It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia genius-ness aside, what does one do to get a good job?
My resume and cover letter have been polished about five dozen times and I've contacted people I thought might help. And yet, my perfect job has somehow eluded me.
I was thinking about becoming a Jedi, but my qualifications are kind of weak (damn midi-chlorians).
Fuck off, you must.
Dog sledding instructor is off the table. I have vertigo and an irrational fear of huskies.
No really, I'd much rather sleep here than a house.
My hand modelling days are over since I was mauled by this batshit lion kitten.
Don't forget your hand-sunscreen.
I can't be a private investigator because Cheaters isn't hiring and, puh-leaze, no place else is good enough for this gum shoes.
Maybe they have an opening in the blurring faces division.
I know, I know, gourmet chef is my calling. But apparently Campbell's Soup can be made by practically anyone and "Velveeta yum yum" isn't an actual food. (could have fooled me)
Certainly you didn't want the fish tonight?
Oh, well. I'm certain the economy will turn around and I will find my dream job. This is America, after all. Home of the American Dream, which I think involves white picket fences, kids playing in the yard, and a wallets full of cash. Anyone can be anything they want to be; that's what this country was built on!
Montgomery Clift. The name makes me happy and sad. Happy because I believe that his great talent has actually enriched my life. And yet he's not a household name.
I think he was the best actor of his generation. Maybe of any generation. He had a subtlety that Brando couldn't even come close to. Monty seemed to become a character, like he could remold himself for every new film.
His performances frequently take my breath away.
Here, in a brief appearance in the star studded 1961 film Judgement at Nuremburg, Clift plays a man whose destroyed life is put on the stand in a post WWII trial against German judges who served during the Nazi regime. Clift, who had about ten minutes of screen time total, was nominated for an Academy Award for his effort. A clip:
Students of acting should see this, should study it. Clift has found a way to portray the story of a man that perhaps had dreams like any other person, but ends up totally shattered. He tells his story with few words. And yet, he says all there is to say.
The pain behind Clift's sensitive eyes, the tensing muscles around his mouth; he was totally in control of his performance. I have heard many people argue that he didn't have to act, that his train wreck of a life gave the performance for him. They cite as proof Clift's shaking in this scene (you can see it around the 8:40 and 9:00 marks) from his excessive drug and alcohol use, not to mention failing physical and mental health after a car wreck destroyed his face years earlier.
Maybe that's why he didn't win the Oscar. It was too easy to accept that such a believable and (in my opinion) important performance was a fluke given by a man who was seemingly pretty destroyed, himself.
I argue that Clift knew what he was doing. The man he was portraying was fragile but proud, especially as he walks into the courtroom and states his name and profession (not seen in the above clip). This changes as he recounts the single most horrifying experience of his life. He's been treated like an animal, sterilized based on his perceived intelligence in the name of cultivating a mythical "master race."
As he tells the story of what happened, he gets quieter and he fidgets in his seat. At the 1:50 and 2:08 marks, it appears that he can't even bring himself to name what was done to him. And when he is asked point blank by an attorney, "Were you, in fact, sterilized?" he again can't bring himself to say the words. Instead he seems to hesitate and then forces himself to give a nod.
The next three seconds, it seems to me, are acting brilliance. In shame, Clift looks down and then gives a quick sideways glance to the presiding judges. These subtle eye movements say volumes. It is as if his manhood, besides his humanity, were destroyed, and he is embarrassed to have everyone in the court know. All the layers have been stripped. This man, who seemed proud and ready to please when he first walked in, is now bare and exposed. This is all understood because of three seconds of eye movements.
His break down intensifies as he talks about his mother, and the shaking worsens. We need no back story. We can tell by the way the man speaks about his mother that she was something else that they took from him.
His proclamation, "Since that day, I've been half I've ever been," is an emotional crescendo, as the weight of all that the character has been through, including the humiliation he endured during the trial, breaks him down for one last moment on the screen.
Even towards the end of his (too short) life, Montgomery Clift could display more talent in three seconds than most actors in their entire careers. The fact that he stood out in a film amongst acting greats like Spencer Tracy, Marlene Dietrich, Burt Lancaster, and Judy Garland, proves that further.
I want to write a story about a girl with a voice like Katharine Hepburn. A young Katharine Hepburn, but wise for her years and still full of innocence.
She'll have Hepburn's tenacity and her unconventional femininity. Maybe she'll even wear "trousers" to work instead of skirts. Maybe she'll work at a brewery in Milwaukee and paint on the weekends.
