An Interpretation of the Oscars (or Academy Awards)

It's easy to write-off the “Oscars” like any other awards show: a large group of people with salaries most of us can only hope to see in our lifetime give a presentation whereby they hand out awards based on talent and popularity. And like the socio-politics of any workplace awards ceremony it sometimes feels more the latter than the former. But enough of that.

I've been watching the awards, on-and-off, since the Nineties. I've seen my fair share of questionable segments such as the year when one of the post-apocalyptic suits from “12 Monkeys” was paraded around the presentation for Best Costume. I remember when, one night, the ceremony literally went until 1:30am EST – I think most of the audience had to have a blood transfusion for it going that long.

I'm digressing. The older I get the more I realize what the awards are about – recognition for a very difficult medium. Anyone with a cameraphone or webcam can make a movie on YouTube and post it within moments and garner the attention of their friends, family, and 3^rd grade teacher; some may even make it big and be noticed by media. The truth of the matter is that today's webcam/cameraphones aren't any different than yesterday's Handycams, or the Eighties camcorder phenom (which led to “America's Funniest Home Videos”) or the super 8 films kids made in the Seventies. What the Oscars are about is dedication.

At one point during the ceremony actors were asked what they thought of the movies, their first movie memories, etc. Aside from the fact that “Overboard” is Reese Witherspoon's favorite film (who knew?) I was struck by the honesty of someone asking why anyone would pay money to go into a room, sit around people that they don't know, stare at a giant white screen and engage in an experience with others while making it wholly their own. That is the true magic of cinema.

Sifting through the backlog of memories in my head I feel like Billy Pilgrim sans the whole “when am I at again?” feeling. I remember being at my uncle's house over by Moore HS and watching “Ghostbusters” on videotape for the first time and being absorbed into the story unfolding on the TV screen (and excited because I had never seen a VCR before). I remember watching “Song of the South” and some other movie with Gerald McRaney in it at the J-Town 4 Theater with my grandmother. I miss the afternoons when I would sit and watch 3 movies on the local Fox station on both Saturday and Sunday from 12-6 (I can't tell you how many times I watched “Flash Gordon”). This was my childhood.

I became interested in film, in storytelling in general, during the points in-between. A long time ago a woman named Cynthia intrigued me because she was a professional storyteller (or so I remember). Each year she would sit and weave stories at the Corn Island Storytelling Festival. Out of all the activities in Cub Scouts I remember listening to her stories the most. The craft of storytelling itself is amazing – to paint another's mind with images and sounds and dialogue, to take someone on a journey and entertain them in the process, to make them think or feel. I could only hope to aspire to become a glorified teller of tales.

Directors such as Scorcese, Eastwood, Spielberg, and the like have been asked and have pointed to the first movie they loved or the movie that led them into filmmaking. What led me into it was a year in the early Nineties when the local Boy Scout council held a camporee and offered merit badge classes. That year a local TV cameraman was asked to come to out and be a counselor for Cinematography merit badge (aka the Steven Spielberg merit badge). It was the first time I had ever touched a video camera before and yes, the first time you mess with a video camera you ZOOM a lot. It's just cool.

Within a year I would contact him again and he stated that I was the only person to contact him about the merit badge and that yes, he was a counselor for it. I immediately went to writing a script based off of two things I knew: “Star Trek” and the humor of ZAZ (Zucker, Abrahams, and Zucker). In my script the “Star Trek” cast and crew were sent through a time portal that reduced everyone's ages to their teen years. I played Capt. Kirk while Spock, Scotty, McCoy and the rest were often double or triple-played by all my friends. I wrote commercials such as “Vulcan's Eve” (for those “not so logical” moments) and my own “Terminator 3” in which my younger brother was a less-intelligent, more-annoying cyborg from the future. Those were the days.

About a decade ago I met Bruce Campbell at then- Hawley-Cooke booksellers. He was promoting his first book, “If Chins Could Kill: Confessions of a B-movie Actor.” Standing centerstage he stood raised above everyone and gave sharp witticisms about Hollywood: “It's the kind of place where dreams are made, then broken, then built up again to be crushed again.” (I could be wrong but essentially the paraphrasing is correct) When signing my copy of his book he says, “My dad's name is Charles, too,” to which I can't remember my reply except to say that I was starstruck – an actual guy I had seen in movies and TV (“Army of Darkness,” “The Adventures of Briscoe County, Jr.”) was sitting in front of me signing my book. For good measure I got him to do a “station announcement” for SPC-TV, the student-run TV station that I was a part of.

A weekend or so ago I met, and took a pictures of, Lance Henriksen. Bishop from “Alien.” Frank Black from the TV series “Millennium.” Lest we not also mention “Dog Day Afternoon,” “Terminator,” “Pumpkinhead,” and a score of other films. I've long-since lost most of my starstruck-dom and have became calmer meeting “celebrities.” What I found fascinating was not necessarily the projects that he's done so much as his attitude about them. Listening to his stories and anecdotes I heard what I sometimes forget in my certain amount of cynicism: that cinema is the crafting of dreams. Nevermind the fact that only 40% of people who graduate in film get a job in it or that getting a film released is sometimes nothing short of a miracle, it's still a process about dreams. And storytelling.

