The Satisfaction of Inaction

Last weekend I said I'd be a world-wide-web-log-of-pointless-ramblings-writing machine, and then I didn't feel like it for a week. And then last night my wife and I came up for some great ideas for creating a new kind of movie theater. Then we concluded that we'll never ever ever do it.

Before I get into the reasons behind our laziness, I want to get this idea out there so someone can steal it, make it happen, and then, a la "The Jerk," come back to me and give me half the resulting fortune. See, right now there's this dead, empty theater right in a nice pedestrian area of downtown St. Paul. So we want to make that into the downtown's only movie theater.

But wait, Ron Popeil, there's more. It would be a revue house, showing old (i.e. cheap-to-rent) movies - but not the movies some cineaste fill-um snob thinks you should see. This will be what you and your dorkball friends want to see. And we'll make absolutely sure of that because we'll have polls on our Web site, the results of which will determine what gets shown.

So on the Web site we'll say "You choose what we show. Which Star Wars movie is the best?" Then people vote on their favorite, and the winning movie gets shown. Wouldn't that be fun?

Maybe you wouldn't do this for every showing. Sometimes you'll be nakedly catering to enthusastic little subcultures surrounding cult films. For example, right now "The Big Lebowski" seems to have a massive cult following -- bizarre, for what is, in my view, good-but-not-great Coen Brothers fare -- but it doesn't matter what I think; it matters what paying customers think. And for something like that, you could make it a big scha-meal by telling people to dress up like their favorite character, or maybe even hiring local actors to play the characters as they take tickets and hand out popcorn. That kind of thing.

And it could be a co-op. So people buy shares and then get a few free tickets and maybe a reduced price for all tickets. And they also get the profits. I think that would make them more emotionally involved, make it more of a fun local institution and less of just another dark box in which movies are shown at you. What if you could get season tickets to a movie theater? Just a thought.

And of course, being in downtown St. Paul, you could rent it out to government organizations and businesses and such. And you could do it up all green and local, with biodegradable cups and popcorn boxes and staff members, and get local whatevers to sell their locally produced chocolate/popcorn/collard greens/what have you. The wife wants to have healthy snacks too, like dried fruit and air-popped popcorn in olive oil with garlic on it. That part's negotiable.

Could be cool, huh? Too bad I'll never ever ever do it. The sad fact is that I'm just not an entrepeneur. I don't like the adventure or risk involved. Hell, I don't like adventure or risk, period. I like stability and quiet.

Let me map this out for you, because I can see from your stupid, slack-jawed faces that you're not getting it. It's not because I lack some bit of American Can-Do Spirit or something and am therefore worthless -- at least I don't think so.

Try thinking of the whole range of positive emotions as a spectrum, with mind-blowing, adrenelized excitement on one end and mellow half-asleep contentment on the other. While you're thinking of that, I'm already taking a nap on the latter end. Sure, I have moments when I want some excitement, but excitement for me is going to a museum. And then going to a quiet restaurant and drinking an entire keg of beer and passing out peacefully. It's just how I'm wired.

As for the movie theater, just the notion of all the legwork and "pitch"ing people and ordering people around and marketing and being nervous about who will show up - bah. Not worth it. My ultimate fantasy isn't to be on the top of the world. My ultimate fantasy is to be nestled snugly in the middle of the world somehwere, with a loving family and a comfortable house. I'm a marryin' man, a family man, a man of love, and a Man of Inaction. Watch me sit!

I Finally Figured Out What "Quantum of Solace" Means

So a "quantum," in a loose bastardized sort of way, could be thought of as a very, very, very small packet. And then a "quantum of solace" would imply that James Bond is so unbelievably stressed out that all he can manage each day is a very small amount, a quantum, of solace. The rest is all busy, busy, busy, kill, kill, kill, running from meeting to meeting, jumping from plane to helicopter to ski slope with barely a freakin' quantum each day to just sit back, relax, get a sip of coffee and check the Drudge Report. (James Bond seems like a conservative to me. I don't know why.)

This is a minor triumph for me, figuring out what this means. Just about every time a new James Bond comes out, I spend weeks trying to comprehend what the hell the title has to do with James Bond. For a while there they were just putting the word "die" together with other vague words and hoping no one really noticed. There was "Die Another Day," which I suppose is kind of encouraging and helpful (Don't worry, J.B. You got plenty on your mind. Die another day! For now, just read Drudge and relax.) and "Tomorrow Never Dies" (I still don't really get that one. Is it also sort of hopeful, saying "Hey, tomorrow will always be here! Tomorrow never dies! You'll die another day, granted, but not tomorrow!" Or is it more of a stoner philosophy thing: "Dude, did you ever think that tomorrow never dies? Whoa.")