She'll have black hair and she won't fall for a guy like Spencer Tracy.
She'll fall for a kookie guy like Johnny Depp who showers only twice monthly.
Writers talk a good game and think they are world VIP's because they write shit. Believe you me, something does NOT matter more because you write it down.
Yet there are a lot of (jesus forbid) excellent tips here, true tips. I just hate the idea that writers need advice on writing. Fucking accountants don't need advice on accounting, do they?
I'd like to visit Griffith Observatory in Los Angeles some day. No, I'm not big on astronomy.
Parts of one of my favorite, most life-changing movies were filmed there. The movie, of course, is Rebel Without a Cause, and the climactic finals scenes were shot in and around the Observatory.
In Fairmount, Indiana, I saw a duplicate of this statue (which resides outside Griffith Observatory):
Of course, this one looks out over the Hollywood hills and the one I saw was in the middle of a tiny town square surrounded by trees and preteens on Huffy bikes. I know which one is more glamorous, but you have to give the heart and soul award to Fairmount. One of my all-time favorite towns.
Back to the Observatory. I want to stand where (spoiler alert) Jim gives Plato his jacket and takes the bullets out of his gun. And then proceed to the spot on the front lawn where Plato is shot by the cops and Jim dramatically yells, "I got the bullets!"
It gives me chills just thinking about it. What a brilliant film, and how brilliant to film it in such a public spot, where fans can recreate those memorable scenes.
Might be tough to recreate the flash mob scene around back, though.
Which I love. My life consists of a back and forth amongst all these options. I usually think I'm an "Are you happy?" No. "Do you want to be happy?" Yes.
But sometimes I kind of enjoy the misery. Other days I am genuinely happy. I guess I have a disorder yet to be diagnosed. Either that, or maybe I just sleep really well some nights.
Then again, my moods could also correlate to the amount of caffeine in my system.
Right now, for example, I'm very happy. But I wasn't terribly happy when I woke up. Maybe that's because One Tree Hill was the only thing on television. In any case, I know one thing for certain: I'm at my happiest when I have an obsession going on. I'm an easily obsessed person.
Right now, I'm obsessed with Tolkien. John and I are reading The Hobbit and marveling at the wit and imagination it contains. The last time I read it, I was in high school, and to be honest, it (somehow) bored me. But it's brilliant.
I'm also obsessed with losing ten pounds, though obviously this is not the kind of obsession that makes me happy. Especially since it's not going terribly well, as evidenced by the donut I'm eating right as I type.
I believe my next obsession will be: finding someone who can cut my hair like this:
And I do mean the female, although Dominic Monaghan and Billy Boyd are pretty dapper too.
Maybe my next obsession should actually be figuring out why Cate Blanchett is so stunningly beautiful.
Anyway. I'm going to try follow the advice of the image at the top of this post. Since I'm normally the No-Yes type, it says I should change something. Easier said than done, especially for someone as lazy and complacent as I am. But it's absolutely right: I can envision where I want to be in life, so I need to make some changes and just get my ass there.
I think my first step will be to take a writing course. And my second step might just be getting that haircut.
Christina and I dreamed of getting out of our hometown for so long that I really don't remember a time when we were content in Bangor. We felt like we would overdose on peace and quiet and hickness. Excitement and drama is what we lacked, and why we wanted out.
And yet, when she moved during college, I longed for the days when I could do the following:
1. Give her a call and say, "Yo, I'm comin' over."
2. Hop in my car
3. Be at her house in eight minutes.
I timed it a lot. Once, I made it in seven. It was only once though.
Most of the time there were deer in the way. Or cows. Or horses. A variety of wildlife (and tame life) inhabit the woods between the little farm house on Fox Gap Road and the log cabin on Million Dollar Highway.
It was really called Million Dollar Highway. It was home to farms, some small and ill-kept homes, trailers, a nice house or two, and most importantly, the house that became a haven for me during my teenage years.
I think I spent more time at Christina's house than I did my own when I finally got my drivers license. The area between her house and Portland became our habitat. We dined on shepherd's pie and scones at Union Jack's Cafe. We looked at the antique shops full of pretty things we couldn't afford. We ate ice cream every damn night at Kelly's. We listened to the Monkees and the Beatles in the car. My mom's car had a CD player, which was very awesome.
This tiny amount of freedom made our sixteen year old selves giddy, and we laughed the entire time.
