday the news reported more jobs lost, more cities struggling. So? we said. We’re still trying to parse that out, they replied. Well, consider it parsed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The irony was rich: Not only did we not support the Bush administration, but we were outright hostile toward it. The greatest day any of us had ever had at work was when we circulated a clip from <i>The Daily Show </i>the day after Vice President Cheney shot that guy in the face. We openly howled. Just goes to show what an idiot he is. What idiots they all are. Oh my god. Can you believe it? Actually, I kind of can. Our only regret was that the guy didn’t die. That would have really put Cheney in a bind. Not a single one of us would have walked across the street to shake President Bush’s hand let alone vote for the man, yet the policies of his bumbling administration were inextricably linked to our lives. We never would have admitted it, but he was good for us.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Like him or not--and none of us did--his fate was entwined with ours.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">A year after we cut all of that dead weight in a last-ditch effort to stay afloat, the whole outfit sank all the way to the bottom. They called a special meeting on the first Tuesday in January, herded us all into a single room so they only had to bloody one blade, and then some man none of us had ever seen before told us we no longer had jobs. There were few questions. A packet we were supposed to receive later in the week promised all of the answers anyway. As the guy was still talking, I remember thinking, What am I supposed to do tomorrow? And then immediately after, When did I forget how to spend a free day?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A friend was on vacation at the time. His wife saw my Facebook status when they landed nearly a week after her husband had been let go. They had been incommunicado in the interim. “A stiff drink at the end of a bad week,” the status said. “Uh-oh,” she thought. Another friend was due to deliver her first baby at the end of February, right when her company-supplemented insurance would have been discontinued. She ended up having the baby the day before she lost her coverage. My wife and I had been trying to have a second kid at the time. I acted cool when I got home from work that day, let her attend her yoga class in peace while I watched the boy. After she got home, I said, Honey, we should talk. We decided to stop trying until things got more stable.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The strangest part of the whole ordeal was that we were told in January that we were being terminated, but our last day wasn’t until mid-February. The house was shuttered, in effect, though we continued living there. This made for a strange five weeks, in which we put a bow on projects we were looking to sell and attended company-sponsored resume-building seminars that more often than not deteriorated into group-wide bitch sessions, our growing disdain for the leadership—who had abandoned their offices with suspicious haste, by the way: just how long had they known?—was scarcely defused by discussions about how to stick a 30-second interview, just in case you’re asked to interview between floors on an elevator.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For my part, I used these five weeks to explore other options in the company. I know, I know. To return to the sinking-ship metaphor: I decided to move to a spot that was dry for now, which didn’t mean that I wouldn’t eventually be scooping out water by the bucketful again. (To our references to <i>Never Been Kissed</i>, <i>Office Space</i>, <i>Seinfeld</i>, and <i>Friends</i> let’s go ahead and add “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” shall we?) As much as I like to think of myself as an adaptive, freewheeling spirit, I am really a creature of habit, so much so that I find great comfort in taking the same train to the same part of town and buying grapes from the same street vendor each and every business day. Plus, I have this naïve idea that as much as an employer invests in an employee, the employee also invests in the employer. A symbiotic relationship exists between the two: you give me wages, benefits, and the security that enables me to build a life, and I’ll give you my best for a full third of my life as we work together to realize our shared goals. Does that sound so ridiculous? (Don’t answer that.) I won’t go so far as to say that I owed the company anything, but I will say that building on the foundation of four years seemed like a smarter move than starting over from day one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rodent in the hat? That was me.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal">So, much to my muted glee, I landed another job within the company. Five times more responsibility at the same wage. Didn’t matter. I bought a good bottle of whiskey on the way home that night. Let’s celebrate. Vacation days and insurance for everyone! Best of all, we can start thinking again about expanding our family again. I had survived. My belief that pleasant, respectful, hard-working employees would be rewarded in the end had been tested, and it had passed. No matter what happened, I would always have a place.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Back at the office, however, I stayed quiet about my good fortune until the last week when I started slowly disseminating the information like I was a politician sending up test balloons. I was one of the few people company-wide who was staying. None of the people with whom I had worked on a daily basis for half a decade had found anything, either within the company or elsewhere. This was the height of the recession. There wasn’t anything out there. I mean, like, nothing. They had wives and kids too, ideas about how their lives were supposed to proceed. Nonetheless, they greeted my news with enthusiasm. Hey man, that’s great. Congratulations. Right on. Things were so bad that good news for one meant good news for all. At least one of us is going to be OK. Take solace in that, anyway. Despite their kind words, I had a hard time seeing it that way. In my mind, they seethed at me. Motherfucking traitor. Of course he’s staying. Brownnoser like that, what else is he going to do? I hope he’s damned to middle management for all time.