But for most of these, they seem sort of cheerful and hopeful, when the original impact is supposed to be more foreboding and kick-ass. When you think about them (which I don't necessarily recommend-- look at where it's gotten me), they all seem counter to the James Bond spirit. He's not supposed to be reassured, he's supposed to be angry and fighting. They really should be make them something more unambiguously aggressive, like "James Bond Kicks Ass, Takes Names, and then Kicks More Ass" or "James Bond: Ouch to Bad Guys!" Or let's just cut straight to the quick and call it "James Bond: RAAAWWRRUGGHHHHH!!!!!!"

The worst of all, for my money, was "A View to a Kill." Not the movie, mind you, which I don't know if I saw (they all run together), but the title. "A VIEW to a Kill"? So Bond is just standing there watching someone being killed? What is he, in an E.M. Forster novel? He's James Bond, he should be in the middle of it! Any killing going on in his vicinity, whether it pertains to him or not, he should jump right in the middle of it and start the fists a'flyin'. Instead he's just sitting in some nice windowsill in the Italian countryside, sipping cappuccino, checking Drudge on his laptop, and saying,"Oh, this place is just a dream. The view, especially to a kill, is to die for." Who would watch that? (Actually, I think I would watch that. A movie called "James Bond: My Awesome Trip to Italy." And the whole thing is James Bond showing a slide show of his trip through Italy to M and Moneypenny and Oddjob and whoever the hell else. Or maybe the James Bond Travel Channel show called "A View to Die For," where James Bond is your charming guide through the beautiful cobbled streets of Turin and occasionally turns around and beats the hell out of some random thin guy in a dark suit. And now back to this beautiful catheral ... etc.)

Anyway, the point remains that I can finally claim triumph over one weird Bond title. "Quantum of Solace" is solved. It gives me a quantum of solace to know I got that one, ya know what I mean? Yup, a little quantum of solace. That's all I need to get through the day. I'm going to use that all the time now. Kids, will you quiet down?!? A guy can't get a quantum of solace around here! You work all day at the plant, you expect at least a quantum of solace when you get home! Am I right, James?

I'm Back, Mammajamma

So I was sitting around with my wonderful wife and talking about the stress my job causes me. I was saying how yes, it pays the bills, isn't too hard, doesn't require long hours, doesn't involve travel, etc., but I don't enjoy it and don't believe I'm that good at it.

She thought about this pensively for a moment, and then replied "Oh, boo fucking hoo. Tell it to the kid with the iron lung. Tell it to the single mother working herself to the bone at starvation wages at Wal-Mart who just contracted tuberculosis from touching their 10-year-old fruit-resembling food product and has no health insurance and whose meager stock market investments just tanked so was forced into bankruptcy and foreclosure and bank closure and foreruptcy (a new one just invented by stock market billionaires so that they could make slightly more money, in which you give them all the assets you could potentially get in your life before you get them) and whose single worst fear in the world may be realized by Obama's horrifying threats to 'spread the wealth' to people like her and whose hunting grounds are shrinking because global warming has melted the ice caps and who is a polar bear. Go on, tell her. And then be eaten by her, assuming that she likes the taste of pathetic, whiny, spoiled little babies."

No, she didn't really say that. She's a nice person, and a social worker in training, so she suggested I try doing something I enjoy, which could be picking up writing again. And who knows, maybe try submitting writings to journals that compile non-fiction essays. I had to laugh a bit at the last one -- I didn't know such things existed, but if they did, I doubt my brand of nonsensical rants would exactly make paper fly off the shelves. But hey, worse things are published, right?

Which kinda gets to my life philosophy. "No matter how much you think you suck, remember that almost everyone else sucks worse." It's kind of my mantra. So with that bit of can-do spirit at my back, I think I'll start this up again, while also trying to get published. And I'll talk about my attempts to get published in this (along with whatever else comes into my head.) And then maybe my log of thoughts of attempting to be published would be published. And then time and space will cave in on itself and cause all existence to end. And my mission will be complete.