I still have the car, but I don't have the ability to see Christina whenever I want. We can't go to Union Jack's, it flooded twice and closed. Kelly's ice cream sucks now. The little house on Million Dollar Highways belongs to strangers who chopped down the hedges.
Little things slip away as you get older, and then, big things. It's a shame that Christina and I wished away our time in Bangor so often. No one could have convinced us otherwise, though, when we were thirteen and hungry for city adventure. It happened soon enough.
Because, who could not use some more twinkle lights in their lives? This little guy lives in my bedroom at my parent's house, where I spend quite a bit of time still.
There's a crummy cell phone picture of him. Maybe I will take away Mossy the Moose and the little nativity. But the tiny silver tree is dreamy and makes an excellent nightlight.
Of course, my seven year old self would have scoffed at this idea. I had such a pure, delicious vision of what Christmas was. First of December, my box of decorations came down from the attic and I spent hours smothering a tiny green artificial tree in lights, ornaments, and strings of popcorn and pearly beads.
That tree went up in my room every year until my first year of college, when it mysteriously disappeared. I suspect water damage caused my parents to throw the box out, but they didn't have the heart to tell me. I mean, a two foot tall artificial tree can't just get up and walk away by itself, dragging a cardboard box full of ornaments behind it, right?
My tree, in particular, even lost a plastic foot somewhere along the way, down from four to three. It fell over at least once a year, causing me to invest in primarily unbreakable ornaments. The tree sat beside a glitter-covered plastic nativity set and a train of some sort.
Those decorations represented all that was Christmas in my small world. The season began December first and ended at the end of Christmas day, causing the 25th to be the closest thing to bittersweet I've ever experienced, even now.
I used to leave the little tree up in my room until January first, then it was back to the attic for another eleven months. It was just my way of doing things. In the back of my mind, I had the feeling that the anticipation of Christmas was most of the fun, and I didn't want to overdo it and risk making the season less magical.
Has Christmas lost all its wonder? Am I succumbing to the end of the magic by leaving this little tree up for a few more weeks, months? What if I leave it up until the end of the year?
By way of a first post, I will jot down a few things I learned in 2011. Maybe not the most earth shattering introduction, but it will do.
1. Everything is better with a kitten. Specifically a sweet, even tempered kitten named Reggie who is orange and fluffy and gorgeous. He loves watching me type. He's doing it right now.
2. I really liked Borders. Now that it has gone out of business, there is a chain bookstore sized hole in my heart. Barnes and Noble feels so soulless in comparison, because they like to pretend they aren't a massive chain what with their "Employee Picks" and murals on the walls. At least Borders was honest.
3. I'm an OK cook. This year I learned how to make meat lasagna, chicken gnocchi soup (a la Olive Garden), the best creamy tomato sauce in the world, and a few other things. I also learned that I actually like cooking!
4. The publishing industry is probably not for me. Maybe it would be if it was still the publishing industry of "old," in which editors edited and writers retained most of their integrity. I'm sure there are still publishing houses like this, but it doesn't seem to be the most prevalent business model.
5. J.R.R. Tolkien was an utter genius. The more of his work that I read (and reread), the more astounded I am by his imagination.
6. I'm truly sad to see soap operas go by the wayside. I've always wanted to write for a soap, and now that is basically and impossible dream. Every cancellation hits me "right here."
6. No one cares what I have to say, but I still tweet constantly. Meaning, I've learned that I'm an egomaniac.
7. Major catastrophes, such as the nuclear crisis in Japan this past year, really shake me. I truly was scared for myself, my friends and family, and the world. It makes me happy that I have what I think of as sympathy. I wasn't just concerned about myself, even though I'm relatively self-centered.
8. I always feel better about myself when I dress nice. I've discovered that more and more this year, and I'm now slightly addicted to dresses. So simple, you hardly have to worry about styling it, yet you look classy! It's magic.
9. I never care about sweets and the like unless I'm watching my diet. Then, shoveling cookies and candy into my face becomes my all-consuming desire.
10. Music may not actually sound better on vinyl, but it's definitely cooler to put a record on the turn table than to hit "play" on the ipod.
11. I want to create my own jewelry line some day, and maybe sell on Etsy. Or at Renaissance Faires, like Luke's sister on Gilmore Girls.
12. Nothing is more important than keeping up relationships. I know I need to work harder on this in 2012.
13. The idea that the world will end in 2012 is kind of exciting. I know that sounds morbid, but there it is.