So when I'm sitting on my futon staring at my TV watching Billy Crystal or Tom Hanks or Angelina Jolie walk across the stage I put away that cynicism that this is about a group of people patting each other on the back saying “Good job,” and “maybe next year.” I forget about the “sympathy” Oscars and other trite notions. I find myself giving recognition along with them to those who have one and imagine that maybe, should my life take that course, I'll stand on stage and say, “I dedicate this to all those times I sat in class quoting 'Army of Darkness,' 'Spaceballs,' and 'Grosse Pointe Blank.'” Oh yeah, and to momma, daddy, Jesus, and Elvis, too. And the producers, the cast, the crew... (insert exit music here)

Adventures with Michael: A Helluva Night

Saturday arrived and I didn't know what the hell to do with myself. My roommate was at work doing inventory for the weekend so I had the apartment to myself. I had spent a majority of the week with “swinging shifts” at my new job as well as doing mandatory OT and here I was with some money, some time, and not a damn thing that I wanted to do. Shit.

Before I went too morose I go and pick up a new camera lens: Canon 50mm F1.8. I've been getting into night photography and having seen what shooting at 2.8 could do I decided to follow the suggestion of several other photography sites and pick up that lens. MSRP: $139 (at least according to the store I would pick it up from). Hellbent just to do something I got into my car and went to the Summit. I ate a steak sandwich at Zoe's Kitchen, bought “The Killing,” on Blu-ray, and wound up purchasing the lens for $122 (tax included). “Sweet!” Canon was apparently having a sale, so...

Back at the apartment and I drop some stuff off as well as pick up my camera, batteries, and my tripod. I have no clue where in Louisville I wanted to do some night shots when the image of the police substation parking garage came to mind. Screw it, I thought, I'm going downtown. I call Michael and tell him I'd be there in half-an-hour. Making one last check I again got into my car and hit the road.

And I got stuck in traffic on 71 heading south.

An hour later I'm walking up the sidewalk and almost reach the concrete awning for the Federal Projects building when he calls me on my cell. “When are you coming?” “I'm downstairs, dude. I just got here.” “Good thing on the timing...”

Not to discuss too much personal stuff but Michael's been dealing with some gastrointestinal virus for the past six months and, in my opinion, living where he does doesn't help. I wouldn't live there but then again I have lived in my share of bad places so who am I to make judgment? After signing in I take the seventeen floors up to his place and sit in his living room area while he puts on his shoes. Warren Oates was on TV in an old episode of “Lost in Space.” The sound is off so I have no clue as to what's going on except that Oates is spraying for bugs outside of the Jupiter and Will Robinson is interrogating him about it.

Back on the road but walking this time we're heading to Market to go to the Nulu “Flea Off Market,” which is a collection of electric and artistic people selling eclectic and artistic stuff. Or junk. Having taken some pics by the old Baer Fabrics building we finally arrive. One set of tables are against the side of Toast on Market, a popular Louisville breakfast/lunch spot (read: good food, long time to get it), while the other seems to be against a backdrop of cargo containers. There are some arts and crafts but mostly odds and ends such as old comic books, hardback books, and 50s copies of Popular Science. I stop at a tent where one guy is selling his photography niche: panoramic shots. I'll admit that he had some really cool stuff and told him such.

Michael had disappeared on me and I found him sitting in a chair. “Can you help me carry this back?” “Uh, no. Why?” “It's thirty dollars.” “That's a good deal. Maybe for an extra five they'll help deliver it.” He walks over to talk with the woman presiding over that “booth” and I went to take some pics. When I returned he stood there, cash in hand, and put it into his pocket. “What happened?” “Eighteen dollars is not thirty is what she told me.” I shrug and we walk out of there.

We're heading downtown begins wrenching like it's eating itself. Dammit. I need something to eat. I remember that some time ago my friend Jamie and I ate at La Rosita, a Cuban restaurant a little ways ahead. I set that as the next point to get to and we walk into a restaurant in which the only people inside were the ones running it – they even had the lights off in the back area. The downtown Louisville location of La Rosita does not have its liquor license as of yet (even though there's a neon Budweiser sign in the window) which is a shame because the food is really good. Michael brings up the point that someone must be sitting on their liquor license, trying to get them shut down because they have a prime location. Maybe it's true. I order some guacamole (which I rarely eat but they have some great guacamole) and some sort of Cuban meal of green bell peppers, onions, sausage balls, and cheese that had been wrapped together in aluminum foil and cooked. Good stuff. Michael has some of the guacamole and comments on how authentic it is and I share my meal with him. He relays a story on how a woman once taught him how to make it: “avocado, cilantro, and lime juice.” I might try that one day.