Movin' Agin

I realize that my Web logs have all the staying power of an ADHD kid at a tax seminar, but I'm movin' again. This time, I'm getting paid for it, see. I'm at 55102.net, writing about St. Paul, which will be of no interest to any of my readers, who are all my friends and none of whom live in St. Paul, BUT, well, that's what's happening. So there.

Things I Hate: Marathons

SCENE: ED'S CAR

ED and his lovely wife ERIN are driving to church on a beautiful autumn Sunday morning. Through the windows they are greeted by the bright, dew-dappled streets of Saint Paul. A flowing, multi-hued tapestry of leaves -- stunning reds, startling yellows, shit-your-pants oranges -- wafts gently through the air and then settles on the earth like a heroin addict passing peacefully into a coma.

ED drives happily, occasionally stealing an admiring glance toward the love of his life. The wonder and beauty of their marital bliss inspires them both to spontaneously break into song.

ED and ERIN (singing): Hey! Hey! Things are great! We can't complain, and that is great. Hey! Hey! Things are fine. We feel like drinkin' beer and wine. (Or something cheerful like that.)

ED (no longer singing): Well, beloved wife, how wonderful are our lives, exactly?

ERIN: Fuckin' aces, motherfucker. Better than a fuckin' cocksucker eatin' pussy on a Triscuit. (I apologize for the profanity -- that's just how she talks.)

ED: I heartily concur. I cannot fathom the possibility of any event or happenstance infringing upon the general bonhomie with which our lives are proceeding.

ERIN: Fuckin' A, you shit-fuckin' cockface.

ED smiles lovingly at his beatific bride and turns the corner onto Snelling Ave.

There appears to be a vaguely ominous hubbub ahead of them on Summit.

ED: There appears to be a vaguely ominous hubbub ahead of us on Summit.

ERIN: Ass-munchin' cuntbags! You don't think ...

The sky suddenly turns INKY BLACK. Lightning shocks the frame. Music swells: DUM DUM DUM!!!!! DUM DUM!!! AND MORE DUM!!!!!

ED: It's the MARATHON!!!!!

ERIN lets loose a blood-curdling scream from the depths of her soul. They swerve to avoid the dead-eyed zombies in bright shorts plodding pointlessly down the street. ED and ERIN then hit a building, their car explodes, and they die horribly.

Ladies and gentlemen, the little scene you just enjoyed depicts a real event in my life, one that I am only now able to come to terms with. It was I who was driving to church, fully intending to spend the day worshipping our Lord Jesus Christ, volunteering for charities, tending to the sick, healing the wounded, torturing heretics, flagellating myself with barbed wire, and so forth, when my day was ruined by the Twin Cities marathon.

The Twin Cities marathon goes straight through the heart of St. Paul, completely closing down the city. There is no way to get through, not a single street that allows traffic to pass. Basically, if you want to get somewhere in this city of several hundred thousand, you're shit outta luck.

On this particular marathon day, we tried our hardest to find an opening, but eventually had to just stop short of our destination and search for about a half an hour for street parking. It's usually plentiful around this area, but this day the streets were clogged with the cars of the braindead gawkers whose idea of fun was to sit on the side of the road and watch some masochists run by slowly.

Then we had to walk several miles to actually get to church. We would have given up entirely, but there was the first meeting of an environmental action committee that I really wanted to attend. At the meeting I ended up resolving that global warming was A-OK with me, as long as it gave all marathon runners heat stroke.

Why exactly are marathons permitted to grind whole cities to a halt? Marathon running is a hobby, and like any other, it's a matter of personal taste. Obviously, it's not my taste -- I'm more of a sit-and-write-insanely-angry-diatribes kind of guy. But you don't see guys like me and Ted Kaczynski bringing whole cities to a standstill so we can sit hunched over desks. (Well, maybe Ted did, in a way. Bad example.)

It would be a little more acceptable if this particular marathon was raising money for some worthy cause. But there was none. It existed only so some people could run slowly in a straight line for a while, and other people could watch them do this thrilling feat.

Maybe it's great exercise. So is a treadmill, and you can run on that all day without making such a to-do. Maybe there's something wonderful about doing it outside, with a bunch of other people. So go run somewhere where no one lives, like Iowa. Maybe it's a great test of personal endurance and stamina. So is seeing how many times you can hit yourself in the head with a beer bottle before you pass out. I don't see why any of this necessitates closing down a city, or why I should be impressed with these people.

