Shane’s Destination June 22, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, It, Los Angeles, Movies.add a comment
Loners. Vanguards. Gunfighters. Shane. Shane was horrible, by far the worst Western I’d ever seen in my life. Purists would call me a lunatic, but I never trust a purist. ‘Purist’ is a positive spin on ‘true believer’, a category of person I refuse to ever trust. You can’t talk to a true believer, not to any effect, that is; you can yell at them and hope some or any of it sinks in but as they speak they search for holes in their own argument and as you speak they prepare their next barrage. They’re not listening to anything you say because they don’t see the need. Their mind has been made up, and every conversation is a chance to drag another non-believer into the light.
Tangent, whatever.
Back to westerns. I can’t call myself a real fan simply because real fans happen to like terrible movies. The best ones I’ve seen are ones that break the mold in some way. The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and Outlaw Josey Wales were basically anti-war movies. Unforgiven was Clint Eastwood’s ultimate backlash at the hand that fed his career; the loner, the vanguard, the gunfighter, broken down for what it was – not legendary or respectable, but tragic. Thanks Byron, you poetic asshole, for turning the myths into the same depressed meaningless mess as everyone else. What, does Superman take detours into Mexican border towns to score cheap Lexapro? Why can’t anyone be bulletproof anymore? Let the man throw the Cadillac!
The main characteristic of the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter is that he goes from town to town, no real destination and no real starting point, ramblin’ like so many seventies rock bands glorified. You pick up, you go, you sit down for a second and tear the place apart, and then leave with only a trail of dust the people you knew left in the wake. You blew through town and as soon as everyone noticed, gone like Keyser Soze.
The movies always follow the town, watching the rider disappear into the sunset as the credits creep up, the huge Technicolor! globe taking over for the sun. But you never know what happens to the Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter, and you only sort of care. It’s widely assumed that he just does what he did again, with a new town, new women, and new nemeses.
I’ll tell you what happens, he gets forty yards away and doubles back, usually from some higher vantage point, looking into the town he saved from certain destruction. But the masses who pled for him to stay have already gotten over it. They’ve gone back to the saloons and general stores and whatever buildings they have in old western towns. Butchers, tons of butchers. And an amicable coffin maker. They’re over it. The Loner/Vanguard/Gunfighter knows that had he stayed, the jubilation would have subsided and business as usual would have set in just the same. The world is saved and the story is told, the details of which will get fuzzier and more grandiose until someone’s kid eventually calls the crazy old people out on their hyperbole. When it all comes into question, it becomes harder and harder to believe any of it. It’s like it never happened.
No homes, only temporary places to crash. People who’s idiosyncrasies and drinks of choice become harder and harder to recall. Returning will be as a visitor, but have I ever been anything but? Or am I the permanent visitor? That’ll probably change at some point.
Then again, it didn’t for Shane.
See You In Arizona Bay May 18, 2007
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, Immigration, Los Angeles.add a comment
CHICAGO – I should probably explain myself.
I had decided I wasn’t going to go even before I’d gotten the letter admitting me to law school. A ferocious reshuffling of priorities in the first few months of 2005 left me considering the possibility that if I became a lawyer, I’d never get the chance to write a movie. It was always one of those things that was on its permanent backburner, behind the other backburners, in another kitchen, really. But I knew that I’d been thinking about writing and performing comedy since I left college and the sketch group that brought me back from the dead, and that it wasn’t likely to stop once I picked up the books and headed to court. I wrote a sketch during the LSAT, for the love of christ (for the record, of the 22 questions I missed on the LSAT, 19 of them were on the section where the sketch was born. And yes, it killed), how was I ever going to give up on this? As relationships fell apart and people I knew as mentors literally died around me, I decided that living with regret was the worse possible thing in the world.