A little bit later we're heading down Market to where I have an idea the police substation is at. Months ago we had wandered around and found a police station with a cool dilapidated garage and I commented that I would come back to photograph it. Now, I was going to do it. I vaguely figured that it was somewhere after second street but before fifth. A woman walks beside us, talking on her cellphone, and Michael claims that he's met her buy doesn't remember how he might know her. I take a look at the buildings at night and point out the ones I want to come back and take pictures of such as the Old Spaghetti Factory. I rattle off the fact that it use to be a clothing factory called Levi Bros and that if you go behind it you can still see the “painted ad” on the back of the building. Heading toward Fourth Street Live we pass by a guy playing guitar on the sidewalk and take another left to zag over to the location which is on third street (I wasn't far off).

The police substation, according to what one officer told me, used to be “the old LG&E building,” Now it's a small, gray police station with POLICE in black letters on the lamp globes that aren't lit. Next to it is the parking garage that goes down into a basement level. That was our destination. We walked around and looked to see if anyone was around I walked inside and setup my camera. The place is dry, dusty, and dirty. Some type of van seat rests against the left wall. One of the back windows has a bullet hole in it. Light comes from a fluorescent one in the upper left corner of the room, the tungsten ones outside showing through the windows, or the ones behind me. I fiddle with the camera settings trying to get “the perfect shot,” not really knowing what I want to capture until I see it. Michael stands behind me with the empty tripod case watching out for cops or anyone else in the area. I move up, down, left, right, stand, and even sit on the floor trying to see what I can do with my camera.

And here's where I break the story with a lesson: while shooting RAW is the way to go (trust me on this one) and following the advice of other photogs and getting a 50mm lens is well worth it, night photography does cause a certain strain namely in the battery department. I was shooting seventy-to-eighty meg images (with a jpeg thumbnail) and shooting at night with batteries I thought would be fully charged. In the middle of a shot the red light below the black dial on my camera continued glowing red for what I deemed too long a period of time. I shut the camera off and tried turning it back on.

Nothing. Zip. Nada. No “sensor cleaning” on the display. I couldn't get anything to register on the display. Fuck.

“Either I broke my camera or the batteries are dead. I'm hoping it's the latter,” I said as I walked toward the overhead florescent light. Looking at the electronic display on the top the battery light was blinking so... yeah, my camera battery had died. I hoped that was the least of my problems.

I packed the camera into the bag and collapsed the tripod and put it inside the case. Michael and I walked into the parking lot filled with standard cars and police vehicles when an officer in an SUV passed by us. We waved at him and Michael said that God was working at least to the fact that we were able to shoot in the parking garage and leave before being discovered by someone on patrol and subsequently questioned. I imagined myself going, “Yes, sir. I'd love to show you the pictures I took but the batteries died.”

I needed to piss badly and wanted to stop somewhere in Fourth Street Live but held it until I got back to Michael's apartment. The plan was to take “Guido” (his name for his black Cadillac) over to the Monkey Wrench to see his friend Kellie's band, Son of the Widow, perform. It was only 8pm and I have nothing else to do so...

The Monkey Wrench is a bar off Grinstead Drive that has a stage for various acts that play there as well as a rooftop deck (usually for those who want to smoke). Michael parked Guido across from Lynn's Paradise Cafe and we walked the two blocks leading up to it. Standing outside we talked with a guy who quickly went inside while a girl stayed outside. She had on a thin, white hooded sweater and wore some band t-shirt. We all introduce ourselves and she says that she's a drummer whose come to see the show. Michael and I walk inside and the doorman asks for five dollars. Michael replies that we're there to see Kellie and to hear one song and go. He lets us past and Michael rushed over to the stage and greets the drummer. A woman who walks up behind him is in a thin, red shirt and tight, black leather pants. That would be Kellie. She thanks Michael for coming and he tells her of the “cover charge situation” and she replies that he should tell Joe that's it's okay for us to be there. We walk to the bar and I order drinks for us. Some time after the first song I point to a booth on the bar side of the place which has a wall obstructing a majority of the sound. “Good call,” he says as we walk over and sit in the booth and shoot the shit.

The music. It was definitely indie but not necessarily “indie rock.” It was something slightly different and each song reinforced the point. I remember one having a slight Middle Eastern-vibe but that was about it. I can't remember a lot of the conversation – I went back to the bar and ordered a BBC Bourbon Stout which had me sailing. Michael wanted to step outside to smoke so I followed.

“This guy's a wild man,” he exclaims at a guy who looks to be in his twenties with a gray suitcoat and cheap black glasses and scraggly beard that went down six inches. The guy, Jeremy, turns to him and they begin talking. Jeremy's girlfriend walks up and we all introduce ourselves. She tells me that her name is “Eli” (short for Elijah) and we step to the side and talk for a long time. She's thin, with long, black hair. She has on a white, sueded jacket and scarf, wearing high heels. The conversation starts about fashion for some odd reason and I make mention that courdoroy, the jacket I had on, was difficult to find. “I think that clothes swapping is the best way to go. A lot of things never really go out of fashion but when I want something different I try trading with someone else,” she states. My eyes wander for a minute at the idea and I concede that no, guys don't do that. “I guess guys basically don't do it because they wear what they wear until it's going to fall off.” “You're right,” I reply.