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We were supposed to get drinks on the last day, but everyone was too depressed to do anything other than go home and be by themselves. By this point, mine was the only desk that wasn’t cleared off, the one house on the block that hadn’t been leveled by the tornado. People brought me offerings: a pig fashioned out of a corkscrew and pushpins; a handwritten note that said “a shy, stuttering man playing Bingo”; a pencil drawing of an executive meeting in which one of the participants had pulled a gun, another of the men sitting at the table saying, “What the shit, Dave?” I thanked them, shook hands, offered and received hugs. One by one, they would say their goodbyes and then disappear down the hall, a third crying, a third cursing, and a third clicking their heels.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Eventually, just I and the woman who had inscribed the book for her parents remained. We had built something like an actual friendship over the years. Ours was a relationship that was based on antagonizing one another. We teased and mocked and when one of us made the rare error or misjudgment the other would make sure it became part of the permanent record, which is why once a day I would ask her why, six months earlier, she had told a member of my staff to transcribe Genesis word for word. Do you know how many rules you’re violating, I would say. Kirby! She would respond, and she’d tighten her fists and jut out her chin and bug out her eyes in faux hatred. When she played Prospero to my Caliban during some festivities celebrating Shakespeare’s birthday, everyone screamed with laughter. “Abhored slave!” she bellowed. I cowered. “Oh my god,” everyone said. “That’s how you two treat each other in real life.” Deep down, of course, we respected the hell out of each other. We once argued fiercely about the correct capitalization of “double Dutch.” She claimed that only the “d” in “Dutch” should be capitalized, but I told her that the dictionary had “double” up as well. “In all of my books at home, I’ve never seen ‘double’ capitalized,” she raged. “Just how many books do you have on the subject?” I asked. I would attend her wedding later that spring. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In the end, it was jut the two of us on our last day. On her last day, I should say. “Well,” she said, and gave me a hug. I watched the last of my colleagues walk out the door.</div><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never what you want to see.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">My wife says that I have a kind of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder stemming from the events that started on the first Tuesday of the New Year and ended shortly after President’s Day. I don’t want to overstate the situation, but I have a hard time denying something close to survivor’s guilt anyway, if not exactly PTSD. I’m hardly Oskar Schindler saying This watch, this watch, but there was a sense that I should have gone with them, if only out of a solidarity. “Family” is a little strong, but “team” captures it well, and teams win or lose together. I was winning, though it somehow felt like a loss. And, besides, the person who stayed behind was a husk of his former self. I needed a new ID, but I got it into my head that if I asked for one they were going to let me go. I kept quiet in meetings, when I knew I should have spoken up, made promises that were impossible to keep. I thought, If I keep my head down, say yes when asked, they won’t know enough to let me go. It was a classic case of an athlete playing not to lose rather than playing to win. We were moving from our downtown office to an office in Soho. I had started at the company before we moved to the downtown locale. I was one of the few who had been there the entire time. Despite all that had happened, I felt secure there. The impending move worried me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was convinced that that they weren’t going to move anyone just to let them go. Surely they wouldn’t make the financial and logistical investment just to cut ties at the new digs. Surely they wouldn’t lead you on like that. I would surreptitiously ask where I was going to sit at the new place. Before a seating chart became available, I was just sure I wasn’t going to be on there. Kirby, we’ve got some bad news. I was going to swipe my badge and be denied. Please see the building manager. My wife was pregnant. She liked her doctor. The doctor had delivered our first baby, which had been a challenging birth. I felt comfortable calling in when the boy was sick. I had accrued 20 days off. Twenty. One morning, the seating chart appeared on the wall. There I was, right with the rest of the team. Proof. Hard evidence that they were counting on me at the new place. I was a member of the team. A new team, yes, but a team, regardless. Everything checked out, but, still, something felt wrong. My grandfather lived all 82 years of his life in West Virginia. After he moved to Missouri, he was dead in two weeks.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I lasted three in Soho.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know what Robbins would say about all of this. “You created this show you call unemployment.” Really, you can just plug in one perceived weakness for another: You created this show you call depression, unemployment, addiction, stagnation, your life. “If you believe that you’re the ball on the tether, waiting for someone to hit it, that’s how you’ll behave,” he writes. “If you believe that you’re in control, that you can change your patterns, you’ll be able to.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It’s as simple as that. Only it’s not.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Alone on the 22<sup>nd</sup> floor, after my sparring partner had left, I surveyed the ruins. Another branch of the company would move in soon. I would move to another side of the building and never pass that cluster of desks without a wave of nostalgia overtaking me on good days, a wave of sorrow on bad. Weeks before the axe fell, a woman from HR called and said, Hey, how many desks you all have down there? A project we had been developing all year was put on indefinite hold. They took an inventory of every computer in the building. Rumors swirled that our budget hadn’t been approved for the following year. Omar coming, Omar coming. A friend and I requested a meeting with our supervisor. No one said “boss” anymore. It was “supervisor” now. What’s going on, we asked. What do you mean, she said. We told her what we knew, pieced the puzzle together. The imagination you have, she said. You should really write a book.