So I concluded that bailing on the bizarre, impractical Dream was impossible and decided to give It a shot. But the grind of waiting tables and praying to God, Allah, Krishna, and whoever else that someone saw my standup set that is the lifestyle of New York and Los Angeles wasn’t my scene. Long story short, I moved to Chicago and picked up with the Second City Conservatory, working with directors and ridiculously funny people and finding some way to pay the rent. I locked myself in with complete and utter tunnel-vision, totally ignoring any thoughts of what the next decade or year or month was going to be like. I did a bunch of shows on the various stages at SC and a few others around Chicago and had a great time. I could have stayed here forever.
But that wasn’t the next step. I ended up with an audition and a callback for a sketch show in Los Angeles, and before my last show at Second City was cold, I landed a job as a writer…in LA.
The bane of my existence, the place the great Bill Hicks called Arizona Bay…I’ll soon call it home. I was going to go through all that stuff that so many people have gone through before: the search for an agent, the traffic, football games at ten o’clock in the morning. Amidst all the other people trying to Live the Dream, I was going to blend in like egg nog ice cream, which I once ate under the false pretense that it was vanilla. So we’re underway.
Still in Chicago and I might get the call to move at any minute. I’m guessing June. I’ll document it in full…
A few random things:
-Immigration bill looks like it’s going to work out. I think it seems fair, I’ve already heard a few people angry that they’re fining the illegals $5k as part of their trek to citizenship. Well, they’ve been in this country for awhile and haven’t paid taxes. Also, there’s that whole thing about ‘illegal’ immigrant; they’re criminals according to our government. Al Capone’s empire came crumbling down because of tax evasion, five grand isn’t a thing. I would like to hear alternatives from anyone who disagrees with the bill or my assessment that it’s more than fair, not to start a fight, but because I’m open to listen. That’s how conversations work, despite what CNN and other media outlets want you to think.
-Jerry Falwell’s dead this week, and it’s about time. I’m tired of famous people becoming 
saints after they die, especially people who are famous for being terrible human beings. Falwell said the United States deserved 9/11 because of all the athiests, gays, minorities and tits on TV. His sermons led people to agree with his sentiments that the Civil Rights movement was the worst thing that has ever happened to this country. Falwell was a terrorist, no better than a low-ranking Klansman who harrasses black families in suburban neighborhoods. Every time part of you wants to show some remorse for his recent passing, remember that if he had his way, black people would be calling him “massah”, gay people would be on fire, the 700 club would be the only show on TV, and if you are Jewish, Muslim, atheist, Buddhist or just not Christian enough, you’d be dead. I think he was a horrible guy, you’re entitled to your opinion (oh, he wouldn’t want that either).
Conduct Detrimental May 6, 2006
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, Epic, Language.add a comment
There is a 30% chance this story will translate…
Many great scholars have written on the pillars of public bathroom etiquette. There are, after all, a series of rules that separate us from the animals. I humbly submit to you that today, in fact two minutes ago, I violated one of these rules. In fact, it is very likely that I violated almost all of them. Seppuku is in order.
So I get into the bathroom, three urinals on the wall, and there’s someone else in there. He’s not in my department, but he sits next to a buddy of mine. And I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what his name was. I wasn’t planning on saying hello or anything (as that would certainly violate the rules), but the simple fact that I couldn’t come up with it manifested a very real challenge. I knew I knew his name…and I knew he had a really interesting nickname as well that my buddy had given him behind his back. This was not a nickname like “Ace” Battaglia or Chris “Jim” Burkland. This was something that this person did not know about, and who knows precisely what his reaction would be.
The dude is a surly dude. The kind of person who spends every minute of his life sulking. If anything good happens, a dark, poison cloud will, in his mind, inevitably urinate all over it. It is important to recognize that the idea of a urinating cloud exists only the realm of ficiton.
So I’m standing there, trying to figure out what his name is. He’s gone over to the sink. It’s right there…the name is right there but I can’t come up with it. I am in the process of zipping up and flushing when the nickname hits me like big, red, rubber dodgeball.
Doomsday. They call this guy Doomsday.