And in a small, singular moment I see what her boyfriend sees in her: her eyes. Brown. Beautiful. I'm staring into them as she fishes a cigarette out of a pack in her purse and lights it. I'm looking at her eyes, teeth, lips, nose, and the toboggan on her head and realize in a small moment that I've been with someone like her: Jen. Or, as Michael kindly says, She Who Shall Remain Nameless. But yeah, she's standing there and we're talking for a long time. At some point she begins talking about the feelings of others, how narrow-minded culture is, pot farmers, and something else and she stops herself. “I think I just want to go back inside and draw. I've made an ass of myself.” I assure her that she hasn't (but never say that she's crazy) and her boyfriend walks over to the front door and stops. She walks up to him, kisses him, then they proceed to go inside. Her boyfriend holds out his hand and I shake it. She holds out hers and I hold it for a moment as if to kiss it. They turn and go inside.

Michael is standing and talking with a guy named Chris. He turns to me and says, “You should talk with this guy. He's an advocate,” Michael says motioning over to me. I introduce myself and the guy keeps talking about how he went to some old man's place and sold the guy insurance. “He meets me at the front door with a shotgun and is like, 'What do you want?' and I'm like, 'I'm just here to talk with you about insurance. If you would like, set up an appointment with me.' And the guy did. So I find that this guy is working for GE and is paying $145 for himself -himself only!- for insurance. Nothing for his wife. So I get his HR person on the line and start asking some hard questions because you don't know what you don't know. Know what I'm saying?”

I flip through the apps on my not-so-smartphone and tweet what he just said, “You don't know what you don't know.” Sage wisdom. Chris continues talking about how he “saves” people by getting them better insurance rates on their medical coverage which, in some small, demented way, is justified. At some point in time salespeople were instructed to believe that reallocating funds for people who don't take the time to study their insurance policies like an undergrad cramming for that One Big Final is doing a service for mankind. Whatever makes him sleep better, I guess.

Saving people money isn't Chris's only contribution to humanity: he helped sign the Neville brothers. His uncle was big in New Orleans and ran a club called The Warehouse that featured up-and-coming acts during the 60s and 70s. In fact his uncle paid $5,000 to bail Jerry Garcia and company out of jail when they were busted for possession (which led to the song, “Truckin'”) I sat on the bench next to Michael and continued listening as Chris gesticulated in “rap moves” about how he was 12 when his uncle and him walked into A&M records with the Neville brothers and watched them sign their contracts. “If you look on the back of their album, 'From the Bayou,' it'll say 'Special thanks to Chris'... that's me.” We all shook hands and he went elsewhere while Michael and I went inside to catch the rest of the show.

The doorman stopped us again wanting the five bucks. Michael and him talked for a few minutes and the doorman finally went back inside. “That was a test. He wanted to know if we really knew Kellie. He won't bother us again,” he tells me. The show ends sometime after and it's somewhere around ten o'clock. I suggest we go down into the Highlands further. Getting into Guido we drive down to the Hideaway Saloon and park by the Book and Music Exchange. I have to piss so we go into the used book, movie, and music store and I'm pointed toward the back where a blue door leads into the combination crappy toilet and storeroom. After I'm done I find Michael, point him toward the restroom, and peruse the store.

Next we're at the Hideaway Saloon or, at least, outside of it. The staircase leading up to it is lined on both sides outside the door with guys smoking and talking. The guy standing by the door says, “They're playing,” and I walk inside for a moment. The band starts and the guy standing at the door asks me for five bucks. I have no cash on me and walk outside where Michael has turned and walked toward the other side of the street. “I'm not paying five bucks to listen to guys butcher 'Norwegian Wood' on the banjo,” he says.

We pass the closed businesses on the left and I make a comment about the first time I ate at La Bodega with my friend Chad. I'm fairly drunk at this time. We stop at Cumberland Brews, because I had never been before, and we sit at the bar. I order a pale ale and sit getting drunker by the moment. The bartend is a woman with long, black hair and medium build. She tells me that she's from Colorado originally but moved when she was 4 to California then to here. She had majored in marketing but was enjoying doing bartending. Her name was Mandy and her thinner, with long black hair co-worker was Crystal who was attending UofL and majoring in photography. Her thesis would be on display in December.

Guido got parked next in the MidCity Mall lot. I noticed how the ATM on the corner had been uprooted and something else was going to go in its place. Michael wanted to go the bar I didn't, the Highlands Taproom, and we walk over there. Passing twenty-somethings lining the sides of the ramp going inside we get in and take the stools next to the bar. I'm uncomfortable as the place is packed beyond any expectation I've had for it. I suggest that we go to the Back Door and Michael nods. And we're off.

Before we leave the premises a girl calls out to Michael. I stop and she's talking directly to him while cleaning her glasses. She's short, medium build, and wearing brown shirt and skirt. Patting the concrete seat she beckons Michael over and they talk for a moment. I'm not sure what they're saying but she says that she'll be over at the Back Door as long as there's a pineapple. As we walk away he says, “I couldn't do that.” I'm in disbelief. “She's drunk and I've done that too many times before. I'm stained. Girls like her want to go for the lowest person they see.” I'm still in disbelief.