</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-59591554789606426372011-05-02T22:48:00.002-04:002011-05-10T01:41:18.891-04:00No Success Like Failure: UNLIMITED POWER, by Anthony Robbins (Part 2)<div class="MsoNormal">“You are not your behavior.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first term that swept across the 22<sup>nd</sup> floor like a bad cold was “efficient.” Granted, “efficient” is a common enough word, especially in a corporate environment, but one day it started cropping up as if it had been planted in everyone’s dreams the night before. It was like that scene in <i>Never Been Kissed</i> in which the cool kid decides that “rufus” is the new hip term and then later a group of students bounce down the steps and one says to the other, “It’s going to be so rufus.” It was exactly like that. “We need to start brainstorming ways that our department can be more efficient,” my manager said one morning, innocently enough. Then, various people in meetings throughout the week: “Does anyone have a more efficient solution?” or “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I’m just trying to take care of the situation as efficiently as possible” or “It’s not a question of resources; it’s a question of efficiency.” I swear that someone on high decided that bonuses would be tied to the number of times management could use the word “efficient” throughout the day. “Efficient”’s crowning achievement occurred when an “efficiency expert” was summoned to analyze all of our processes. This was more <i>Office Space</i> than <i>Never Been Kissed</i>, only without the laughs. Ten months later, a whole bunch of people lost their jobs in what would become known as the First Wave of Layoffs. Efficiency, 1; employees, 0.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next word that suddenly found itself en vogue was “robust.” This was a significantly more jarring term to encounter in meetings because I had previously only heard it used to refer to wines, and, despite the excellent wine shop only a block away, we rarely discussed bouquets. Instead, our use of “robust” preceded “programs,” “instruction,” or “training.” We had “robust books,” “robust supplements.” We were running a “robust organization.” A friend and I made a game of it. “That’s a pretty robust sandwich you got there.” “I got it across the street, that guy with the robust cart.” The funny thing is that we all used the word correctly—everything from a lesson plan to a ham-n-cheese could be sturdily constructed—so it wasn’t a question of us trying to appear smarter than we actually were. We were as smart as we thought we were, which was pretty smart. The problem was that “robust” just looked so out of place next to the more standard modifiers like “leveled” or “grade-appropriate.” It just felt wrong, even if it was technically right. My job at the time included editing copy that regularly made the case for our robust-ness. I would always leave a note next to “robust” that said, “Are you sure this is the term you want to use?” My queries were never answered.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The final term that the Corporate Gods anointed was “execute against,” as in “If we staff up, we could execute against the first 30 items by the end of the week.” The first time I heard this phrase I thought I had blacked out and woke up in a conversation about death metal. “Live Tonight, One Nite Only: Cannibal Corpse, Septic Flesh, and Execute Against.” I was diligently taking notes, and this combination of words caught me so off guard that I didn’t even know what to write.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Excuse me,” I said to my manger, this manager three removed from the one who took the efficiency memo to heart. “What did you say?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I said if we staff up we could execute against the first 30—.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What does that mean?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What does what mean?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“‘Execute against.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It means ‘complete.’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Nothing.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I appreciate the need for idiosyncrasies of language for given populations. Baseball wouldn’t quite be baseball without the fifty different ways to say “homerun,” each more colorful than the one before. I appreciate too that disciplines require you to demonstrate mastery of their vocabulary before they truly welcome you among their ranks. In such instances, the language functions as a kind of verbal uniform, the words serving in the same way that a tie or a paper hat serves, which is to say as a reminder of who and where you are. I suspect I would have a difficult time keeping up with the lingo if I were to sit in on a meeting of stone masons or air-traffic controllers. And there is an undeniable charm in one who is able to drop “We’re here to drill down to a granular level, but first let me tee it up for you” with the deftness of one plucking a tune on a 12-string guitar.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But too often I find that the language is used in such a way that saps it of its would-be charm. Not that it’s called the “Wharton School of Charm,” I realize, but still. In <i>The Big Short</i>, Michael Lewis notes that Wall Street calls overpriced bonds “rich” rather than “expensive,” and that the bottom floor (or “tranche”) of the riskiest bonds are called “mezzanines” rather than something that doesn’t sound like a desirable section at a sporting event. The idea, obviously, is that “Bond market terminology was designed less to convey meaning than to bewilder outsiders.” Something close to this was going on in the office. Language as a game, only the game felt an awful lot like Keep Away for those of us who resisted playing by rules that we found silly. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One problem was that the game itself trumped the quality of the player. What matters was not that you were able (or even competent). What matters is that you sounded like you were. The other problem: Did I really want to play in the first place?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What does that mean?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What does what mean?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“‘Execute against?’”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“It means ‘complete.’” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Then why don’t you just fucking say so?