But there's more to my annoyance than just rage over the city-strangling nature of marathons. I think if it were, say, a really long snake preventing me from getting around, I wouldn't be half as irritated. But with marathons, there seems to be an implication that I'm supposed to be congratulating the runners, as if they're doing something wonderfully noble. Of course, they're not, at least not in this particular marathon, but you wouldn't know it from the throngs of people who cheer them on through their pointless quest. Meanwhile, you don't see anyone sitting near my computer cheering me on as I type. Not that I deserve it, but neither do the runners.

To me, actually, there's a very strong pointlessness to it all. I'm always wary of any task that's extremely difficult but doesn't really seem to help anyone or accomplish much of anything worthwhile. It's sort of like those people who climb really huge mountains. You risk you life and limb, spend years training, expend tremendous energy and time, and in the payoff you get ... a nice view. How exactly was that worth it? Isn't there something more constructive you could be doing? "Because it's there" is not a reason. I could punch you in the face "because it's there."

Sadly, I end up encountering marathon runners a lot, none of whom I can punch in the face -- see, the social circles I run in are basically yuppies who don't have any kids or money, and they tend to fill the gaping holes in their lives inexpensively by running marathons. I always have to act impressed when they tell me they're training for a marathon, but secretly I'm thinking that it's just a very self-indulgent hobby for people who enjoy pain and are not bored easily.

Perhaps that's true of all hobbies, when you come down to it. But the crucial difference, and I can't stress this enough, is that stamp collecting and breakdancing and poking yourself in the eye with a stick are all hobbies that DO NOT SHUT DOWN CITIES. Marathon runners of the world, go circle your living rooms 3000 times and leave the rest of us out of it.

No More Naked!

At this writing, there's the Naked Cowboy, the Naked Chef, the Naked Archaeologist, the Naked Economist, etc., et al., ad infinitum, ad nauseam, ad hoc, semper fidelis, caveat emptor. The first one is a guy who walks around Times Square in a diaper strumming a guitar; the rest are all real shows, no fooling.

The chief problem with all of these people is that they're all men! Who needs that? Naked women are what this country hungers for -- naked men are a dime a dozen. There was a comedienne who said she never understood the concept of Playgirl because if you want a naked man, all you have to do is ask one. Boom, naked man. Same strategy doesn't work on women; I know, I've tried.

But how come you don't see a rash of men on the street disrobing at the drop of a hat? Because no one wants to see that. Granted, most women, and some men, seem to be physically attracted to men on some level. But it's more of a emotional / spiritual / deep-seated whatever-the-fuck than the brand of clinical, dumbfounded simplicity that characterizes attraction for women. That is, when you're attracted to men, you want to see a particular brand of confident swagger that matches a certain effortless overall look, all of which is defined differently by different people at different times ... meanwhile, when you're attracted to women, you want to see boobs. Lots of 'em.

And the reasons are obvious. The female body, as Elaine from Seinfeld once said, is a work of art. The male body is utilitarian. The female body is all sensual smooth curves comprising an aesthetically balanced whole, with each individual body displaying its own unique cohesive beauty. The male body is a machine straight off an assembly line, all straight, dull lines, except, of course, for the knobby, gnarled protrusion in the middle. That's why women always laugh when they see a naked man for the first time: because it's funny. Totally absurd -- you get nothing but a lot of predictable blandness and then, out of nowhere, this messy blob of freak parts that looks less like an implement of love and more like a deformed snail clinging to a walnut.

Anyway, I've said all this before. Point is, I'm sure a show in which a hot naked woman discusses fiscal policy or explores Mayan ruins would be wonderful. But it would still a bit incongruous.

Why exactly you would want your archaeologist or economist to be naked is beyond my comprehension. With the archaeologist, it seems like you'd have to spend a lot of time getting dust that breathes the lives of the ancients out of embarrassing orifices. And that dust might be valuable. Maybe there should be a second archaeologist who takes a little chisel and broom and excavates the naked archaeologist after he rolls around in some ruins.

The Naked Economist is perhaps even stranger. Now I'm sure there are plenty of sexy economists in the world. But as far as I've gleaned in my years of observation, the sexy professions for men are typically the ones that involve being outdoors and using your muscles: cowboy, construction worker, policeman, biker, Indian chief, that kind of thing. Not so much some pasty guy who sits naked in an office chair hunched over government data.

And I'd rather not even think about the hygienic issues associated with the naked chef. I would hope he at least wears a hairnet. Several.