At the Back Door we walk to the back and play pool. Two things: I have not played pool in a decade and I'm drunk. And I continue to suck at pool. Michael wins and as I walk away a girl 2/3's my height and drunker than I've been all night walks up to me and is leaning into me when she says, “Do you believe in Jesus?” I respond, “Well, historically he existed...” “This guy wanted to play pool with me but he wouldn't unless I believed in Jesus. I'm an atheist.” I can tell that she's really, really drunk. “My mom is Jewish and my dad is Southern Baptist.” “How'd that happen?” “I know, right? Fucking hippies.”

I turn to see her friend who is blond, sober, and taller than her. They introduce themselves and the blond friend tells me that the brunette (who I first spoke with) is a college roommate who doesn't get to go out anymore. Her friend then speaks up about the fact that she's a mom and never gets to go out. Michael walks up and we're all talking and find out that the brunette getting drunk is payback for the time when the blond was drunk and had pictures of her eating a wafer that had been up her butt prior to that. Revenge and retaliation... We walk out to the smoking section and I tell a joke while two girls who walk up to the table we were sitting at promptly left by the punchline. Oh well.

I'm drunk and really need something to eat. We factor where to go – Sicilian pizza, etc. - when we drive by and see that Papalino's is still open. Opting for that we park and walk in. While standing in line I order pizza for us both and ask for a beer. “I'm sorry, but we stop serving alcohol at 2.” Probably a good thing seeing as I probably looked fairly drunk and a police officer stood behind the guy at the register. I walk outside and sit at one of the tables waiting for my food. A few moments later Michael walks out with both slices and seeing that a table inside is open we walk back in. We're talking while watching a redheaded chick command a group of her male friends. I split time between that, eating, talking with Michael, and watching “Major Payne” on the TV on the wall.

We're back at Michael's apartment by 3am. It's been a helluva night so I grab my camera and tripod and leave by 3:30am. I get home by 4, take a shower, and collapse. I don't wake up until 11am. A helluva night.

Oh, Epiphany

Oh, Epiphany

In one solemn moment the realization hits me. I'm walking through the Company parking lot slowly soaking under the rain and gray overcast sky and a bell rings in the back of my head. I get it now.

Not to beat the proverbial “dead horse” but I realize what had went wrong on my end with the “redheaded girl.” I didn't know how to go about things. I was wanting to “connect” and in one moment was with a woman that I didn't feel on even ground with. I was in a situation that I didn't feel I had any control over. In the back of my head I knew what it was all about but I wanted something more. Something substantial. Something concrete. I was intimidated and did everything I felt I could to impress someone and lost sight of what they might have liked in me and in its stead became a figure looking for more than a good time – I wanted to be someone for somebody. Unfortunately that wasn't on the “available options” list. If I had to do it all again... I don't know. Would I trade the experience? No. However I don't believe I would've bothered having anything else to do after the initial night because I would know that nothing would come from it. Junk love. I guess that's how it goes...

I'm sitting at work talking with a co-worker, Randall, and chatting via e-mail with another co-worker, Rachel. Randall appreciates music refs pre-2000s because he stopped listening to music after hearing “she thinks my tractor's sexy.” He's a few years older than me and has a degree in psych. I asked him what his story was and he tells me bits and pieces of how he wound up in Kentucky. We discuss language for a moment and he concedes that after moving down here from Michigan it was pointless to use words with more than three syllables. I make the snarky comment that it's “no country for smart men.”

Rachel is interesting being a seemingly avid reader. I saw her in the cafeteria today and invited her to come sit and talk with me for a little bit. After, we chat back and forth through e-mail (and she's decently verbose) She makes the comment that she finds me interesting and refreshing to talk with someone who doesn't talk down to her. I thank her for the compliment and remember all the times that I've heard someone tell me, “It's nice to talk with someone intelligent for a change.”

So I'm back to walking in the rain and piecing together things and it really is like those moments when you're watching a movie that shows the “important” scene at the beginning and takes another hour-and-a-half to get back to showing you why that scene was important. The redheaded girl and Randal and Rachel all get lumped together into the puzzle that provides the clues to why I get depressed, where my confidence lies, etc. I realize that more than anything I like to be appreciated for being smart and I rarely, if ever, feel that happens to me by ones I'm interested in as if this Christianity-steeped backwater that so fears intelligence as if it's the “bad apple” from the tree in the Garden of Eden wholeheartedly believes that intellect is a bad thing. Sure, you can be smart in a “savvy” way but to exude thought in a way that doesn't showcase me in some ComicCon nerd-way is beyond peoples' understanding. I am not the smartest person in the world and I have no problem with admitting that. Just because I am intelligent it does not make me rich and not every rich person is smart. I grew up middle-class poor with no real direction except for what I thought I might like to do. I worked up from having speech problems, biting a teacher and failing a grade to being in an advanced program in high school. But, that's a story for another time.

And I also realize my disconnect between how other people see me and how I see myself (also reason I had problems with the redheaded girl). I have no clear idea as to how others view me. Inside, I find myself the same schlubby 285-pound nice guy whose head looks like a block of cheese with a nose and set of ears. To others I look confident (at times), know what I want, etc. Inside I still feel like I have to be the “nice guy” and that no one wants me for who I am (again, carryover from being the “big guy”) I lived a lifetime where it was easier to believe that no one was interested in me because I was fat or weird. Now I just don't always know how to relate and I'm not in tune with the “princess complex.”