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0hoKMy9R0rh0apFQvaOAJUKWbek6Mek3R_W7oD3F9zqadvBFWhC22S5a2VvTJIPEtg8uNOOeXqxyRh3W-09mesuK1q2A1VgWgaR7YXN2NkMFfqGYVAgKma87sx1U3A4LqSV9ew165u0/s1600/judge+rheinhold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw0hoKMy9R0rh0apFQvaOAJUKWbek6Mek3R_W7oD3F9zqadvBFWhC22S5a2VvTJIPEtg8uNOOeXqxyRh3W-09mesuK1q2A1VgWgaR7YXN2NkMFfqGYVAgKma87sx1U3A4LqSV9ew165u0/s640/judge+rheinhold.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How corporate speak makes us feel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Kentucky Fried Chicken.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Robbins’ key to world domination can be summed up in one word: “Steal.” Find someone whose life you admire—popular choices in 1986 included Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, and Steven Spielberg—and steal everything you possible can about them: their drive, their vision, their posture, the way they think, the way they speak, walk, breathe (yes, breathe: every gazillionaire knows that your breathing ratio should be “inhale one count, hold four counts, exhale two counts,” else he wouldn’t be a gazillionaire). In the creepiest section of the book—and, believe me, to be the creepiest section of a book like this is to be really, really creepy—Robbins mimics the physical attributes of a complete stranger sitting across from him at the park so convincingly that he becomes a kind of mirror image of the man. This is less about being the man and more about getting from the man, as Robbins operates under the principle that people really like themselves, and the closer you are to being them the more likely they are to give you what you want. Robbins prefers the term “model” to “steal,” but don’t let the positive connotation fool you. He’s really advocating for the grandest kind of larceny of all: the hijacking of a life.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What’s more, he’s pretty open about his lack of originality. “Excellence can be duplicated,” he writes. “If other people can do something, all you need to do is model them with precision and you can do exactly the same thing, whether it’s walking on fire, making a million dollars, or developing a perfect relationship.” That last line provides a glimpse of Robbins’ assumed audience, which could cast him as a predator if it weren’t so accurate: salesmen, single women, and, uh, firewalkers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As Robbins repeatedly points out, the firewalk is the culminating event of his seminars (and, who are we kidding, the book is really just a long advertisement for the seminar). I’ve heard of speakers who submerge their heads under water for seemingly impossible lengths of time, and I’ve actually attended a presentation in which participants were invited to break boards with their bare hands, a la Daniel-san and the ice in <i>The Karate Kid II</i>, but I suspect that Robbins prefers the firewalk on account of its primal implications, to say nothing of the fact that “I walked through fire” serves much better on a metaphorical level and sounds significantly more awesome than “I broke four boards,” though, in fairness, one should never underestimate the cool factor of “with my bare hands.” In any case, they’re all pretty much different versions of the same emotional tenet of motivational speakers: the firewalk, the broken boards, the self-waterboarding—they all illustrate the degree to which you create your own reality. Mind over matter, to resort to a cliché (and why not, since they so often do).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Remember that we control our brain,” Robbins asserts. “It doesn’t have to control us.” When bald-pated Karl Pilkington suggests the same thing, Ricky Gervais berates him ruthlessly and calls him an idiot, yet somehow when the speaker has a full head of hair he’s heralded as a messiah (raise your hand if you’d like to see Gervais and Robbins go at it Lincoln-Douglas style about a topic of Robbins’ choosing). According to Robbins, everything from a headache to clinical depression can be treated if you follow the Ultimate Success Formula ™ (tell me you’re surprised that it’s trademarked). “If you are depressed, you created and produced that show you call depression,” he writes. “It isn’t a permanent state like losing a leg. It’s a state that people can pop into and out of.” Apparently the chapter on sympathy failed to make the final cut.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Robbins’ approach to controlling your brain relies on a heavily visual component. The headache, for example, he balls up and ushers out the door. But Robbins’ greatest accomplishments are less banishment and more replacement. Robbins knows something that the priest who performs an exorcism doesn’t: The priest focuses only on extracting the devil and doesn’t bother to insert God, which, come to think of it, could be a flaw with most exorcisms. Robbins does not want to leave that empty space. He wants to remove the bad and replace it with the good. Out with Satan and in with God, only in his situation Satan is cheesecake and God is broccoli.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">His method for setting someone on the path of a healthier lifestyle involves invoking the mental image of the negative influence, harnessing all of the joy and satisfaction that accompanies that image, and then transferring these feelings to the positive image, which injects the positive with power of the negative and smashes the negative like so many pieces of shattered glass.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He calls the technique for this process the Swish Technique, and an important component is that the person initiating the transfer lets loose with an audible “Whoosh!” when the positive dethrones the negative. So, picture a piece of cheesecake—bright and tempting—at the fore of your mind. Then, in the distance, as if being pulled back by a slingshot, the broccoli—dull and undesirable. Then let the slingshot fly, the broccoli breaking through, assuming all of those positive feelings you had for the cheesecake. When the broccoli scatters the cheesecake, let loose with your accompanying “Whoosh!” Now the cheesecake will be splattered across the floor of your mind and the broccoli will take its place as a shining beacon of desirableness. The swap may not take at first, but after repeating the steps a few times—voila!—you’ll be craving greens for dessert. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">You can do this with any part of your life that you want to change. Your relationship, your job, your health, your fears, your frustrations. Robbins again: “See this, ‘Wooosh!’ Do this, see this, ‘Wooosh!’ Do this, see this, ‘Wooosh!’ Do this…until the old picture automatically triggers the new picture, the new states, and thus the new behavior.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He’s serious. As serious as a flying head of broccoli can be. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxsmRSv_ddgCEwtDEsRD5Es1J4rMNczjaXldiESuLkRDJzc-vu5L43m60W-RphfFxlX1xy5nl5-9CyADxhNrVOYtMvmaIqTASrf-heynP229P-xAT1TgZHeLGBVogvAD37mXkzNsRh5k/s1600/firewalk.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixxsmRSv_ddgCEwtDEsRD5Es1J4rMNczjaXldiESuLkRDJzc-vu5L43m60W-RphfFxlX1xy5nl5-9CyADxhNrVOYtMvmaIqTASrf-heynP229P-xAT1TgZHeLGBVogvAD37mXkzNsRh5k/s640/firewalk.gif" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Actually, I think I'd rather break shit with my bare hands.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“[P]lagued by an insistent internal dialogue?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">On <i>Seinfeld</i>, when Jerry refuses to confront a woman’s boyfriend at her behest—a boyfriend who is, at the time, in a coma, I might add—the woman calls Jerry’s masculinity into question. “You are not a man,” she chides. “Then what are all of those ties and sports jackets doing in my closet?” he responds. The implication is that, whatever Jerry lacks, temperamentally speaking, he makes up for with his wardrobe. Apparently the clothes really do make the man, after all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This line resonates with me because I don’t even have the sports jackets as proof. I have a number of ties, most of which were passed down from my dad when he retired, but, were it up to me, I would never even tuck in my shirt, and one thing I’ve noticed about men—about real men, that is—is that they rarely go untucked. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I keep waiting for it to happen, for me to wake up one day and feel like a man. But I’m in my late-30’s now, and it hasn’t happened yet. I’m beginning to doubt that it ever will. I’m still five foot eight; I could still shave every other day without Leuinda noticing when I kiss her; and I still lack that sexy tuft of hair jutting from the top of my undershirt. And here I always thought that puberty was just a phase. Who knew that it was binding?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They won’t like me outing them, but most of my friends aren’t men either. Not really. Oh, sure. We look like men if you see us from afar at the bar, huddled around a pitcher of light beer like it’s a campfire on a cold night. If you overhear our conversation, we might even sounds like men, as we argue about sports—real but mostly fantasy—or tell off-color jokes or, occasionally, wonder if it was us or them in a recent dust up with our spouses (it’s usually us, though we always say it’s them).</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">But look more carefully and you will see that we are not as we appear. Not anywhere close, actually. Our clothes don’t really match in any power-suit kind of way—the shirts and slacks go together well enough, but they were cobbled, not coordinated—and not one of us sat across from anyone today in a position of anything other than subservience. We don’t exactly fetch the coffee for the people who have offices—Who had the tall doubleshot mocha with skim?—but neither do we make decisions of any consequence. Remember Chandler’s line from the first season of <i>Friends</i>? “If I don’t get those numbered entered, it really won’t matter.” That’s us. We go about our day, and in the end if we didn’t someone else would, and it really wouldn’t make that much of a difference.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The truth is, when we get together, we don’t really talk about work, in fact actively avoid the subject, as if it’s a spot on an x-ray that we’d rather not acknowledge. I’m not even sure I really know what any of my friends do for living. I know that sometimes they seem busier than others; sometimes we have to meet at seven rather than at six-thirty, but I never bother to inquire about the delay. Just means the first round is on me. I know locations, generally, commutes, generic names for companies that are more often than not just called “work,” but I have no idea about duties. Not a clue. And they know just as much about me. I’d sit in meetings—back when I used to sit in meetings—and I’d think, If one of my friends walked in here right now, he wouldn’t even recognize me. He would turn his head in embarrassment. "Oh!" It’d be like a mother walking in on her naked grown son, albeit one without any chest hair. “Uh, give me a minute,” I’d stammer, hiding my Blackberry beneath a stack of reports (not that I’ve ever had a Backberry that wasn’t edible, or a stack of reports, for that matter). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I see them sometimes, men—real men—on the elevator while I’m listening to my headphones or hailing a taxi as I descend the stairs of the subway. They get their haircut when they don’t really need it, wear tweed coats that fall all the way to their knees, elbow their way to the front of the crowd. They cheer a little too loudly at the game, take things a tad too seriously, like when they grip your hand as if there’s a prize to be won or turn their nose up while looking in the mirror. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’ve never spent more than thirty dollars for a watch.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The other day, I was going through security at the airport. I emptied my pockets: a handkerchief, keys, a phone that does little more than place and receive calls (and doesn’t even do that very well), and a little pouch that fits my license, credit cards, and what scarce cash I carry. The only word that can adequately describe this pouch is “purse.” I carry a purse. The guy behind me empties his pockets and plunks down, among other items that prove his y-chromosome, a money clip, thick with its contents, a newly creased fifty on top. I thought to myself, Oh, shit. Now that’s a man.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The most masculine among my friends, the one who is alpha among all of the betas—or at least beta plus—the guy who talks the raunchiest, initiates the occasional fight, bets on the horses, knocks back Jack, and still watches professional wrestling—that guy…he wears ankle-high socks. Ankle-high socks. You can’t be a man in ankle-high socks. In fact, I have it on good authority that Tony Robbins wears full size, with those sock suspenders that affix just below the knee.