This instantly became the funniest thing in the world to me. So I walk over to the sink, holding back tear-inducing laughter, with little bits of it escaping in the form of “pfft…” and “snnk”. Doomsday looks at me, like I’m completely insane. I refuse to make eye contact. I keep my head down like the peasant workers in Shininin no Samurai and walk over to get a paper towel. Doomsday has planted his feet and his head is on a swivel. We do not laugh in the men’s bathroom for any reason whatsover, and my restraint was about as effective as putting duct tape over a shotgun. I know I can’t leave like this, so I pull myself together, and look at my confused compatriot, who is waiting for eye contact to say (in the most deadpan, monotone voice this side of the robot from Lost In Space):
“Something wrong?”
I respond with a combination of “no” and hysterical laughter, although something tells me the former was slightly drowned out. I had no choice at the moment but to flee, and moved back to my desk.
The moral of the story is: don’t give anyone a hilarious nickname they don’t know about or else you’ll probably end up laughing at them in the bathroom. Here endeth the lesson.
Six Months April 3, 2006
Posted by rosolio in Chicago.add a comment
Blinded by a college-throwback-style weekend bender and the staggering immersion that is 36 holes of Golden Tee, I completely forgot to officially recognize this previous passing Saturday as my six month mark in Chicago. I was very conscious of it on Thursday, but my consciousness dwindled to the point of being unable to operate any sort of machinery on Sunday morning. I was so entrenched in the self-inflicted malaise that attempting to reset my clocks for Daylight Savings Time turned out to be as trying as disarming a nuclear weapon on an inverted submarine without a scuba tank (something with which, as you know, I have exhaustive experience).
This isn’t going to be a recap of what’s been going on, because a whole lot has, and to try to cram the experience into a Mighty Dog can of a posting would be impossible. Rather than try to describe the trip, I’m going to describe the train-car, the tracks, and the shepherd’s daughter Snidely Whiplash has tied to the tracks. Why not.
My first point of contention is renting. It’s probably the biggest and most widely accepted waste of cash this side of Ronco (although that conglomerate is quickly getting outgunned by extreme diet pills; so the top standings, for those keeping score at home, are 1. Extreme Diet Pills, 2. JG Wentworth, 3. The Ab Shocker, 4. Ronco, 5. Chuck Norris’s Workout Machine). Zero long term benefit, substantial repeated costs, especially if you live alone. Plus, you have a number of reminders on a daily basis that you do not own the place in which you live. These include situations as routine as hot water not working and the heat clicking on when it’s 60 out. My personal favorite happened this past weekend, where I found a note mentioning the maintinence guy had been in my apartment, but it didn’t say what he did. There was a single gigantic footprint in my entranceway, and that was it. It could be that the maintinence guy opened the door, stepped in the apartment, and then left. It’s not my place. At all. I’m basically crashing on someone’s couch and paying them a ton of cash to do so.
The million dollar question, therefore, will be whether I can manage to buy something out here when my lease runs out in October. It could be possible, but would also designate a long-term commitment; like three to four years. I’m only halfway into this lease, I can figure that action out later.
Meanwhile, the punishment that one day of “Spring Forward” daylight savings time provides is made up by the fact that it’s not pitch-midnight-black outside when I leave work. That does wonders for avoiding the kind of Corporate Conglomerate Depression that staring at a computer screen for eight hours a day can provide.
To be continued…
NOTE: Ann Coulter has been officially charged with voter fraud, having knowingly registered in the wrong county in Florida. 20-1 says she blames it on immigration.
Analyze This March 23, 2006
Posted by rosolio in Chicago, Common Sense, Genius.add a comment
I have been quoted a dozen or so times as flat-out mentioning that given the proper amount of time, I can figure anything out. That gigantic oystering net encompasses everything from what people are thinking to how to install a gas stove. With any luck, the latter will not be challenged, as it is kind of like culinary Cambodia behind my stove at the moment; in the brief time I have lived in this particular apartment, I have accidentally launched butter, tomato sauce, ground beef, lettuce, scrambled egg, a coat hanger (which was supposedly used to collect the butter), a slice of smoked gouda, and a Comcast cable bill (don’t ask) into the thin crevasse behind my oven. Needless to say, the next person to go back there will be shaking hands with the foulest situation they’ve ever come across.