And my epiphanies are all rolled up into these thoughts; these “facts.” It's difficult for smart people to feel appreciated and the less they are the more we feel lost and have problems communicating and experiencing. Just an observation.

How It Goes I Do Suppose...

“It's been a while...” -Staind

So it has. I've been blogging more and more infrequently because I just haven't wanted to. And God knows I've had a bunch of shit going on.

First and foremost is the fact that my savings are gone. Done. Depleted. I shelled out at least $1800 on my teeth in the form of two root canals and a crown. No fun. On top of that I had to go to Urgent Care then Jewish Hospital in order to find out that my next biggest obstacle is whatever the hell is going on with my gall bladder. It seems that I either have gallstones or a bladder infection. At any rate I have to watch how much I eat and what I eat. Big fun.

Next on the order of things: I may have a girlfriend. I'll say that her name is Allison and that she's cool. I like her a lot. In the event that she runs across this blog this'll be all I can say about her for the moment because she seemed to get upset with the idea of me writing/blogging about her so again, that's all that I'll say about her.

A small part of my soul died on Wednesday and I damn near cried. I went to orientation for a shitjob through a temp agency. While the job may be alright and there'll probably be benefits better than others I'm not holding my breath for what all I can do for the company. Been there, done that, got screwed-over.

And so I've been learning a lot during my sojourn in unemployment. The big thing is that I do not handle change which may not bode well in the future. When Jen left and suddenly I had to fill a big emotional void with nothing, that sucked. When I was fired and found myself not knowing how to get another job or what I was going to do with my life again, a void I had to fill. Maybe it's learning and maybe it's growing up but it hurts like hell. I know that I need to figure out a way to work for myself and I believe I can do that through photography but the starting point is eluding me. For the moment I'm reading a book about the business of photography and seeing what I want to do next. I'll keep ya posted.

I don't know what else to write about now. My car is on the fritz again (radiator, I think) so I'll have to pick up “lead balls” to put into the system in order to “fill” any holes that may be leaking (or so my friend suggests). I guess that I'm just tired and down to the end of my “unemployed days.” I get to call Allison tomorrow to schedule for Saturday after which I'll have a better idea as to where I'm heading.

The Summer's (Almost) Out of Reach

Oh, little online diary... How is everyone out there? Anyone still reading this?

A lot of things have been going on in my world. I almost wrote a blog called, “Notes on Not Turning 40” and it still resides somewhere in my laptop. I'm not going to call it back up or cheat ya by doing the copy-and-paste but then how would you know?

Ahem.

Well, I'm not 40 so I guess that's a good thing. I have three friends that I know turned 40 this year: Julia, Jamie, and Tamara. Julia's birthday is a week after mine while Jamie's and Tamara's were within days of each other. I spent some serious bank on hanging out with both of them; no regrets.

I wanted to write a column in which I allude to those things that I've learned but I think I'll save that for my end-of-year wrap-up. I recall turning 25 and blathering about what all I've learned in life up to that point and now it seems I learn, or relearn, things yearly. If there's anything I can say for sure it's that I'm a guy who's 34 but passes for late 20s which causes a little bit of issue when the only available girls are in their twenties and there is a little bit of a “creepy” factor when you're toward your mid-thirties and aside from a bunch of stuff have nothing of status to show for it. I'm more than a man-child but less than the “responsible” single parent 30s male. How it goes I do suppose...

So... I'm talking on the phone with my mom tonight who informs me that my sister is under a lot of stress. Apparently she's lonely as well and lumps all of her brothers and her uncle (ergo, my roomie) into the “helplessly single” category that she doesn't want to be in. Hey, each of our stories are different and for what it's worth my brothers have the “steady” girlfriends. My own story is a bit more complicated.

I've been watching a lot of movies lately; more than at any other point of the summer. In the space of a week I watched “Mirage” (with Gregory Peck), “Rise of the Planet of the Apes,” “Diabolique,” “Ed Wood,” and “Panic Room.” “Mirage” had some interesting ideas but fell into aging itself by its end in delivering a heavy-handed moral message that today's society wouldn't stop for a second to receive. “Rise of the Planet of the Apes,” proved that damn, dirty CGI apes could provide the backdrop for an interesting drama and sign me up for whatever is next in the series. “Diabolique” is a French film that has been called “the movie Hitchcock never made” (trivia: someone beat him to getting the rights to adapt the book for cinema) and has one of the best twist endings I've ever seen. “Ed Wood,” is a beautiful black-and-white jaunt back to the 50s cinema and the touted “worst director of all time,” Edward D. Wood, Jr. (although I think Uwe Boll may have him outdone). “Panic Room” I had watched a decade ago and, having seen director Fincher's previous fare, “Fight Club,” I was not overly impressed. My friends and I wrote it off as being an “apology” to the women of Hollywood and media for the misogyny of “Fight Club.” That may have been so at the time. Removed from that point in time “Panic Room” is an intelligent, well-crafted drama that I appreciate more now than I thought I would. Some movies are just ahead of their time...