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9FXwNvGXJq-yuXJ2Dqnen1j5PIeX4kM9Q_dNqLwm8DFxolKootqDyFKUKy2i1Pk2OeB7yb1EWLWCmURMlGC8goGj_JWZO9IUjP4zmBlzXQlLRyPjGDmUq5QtC-nUNBS8cAxAdaqmjbw/s1600/Retail-Rack-of-Mens-Sports-Coats-or-Jackets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9FXwNvGXJq-yuXJ2Dqnen1j5PIeX4kM9Q_dNqLwm8DFxolKootqDyFKUKy2i1Pk2OeB7yb1EWLWCmURMlGC8goGj_JWZO9IUjP4zmBlzXQlLRyPjGDmUq5QtC-nUNBS8cAxAdaqmjbw/s640/Retail-Rack-of-Mens-Sports-Coats-or-Jackets.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just one piece of proof that I lack.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All of this is to say that I was at the pizzeria with Jonah. We had just completed another in a series of great trips to Fort Tryon Park, where he scooted on his scooter from the entrance all the way to the Cloisters while I ran next time to him like I was his security detail. I’d stay three steps ahead when he’d let me, but mostly I’d just jog alongside knowing that if he did actually fall I wouldn’t be of any real use. We were skinning knees and palms no matter what. Luckily we made it to the museum without incident. I put him on my shoulders for the return trip, his scooter in my right hand, my left holding on tight to his ankles around my neck. It was one o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon in March.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He was enjoying his favorite slice—tomato, onion, and broccoli—and we were talking between bites about what time Mommy would be home (she was substitute teaching) and what we were going to do when we got home (“I’m going to take a nap <i>after</i> I play with my cars, Daddy”) when it dawned on me that, of all of the customers there, I was the only man. There were mothers, grandmothers, and nannies—all with stroller-age children—but I was the only father. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were other men, yes, but they were all on the other side of the counter. Working. The delineation was impossible to ignore once I realized it: On a Wednesday afternoon in March, women take the kids to get to pizza.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Men work. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4851528245081303320.post-51034852319099259552011-04-24T23:02:00.003-04:002011-04-26T00:52:08.623-04:00No Success Like Failure: UNLIMITED POWER, by Anthony Robbins<div class="MsoNormal">“Today’s the day.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I slept on the couch on my first night as an unemployed man. Not because my wife banished me because I reeked of beer and whisky, though I did. And not because I was no longer welcome in my own bed on account of failing her. She was four months pregnant. My two-year-old son slept in the other room. She never once said anything that made me feel as if I let our family down. She didn’t have to. I placed that burden on myself, and pretty easily too. I slept on the couch that night because, for the first time in over 15 years of marriage, I didn’t deserve to sleep next to her.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">A couple of friends from work had taken me out after. They patiently stood by as six o’clock hit and I continued cleaning out my desk. I wasn’t leaving voluntarily, but neither was I one of those escorted-out-the-door-by-security casualties, those poor souls suffering the added humiliation of a perp walk, though being unemployed hardly qualifies as a crime. It’s just made to feel like one in this country. I had had two weeks, but I had been busy, you know, working. I dumped coffee mugs, calendars, awards into the trash with a sweep of my arm. It was a Friday. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“You want this?” I asked, holding up a <i>Chicago Manual of Style</i>, one of three I had accumulated in my five years on the job.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sure.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You know, I can bring you anything you can’t carry,” my other friend said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’ll just be another minute.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No rush.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">They were both wearing their coats. They had their messenger bags strapped across their chests. I surveyed my desk one last time. Only a few items remained: a pig fashioned out of a corkscrew and pushpins; a handwritten note that said “a shy, stuttering man playing Bingo”; a pencil drawing of an executive meeting in which one of the participants had pulled a gun, another of the men sitting at the table saying, “What the shit, Dave?” These had all been parting gifts to me by co-workers who had also been let go in the past year. Now I was passing them on to the next person who would eventually find himself in our position, though to convince him of that now would be impossible. I didn’t put anything new under the tree.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I gathered my computer and my ID. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Turning in your gun and badge, huh?” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked into my manager’s office. She was rarely there past six o’clock; on a Friday, unthinkable. The day before she had told me that if I had everything I needed to get done done by lunch that I could leave early on my last day. I thought at the time that she was being benevolent, a kindness. I now realized that her day was linked to mine: Someone had told her that she wasn’t going home until I did. It was nearly six thirty. She had a husband and two kids of her own waiting for her in Jersey. She wouldn’t be home until nearly eight o’clock. Her son would be asleep by then. I counted it a small victory.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Here you go,” I said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My ID was so faded that it could have belonged to anyone. She put it in her desk drawer, next to the salt, soy sauce, and rubber bands. The computer she locked away in a cabinet, though she didn’t remove the key from the lock.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Good luck,” she said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thanks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We didn’t shake hands.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I walked back to my desk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You ready?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Let’s go.