Anyway, all of this is besides the point. None of these naked professionals actually does anything remotely naked. The naked cowboy is at least wearing nothing but a diaper and cowboy hat -- for the rest it's all bait-and-switch. Not that anyone has ever complained; I'm sure people were actually relieved when the Naked Archaeologist turned out to be fully clothed.

Again, the difference between the sexes is illuminating: Can you imagine the uproar if you advertised a show called "The Naked Aviatrix," got the whole heterosexual male world to watch, and then just showed a fully clothed female pilot talking about rudders and altitude gauges? There would be a worldwide riot, cities would burn to the ground, Satan would rise forth and claim his new empire, and everyone would be forced to watch "The Naked Soil & Water Conservation District Commissioner" 24/7.

Perhaps I'm being too literal. Perhaps the titles of these shows are just meant to make their particular brands of archaeology and economics and chef-ing seem fun and exciting. But there are better ways to do that. How about "Xtreme Archaeology"? How about "Russell Simmons' Def Economic Theory Jam"? How about "The Chef that Kicks Fuckin' ASS, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!"

So clearly, guys, there's no reason to resort to the cheap (and disgusting) (and ineffective) strategy of jazzing up your show by calling it naked. Take it from me; I know all about naked. In fact, I'm naked right now! Eh, ladies, heh heh heh? Eh? No? Oh. Sorry. Never mind.

Another Myth That Even Smart People Believe

In a previous post, I mentioned one of my favorite myths that even smart people believe. These are not true urban myths, which usually involve someone stealing your organs or a deadly spider in your hairdo or a murderer who is CALLING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE! I don't think anyone with half a brain really believes those kind of urban myths any more, especially since it's become so popular to debunk them.

I'm talking about the little factoids that people repeat to justify some prosaic little life lesson. In the last exciting episode, we (meaning I) talked about the myth that you only use a small percentage of your brain. Which is supposed to prove that you are a genius / ESP master waiting to explode. Too bad it isn't true, and that you're already using all you got.

This time, I'd like to shoot for one of my favorites, that "human beings are the only animals that kill their own species." Aww man, ain't that the truth. We're so evil compared to the animal kingdom, who live in peaceful harmony all the time, holding hands and sucking rainbow-colored lollipops as they belt out John Denver tunes.

Except that it isn't true at all. Animals are selfish little beasties, just like us. They protect the animals whose genetic material they share, such as immediate relatives, particularly children. The rest they don't give a crap about.

It depends on the animal, of course. Some are adorable, like ducks, who mate for life. Others less so, like lions, who often kill other lions' babies. Say a male lion (let's call him Leo) gets a new mate. Say that the lioness already has a bunch of cubs by some other poor sucker (let's call him Lucky). Leo will not hesitate to kill off Lucky's and the lioness' little lads and lassies. Why? Because he has to clear the way for him and his kids, of course. Make Room for Daddy!

In fact, infanticide is a pretty normal part of life for a lot of animals. Dolphins, who typically win awards for cutest animals EVAH, will sometimes take young ones and drown them. No one knows why. Seriously -- I wouldn't make that up. (Well, OK, I might, but this time I'm not, I swear.)

So where does this myth come from? It's clearly an attempt to to take humans down a peg. I'm usually in favor of that kind of thing. But you gotta use some better facts. Like destoying the planet for the sake of driving preposterously large cars -- that kind of thing.

And on the face of it, it sounds reasonable, doesn't it. It seems like animals have to do whatever they can to survive as a species, while we have the luxury of killing each other off and not really batting an eye, species-survival-wise. But evolution doesn't work that way, unfortunately. Each animals seeks to ensure its survival and that of immediate relatives. There's an inborn need to see your genetic material survive, but not necessarily those of mere species-mates.

Not that the example of these animals should be a justification for our behavior. That would be falling into what psychologists call the "naturalistic fallacy," which is the assumption that anything "natural" is inherently good. You see this on products everywhere -- look , these have natural ingredients! So you know they're good! Of course, cyanide is a natural ingredient. Not necessarily good, at least for humans.

So I'm not saying we should feel OK about killing each other because animals do. And I'm not saying that we should feel bad for killing each other because animals don't (in part because they do). I'm thinking that maybe we shouldn't compare ourselves to animals at all. It's kind of a different thing. A different ANIMAL, even! HA HA HA HA! HA ha ha ... ha ha ... ha ... (sigh).