Oh yeah. I almost forgot. The “employment” thing. I've been searching for jobs through sites such as Monster.com, Careerbuilder.com, and Mediabistro. Added to this is figuring out how to market myself (more than ground chuck, less than prime cut) and figuring out the freelancing world. Which brings me to...

Focusing. This has been my problem for the past few months. While May and June were essentially the “freefall” from being fired, and July became my vacation and getting sick from a tooth infection, by August I'm fine and trying to “pull myself up from my bootstraps.” What did I want? A life where I could go to a coffeeshop with my laptop and work for a while then go home and do whatever. Well, I have that minus the cashflow coming in. In the “venture forth” ideology just because you bought the ticket and are standing in the station doesn't mean you're guaranteed to go anywhere – you still have to board the train. Here's to hoping I get a good seat.

I keep thinking back to my life before my trip. The big question then, during, and after is, “What next?” My friends Cheryl and Rob and a few others want to know my next move. At best all I can tell them is that wherever I get an opportunity is where I'm going whether it's Chicago, Seattle, New York, or L.A. (will also consider Denver) That's the best answer that I have.

Other things on my mind tonight: a friend and I were talking the other night and we got into a discussion about personal politics. I can see how other people relate to other people and the implications of such but as for myself I don't/can't play the political game. I spent some offtime mulling this one over and I think back to my foray into the politics of people: SPC-TV. While in college I was part of a student run TV station and witnessed firsthand what happens when people get, lose, take, and receive power. The little bit of “power” that I had came from the fact that I wasn't afraid to call out those who abused it and I had been respected by the advisors and thereby had an “untouchable” status. I was jabbed at other ways and have learned a few things from it such as never conceding when you're down because the wolves are more than eager to rip you apart. Sometimes I question the idea of responsibility in leadership when those who come into power often have no concept of such; no consequence nor conviction I guess. Maybe the answer is to say, “Fuck it,” and beg, borrow, and steal. I don't want to believe it but that's the direction the train is rolling to.

As I tell my friends this is the part where I take the conversation offramp. I got a lot of things churning around in my head tonight and can't articulate any more for the time being.

Adventures with Michael Episode 1: Outside the Back Door

For those of you who are non-locals there's a bar in Louisville called The Back Door. No, it's not a gay reference; it's the most neutral bar in the area. Residing on the east side of the MidCity Mall it's a bar where most of the locals, especially those living in the Highlands, congregate. No matter creed, color, age, or orientation the Back Door serves anyone and everyone in-between. The drinks are fairly cheaper than other bars and their pub menu is pretty good. I recommend the Door Knobs (fried breaded mushrooms).

Saturday night's adventure started around 1am. We had previously came from a friend's birthday party held at a farm in Canmer, KY which found us traveling the first twenty minutes with fog on the windshield that didn't want to go away. Arriving in Hikes Point after midnight we went to McDonald's and “shot the shit” outside before driving over to the bar.

It was packed. I managed to wrangle a booth that apparently sat three people before us. Michael stood in line waiting to order some beer while I sat in the booth. A while later he showed at the table with a pitcher of beer.

“Ever have Falls City?”

“No,” I replied.

“Well, they ran out of Stella. Ever have Oberon?”

“No.”

“Well, I asked what else they had. I asked them if it tasted anything like Stella and they said, 'No.' So I ordered this.”

I wasn't a fan of it. However, I wanted to get drunk. I had spent most of the rest of the day in the sun at the farm going through 5/6^th of the bottled Schlafly that I picked up and still didn't feel drunk. I'm diabetic. What was up with that?

We're sitting in the booth people-watching. He cracks a joke every now and then but my mind is elsewhere. I don't know the location. Michael points out a blond woman standing next to a group of guys who are taller and more muscular. The blond is flirting between two guys. She's older and is wearing a ring on her ring finger.

“Y'see her? She still thinks she has it. Back in the day I bet she was something. She still thinks she is but her chest dropped years ago. She's still trying to hold onto the idea.”

The sound in the room is from the volume of people talking and the amount of people inside. Michael is surprised by the fact that back in the day he could go there and it was a quiet bar – not anymore. I nod and agree still off in my mind somewhere.

Now I'll point out two women who'll come into play later. The first is a young girl – 5'2” at best, white shirt, red mini-skirt, with high heels to match her short, jet black hair. The second woman is a little older with brunette hair, leopard blouse hugging her curves, white skirt, and tan high heels who moves like she has the money to or is in search of it.

Nothing important really happens for a while. I put in an order for the Door Knobs (fried breaded mushrooms) and we sit and eat them. After Michael is dying for a cigarette so I point him to the outside smoking section. He asks if I'm going to follow and I just want to sit there and finish the drink I have in front of me. I do so and walk into the smoking area and speak with him. We then decide it's time to go.

The next, friends, is a lesson in watching the human condition.