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The bar was called “Ear Inn,” the “E” in “Ear” created by shaving off the round parts of the “B” in “Bar” on the neon sign out front. The bar dates back to 1817. The ceilings were low, the floors uneven. We were in Soho, about two blocks from the Hudson. I could see why the bar would have thrived, people coming off the water and stopping at the nearest spot for a drink, especially on a January night like this, the wind chafing my cheeks, not wanting to venture too far into the city. This’ll do. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">We had a pint of the house ale, then another and another and another. We ordered food. We talked about work, then the Knicks, then all the crazy shit you could put into a coffee-table book about the Japanese. Arcades. Robots. The things they cram into vending machines alone. When the check came my friends reached for it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“We got this,” they said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was still early, and I wasn’t nearly drunk enough to go home, but they had fiancées to attend to. No shit, both of them getting married in the next year. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Take care,” one said, as he disappeared down the steps of the subway station.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Stay in touch,” said the other, as he headed east on Carmine. I tried to commit his personal email address to memory. Jesus. I didn’t even know his email address. Practically every minute I had spent with him was at work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stepped into another bar, ordered a three-dollar Bud Lite, with a tip it’s four. I took a piss, checked in at home, called my friend in Queens. He didn’t answer, so I left a message. “You up for a drink?” I asked. “If so, hit me back.” I returned to the bar. Within minutes, my phone buzzed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I thought that might be you,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You want a drink,” I said. “I mean, if you want, I’m up for a drink.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Sure, I’ll have a drink with you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What’s the name of that place right off the train?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I can come to you,” he said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, that place right off the train.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somehow you can fly from New York to Iceland in five hours, yet it can take an hour and a half to get from Manhattan to Long Island City. I didn’t want to lose my buzz, so I ran through the Village to the train. I looked like a character from a disaster movie. I dared not turn around and see the wreckage that was my life gaining on me. I arrived at the platform just as the train was pulling in. Winded, I grabbed a seat. Everywhere around me people were chattering excitedly. They were dressed to impress, jacked up on the promise of the night ahead. It was almost nine o’clock. Their night was just beginning. The most devoted among them would see the sun rise. My overstuffed bag was heavy on my lap. I folded my arms across the top much like I had seen my wife do on her ever-expanding belly. At least I could unburden myself when it got to be too much. She still had a long way to go, though it suddenly felt much sooner than it had before. What are we going to do?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Scampering through the Village, un-cool though it must have looked, paid off. I beat my friend to the bar. By the time he arrived, I was two more drinks in. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How’s it going?” he asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I pointed halfway down my pint and told him that I would answer that once I got there. That was when the whisky started.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Two hours later I was saying, “We ought to move to LA, you know. At least in LA they pay you to fail.” We made plans. <i>Big</i> plans. Then we sat and drank some more.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When we left the bar, my friend lit a cigarette.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You want one?” he asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No, thanks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently my self-destructiveness had its limits. We walked a block in drunken, frozen silence. We reached where he would turn left and I would continue straight. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You OK getting home?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m good.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You sure? You could get a car. I’ve got money for a car if you need it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m good. Really. Thanks.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK. Well.” We hugged. “Next time I see you, I expect you to have your shuffleboard game down.” I nodded. “That or pinochle.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“OK. See you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Be safe.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I ran/walked in whatever direction up Broadway is in Queens—north?—rode the M60 through Harlem, took the uptown A the rest of the way home. It wasn’t that late, but it felt late. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My wife was asleep. At least I had achieved that goal. If only they were all that easy. I could have crawled in next to her. She would have understood, on tonight of all nights. Instead I opted for the couch. My only fear was that she would wake up and think something was wrong. Well.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Three hours later my son woke up crying. It was still dark outside. The partiers from the train were still going strong. I startled awake. My head felt like it was trapped between a mallet and a tree stump.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m here,” I said, as I staggered into his room to console him. I hoped he couldn’t smell the failure on my breath.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMOwoeZTv2sldji7K8xt1U_YJy6WCtwaRJCTfNAaG50xppmtDtRgqKGfQBOE2raGcKfizIGIPwBz0k5s6MI2ifiEFgdKxd78RPQwceBujXZVRNCoGbCzzV4z4hOi_-zXH_-nB7k4ZH-c/s1600/japanese+vending+machine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAMOwoeZTv2sldji7K8xt1U_YJy6WCtwaRJCTfNAaG50xppmtDtRgqKGfQBOE2raGcKfizIGIPwBz0k5s6MI2ifiEFgdKxd78RPQwceBujXZVRNCoGbCzzV4z4hOi_-zXH_-nB7k4ZH-c/s640/japanese+vending+machine.jpg" width="489" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first chapter in our proposed coffee-table book.