Anyway, I can figure most things out. That would come across as an arrogant statement (and maybe it does) if I wasn’t convinced that anyone could do it. Some people can do things faster than others; I’ve met kids who can assemble the Lego pirate ship in 20 minutes, and others who eat the red – “cherry” – pieces. Forgetting that knowledge doesn’t need to be a horserace, anyone can figure anything out if they don’t get in their own way.
That’s the trick. Especially with dealing with people. If you attach any sort of desired end result to your analysis, you’re going to screw it up. It’s counterintuitive to figuring out most things. If you’re trying to set up a TiVo, you know what the end result is going to be: a functioning TiVo. People are different, and when they are pigeonholed into predetermined spots…well, that’s how you get war, racism, punditry, and virtually every other problem existing today. Except bird flu. That’s no one’s fault…except for the cockfighting “coaches” who don’t understand that ThunderCapon has a disease who could kill everyone on the planet. I’ve made a sweeping judgment about them. Fuck them.
The first lesson is not a popular one and is in agreement with Malcolm Gladwell: your first impression is almost always right. Now before the hate mail comes pouring in, I would like to express what it is I mean by “first impression.” I don’t mean the first time you see someone, I mean your initial interaction. It could be anything, as long as a conversation or as short as a look from across the El platform. You’re going to know exactly what you’re dealing with almost immediately.
It’s the oldest statement in the bad-cop-movie lexicon: the Eyes Never Lie. In every interrogation scene, or poker scene for that matter, the analyst gathers flawless, CSI-foolproof information by watching his target’s eyes. Give TJ Hooker ten seconds of eye contact and he knows what you had for breakfast that morning. It’s that kind of hyperbole that forces us to dismiss the claims that the Eyes Can’t Lie. But they can’t, and never do.
The most basic way to figure out what’s going on is to be conscious of what your eyes are doing when you’re thinking different things; when you spot a smoking hot chick, when you want to punch someone in the face, when you’re so bored you start reciting movies line by line in your head. In poker, where do you look when you have a hand? When you’re trying to get away from someone in a bar that you’re considering faking a knee injury like a soccer player, where are you looking? Here’s a newsflash: everyone operates the same way. People think different things and like different things and react differently than others, but the intristic wiring of everyone operates exactly the same way. When you’re pissed, intrigued, or looking to get laid, your eyes are doing the exact same thing everyone else’s are in that situation.
This is not, of course, a universal rule. While watching someone’s eyes will tell you absolutely everything you need to know about them, people don’t always take the time to check. They get so wound up in what people say or what they think is going on that they shirk any and all patience and try to make a judgment. Here’s a secret: you can’t try to make a judgment, you’ve just got to figure it out as you go. That is often accompianied by fear, but only because people are afraid of being wrong. If you’re not clinging to some end result, you can’t be wrong, therefore you can’t lose. The truth is going to be there.
Here’s the real clincher: what if you’re afraid of being right? Aye, there’s the rub. Been there, a number of times. Two different, yet equally terrible, ways to react to that one: 1) deluding yourself into thinking that it’s not the case and; 2) working like crazy to prevent it from happening. Neither of them work. Delusion only lasts so long and makes you feel like an idiot when all is said and done and preventing it just never works. You can’t drop the Terminator’s arm into the smelting pot in this case, plus you start second guessing yourself. Bad news, tragedy ensues.
People are overly speculative, myself included. You can only project so far ahead before you find yourself walking a bike with training wheels along a perfectly mapped out path wearing a foam helmet. Fear is ridiculous. Wait, I need to rephrase that, because the original Ring scared the crap out of me. Fear of failure, in any capacity, is ridiculous. It’s all in our heads. We only fear what we’ve predetermined. It’s much easier to regret something you did than something you didn’t do. Someone famous said that, but I’m not going to footnote them. Regret sucks either way, and it’s an infinitely worse feeling than fear. Regret is Mike Tyson and Fear is Don Flamenco.
The worst way to live is to be afraid of being wrong about the future. A better way is to just see what happens and trust that it’ll be okay.
Keep your eyes open and you’ll see what I mean.