Our cars being parked next to each other we stood beside them talking. Michael goes through a few cigarettes while I relate the fact that I don't know what the hell is up with me – part of me just wants to be alone and I don't know why. Maybe my natural defense for being alone. Again, I'm relaying this while standing next to the two cars that came in together: a four-door sedan and a sport-utility one. Three girls had poured out of them earlier when we were walking from the lot toward the bar. Suddenly, one of the girls walks to her car. She's short in a straight black dress with pinned-up brunette hair and glasses. Michael starts talking to her:

“Wow, that was quick. Are you good to go home?”

“Yes,” she said as she opened her car door.

“Not even drunk. In this town that's a rare flower.”

She stops. “Yes. A rare flower.” She shuts the door, cranks the engine, and takes off.

Michael turns to me. “Remember how she came with two other girls? She's not getting laid tonight and she's pissed about that.”

Some time later one of the other girls comes out and gets into her sports-utility vehicle. Michael says something and she smiles. He turns to me and says something about her being upset and not getting laid either when a guy pulls up in a small, white car and rolls down the window, talking with her. They drive off together.

“I'm thinking that the other girl got to go home with someone else. That girl is pissed upset about her choice.”

A couple walk toward us: a black man and a blond-haired woman. The woman banks left while the guy approaches us. He asks us if we like the Nappy Roots and proceeds to sing us a song. After completing we tell him that we don't have any change. He proceeds to sing us another song when a white van pulls up and calls for him. He runs toward it and it leaves.

Minutes later a blond wearing a thin, gray shirt and black “skorts” walks up to us. She's cute but pretty drunk. She tells us her name but we get it incorrect. I ask her questions that she avoids directly answering. She leaves us to go inside the Back Door.

The girl with the jet black hair and red miniskirt walks outside the bar with a group of friends. She walks over to a four-door sedan and gets inside while a few others pile in the car. A tall, lanky guy in a white t-shirt and shorts almost gets in the car when a group of friends shouts, “Hey Drew! Don't fuck her!” He runs from the car over to the group of guys who shouted at him. Michael says that the guy looks like a marionette. A girl in a black-and-white striped minidress runs to the car and crowds in from the right side. The guy runs back and gets into the left hand side and the car takes off.

A group of guys gets into a large, red Ford F-150 and begins to leave the parking lot when the brunette I mentioned earlier, along with a blond friend, approach the truck and make it stop. The blond starts bartering with the guys inside and the brunette says, “Because I have never been to a White Castle before.” They're let in and the truck takes off.

Michael and I try getting the drunk blond girl's name right. I think it's “Stasha.” Michael says that she may be Russian or Eastern Bloc. She passes by us another time, waving as she leaves the parking lot.

A guy walks out to his car parked two spaces up from us. He's tall, thin, with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. Michael says something about the guy going home alone. He shrugs as if luck is against him for the night.

“Man, are you a model or something? You should be a model,” Michael tells him.

A friend walks up to the guy standing next to his car and gets into his jeep. They take off for somewhere.

I mention the fact that it's been a weird night because none of the chicks in the bar seemed to notice me. His reply was that it seemed that most of them were after the taller and more muscular guys who were in there. I see the point of truth in that and realize that is one of the only times when I've been to that bar and watched that happen.

The drunk blond girl returns and we wave her over to us. Michael asks if she's looking for a boy and she shrugs. Held in her hand is an empty pack of American Spirit cigarettes. Stasha stands next to me for a moment before leaving for the Back Door again. Michael comments that she's a “lost soul.” We call it a night and leave.

Hey Look! A New Blog Post!

It's a beautiful, lazy Sunday here in Chaslandia (I'm petitioning Google to put it on a map). I look at my personal blog and it's been over a month since I've posted anything. In fact the last posting found me burnt out and tired of damn near everything around me. So let's catch up, shall we?

July 1 – July 15 I went on a two-week long trip. I spent a few days with my friend Rob and his wife Vicky and kid Elijah in Warrenville, IL (about an hour outside Chicago). Being so wrapped-up in my own life it was nice to be out with friends and not have to worry about the rest of the bullshit surrounding me. July 4^th I finally went to the top of the Sears/Willis Tower for the first time. It's amazing.

July 5 – 7 I took a series of buses out to Seattle, WA. My trip in which initially had the veneer of being a business trip became personal and I practiced the art of “just being.” Just being me. It made all the difference in the world. I blew through money, did a few things I didn't think I would (spent $110 at a Deja Vu), and walked around Seattle. A lot. I enjoyed myself and didn't mind the rest of the world.

July 15^th I returned to my life in the ebb of the West Coast vibe. At the very least the world had changed temperature and it was friggin' hot. For the first week back I felt like a stranger in my native land as if my happiness was now looked down upon. It was odd.

It's been a month solid that I've been back and the world has settled down. In the interim I met John Carpenter (“The Fog,” “Halloween,” “In the Mouth of Madness”) and walked by Henry Winkler a few times. I gained a new FB friend named Syntheia. I returned to the film group that I formed and have been seeing what I can do/be with them. To cap everything off I had a tooth infection which led me to be “down” for a few days and to a $1200 combo root canal/crown.

But the world isn't completely horrible. Yes, it's been 3 months since I was let go. Yes, I'm out a little bit of money. Yes, I've been applying and haven't had any callbacks or interviews. No, all is not lost.