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How you feel is not the result of what is happening in your life—it is your <i>interpretation</i> of what is happening.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">No satisfactory answer exists for why I have Anthony Robbins’ <i>Unlimited Power: The Way to Peak Personal Achievement</i> on my shelf, so I might as well tell the truth. In this instance, the truth happens to be the same truth that Pete Townsend alleged when authorities discovered child pornography on his computer: I have it for research. I can’t speak for Townsend—the world still awaits <i>Lil’ Tommy</i>—but in my case the truth is indeed true. I was going to write a play that featured a motivational speaker as a central character, which also explains why I own Stephen R. Covey’s <i>The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People</i> and Arthur K. Robertson & William Proctor’s <i>Work a 4-Hour Day</i>. The idea was to immerse myself in the way these men think and then create a character whose behavior belied the degree to which their bravado masked their insecurities. The endeavor was doomed from the start, and I never got past a cursory flip of any of these books. Bravado they had to spare, but they revealed no insecurities. That I would have had to provide on my own. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I could have chosen to examine any of these three books for the purposes of this project. I opted for Robbins because, if you came of age in the 1980’s, he is the guru, the don, the alpha and the omega of self-help. Fuck Dr. Phil. Robbins didn’t need a PhD to prove his worth—his formal education extends no further than a high-school diploma—and he damn sure didn’t need Oprah to catapult him to the big time. He did so on his own with a series of infomercials that included the likes of Fran Tarkenton and Quincy Jones sitting at beach-side locales and discussing their successes in tones so earnest that they just had to contain the secrets of eternal happiness. They just had to! In his seminars, Robbins pioneered the mike-strapped-to-the-head look long before Madonna made it fashionable, which freed his hands to slap five with the men, to hoist the women below their asses in ways that weren’t in the least bit lecherous or creepy, and to extend his long arms across the stage so widely that he appeared to be supporting the world entire. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjja5NZx5nLiI1KEsB_ldCb6ISAk4arEzbeYqXiwRzo3_sU5bfr2eEo8NX3wQW_7CxD8plo3NQqQAMKbDlC1vYa4nE0k0qu6ny50S0Gd43nU80FRcDNI4DcfhwMIdgtvwyNVGUz4JIzSdg/s1600/Anthony-Robbins.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjja5NZx5nLiI1KEsB_ldCb6ISAk4arEzbeYqXiwRzo3_sU5bfr2eEo8NX3wQW_7CxD8plo3NQqQAMKbDlC1vYa4nE0k0qu6ny50S0Gd43nU80FRcDNI4DcfhwMIdgtvwyNVGUz4JIzSdg/s640/Anthony-Robbins.png" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Human Chin</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="MsoNormal">I remember him mostly because he was gorgeous. He was tall—his bio says six foot, seven—fit and tan, with a face that could fairly be described as “chiseled”: his cheeks just a little indented little like a young Ah-nold and his Tank McNamara-chin that played well when facing the camera but must have been garish in profile. His black hair was soft and lush—the guy had a career as a shampoo model if this brainwashing thing didn’t work out—but I envied nothing so much as his teeth, which were as straight and gleaming as mine were/are crooked and dull. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My friends and I would tune in to mock him in the same obnoxious way that we would ridicule Bob Ross as he painted his “happy trees” on PBS. If Robbins was the OP (Original Phil), the we were the OBB (Original Beavis and Butthead), though we lacked Butthead’s sophistication and never would have survived on basic cable. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hey, check it out. The human chin is on.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“How much pussy you think that guy gets?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask your mom?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Fuck you.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I wonder how he avoids ‘pit stains.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">In hindsight, our insistence that Robbins could only be viewed ironically might have been more of a defense than our impressionable young minds would have admitted: The guy was good, damned appealing, dare I say even magnetic. If we didn’t keep a wall of mama jokes between us and him, we might end up picking up what he was putting down.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My copy of <i>Unlimited Power</i> is a paperback from 1986. The sticker on the cover says “10% off pub. retail.” The price on the back says “$12.50 in USA.” Today the book retails for sixteen. The pencil mark on the inside cover says “50 cents.” I bought it at a library book sale in Lawrence, Kansas, around the turn of the last century. The price on the inside cover is just above a black-and-white photo of Robbins. He looks like a more handsome version of Mitt Romney, though, to be fair, in 1986 Mitt Romney was probably a more handsome version of Mitt Romney too. The picture catches Robbins mid-sentence. His mouth is open. His hands are extended as if to show the size of the fish he recently caught, which, now that you mention it, might not want to be the image he wants to project. The lies that fisherman tell and all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Beneath his picture, the words: “We can change our lives. We can do, have, and be exactly what we wish.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Who better to get me off of the couch?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOMKhH6wdVs_uJohPMwaFyMFfsifFHp-zbFFcqEIW-TckW8fktbQ1Vb9zUYxYmM2xhXD4BvADr6ouFdkNpZ10rvrmssSIcUs5W_OBoWYAJ-7ras-gLbDVFk_DuIF02hT24trBe4pLl8-A/s1600/godzilla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOMKhH6wdVs_uJohPMwaFyMFfsifFHp-zbFFcqEIW-TckW8fktbQ1Vb9zUYxYmM2xhXD4BvADr6ouFdkNpZ10rvrmssSIcUs5W_OBoWYAJ-7ras-gLbDVFk_DuIF02hT24trBe4pLl8-A/s640/godzilla.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Life is Godzilla. I am a million fleeing Japanese. Can Tony Robbins be the scientist who saves me from myself?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div>Kirby Fieldshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11457120924182825971noreply@blogger.com1