"We're all on the same page." - Jesse
"What page is that?" - Walt
"The one that says, 'If I can't kill you, you'll sure as shit wish you were dead.'" - Jesse
As I watched the stunning season premiere of Breaking Bad last night, I couldn't help but drawn comparisons between it and the work of the Coen brothers, specifically No Country for Old Men. There was an outright nod to that film during the climactic scene of the episode - Walter White lifting his feet to avoid a spreading pool of blood - but beyond that, "Box Cutter" echoed NCFOM in the way it used silence to remarkable effect. It had maybe six or seven minutes' worth of dialogue, yet I found myself holding my breath virtually the entire hour. Credit the writing staff for having the confidence in themselves, their product, and their actors to structure the episode in such a way, especially coming off a yearlong hiatus after the explosive finale of the third season.
But then, Breaking Bad has always excelled at subverting expectations, and that was immediately apparent again last night. The cold opens for previous season openers had been in media res, showing us events, characters, and settings that we weren't yet familiar with. Last night's episode began with a simple flashback: Gale alive and well, giddily setting up the Superlab as Gus and Victor look on. It's a nice little send-off for his character, but this is not a sentimental show: This scene is meant to remind us that Walt and Jesse murdered a sweet, decent man (who happened to cook meth, sure, but you'd be hard-pressed to find a nicer guy in the business) in cold blood to save themselves. Not only that, it reveals that Gale actually talked Gus into hiring Walt, unwittingly marching into his own grave.
The main action of the episode begins with long, lingering shots of Gale's apartment in the immediate aftermath of his demise - his potato clock, his books, the bullet hole in the teapot, and finally his face, still twisted in surprise and fear, the entry wound below his left eye. A crowd of people has gathered in the doorway, and Victor rather carelessly thrusts himself right into the middle of the crime scene. He finds a shell-shocked Jesse sitting in his car just outside the building, and forces him to drive to the lab at gunpoint.
Victor's emotional response to Gale's death surprised me. Granted, he's always been a peripheral character and we never learned much about him, but the look on his face when he saw Gale, and the anger he displayed toward Walt and Jesse, made me curious. Some have speculated that Victor and Gale had some deeper connection or friendship, but if I had to guess, I'd say Victor might have been in line to be Gale's assistant once Walt was dead.
Whatever the case, when Walt says that he and Jesse need to start cooking to keep to Gus's schedule, you can feel Victor's disdain as he begins the process himself, revealing that he's been observing Walt's method for weeks. "That's right, genius. We ain't missing no cook," he growls.
Oh, if only he knew how right he would turn out to be. Gus finally arrives, cold fury emanating from every deliberate step. Walt, as usual, starts babbling about how much Gus needs him, trying to save his and Jesse's lives. Victor, alternating withering glares and smug grins, tells Gus he can duplicate Walt's recipe. Gus says nothing, not even bothering to look at either man, as he changes into a lab suit and calmly searches the shelves until he finds the neon green box cutter we saw Gale using in the opening. Walt grows more and more frantic. "You won't do this. You're too smart. You can't afford to do this," he pleads. And he's right. Everything we know about Gus tells us that he is a pragmatic, careful businessman, and with Gale dead and so much overhead invested in the operation, Gus can't afford to kill Walt and Jesse.
So instead, he murders Victor right in front of them, slicing his throat with the box cutter, blood splattering his face as he stares at them, still not saying a word. The effect is interesting. Walt, who at the end of last season appeared to be embracing his inner Heisenberg, is so appalled and frightened that he nearly vomits; Jesse, meanwhile, seems to finally jolt out of his post-murder stupor. Gus drops Victor's corpse and the blood-soaked box cutter at their feet, calmly cleans himself up, gets dressed and leaves, pausing at the door to tell them to get working.
As surprising as it was at the time, it's not difficult to understand why Gus did what he did. Mike would certainly have told Gus that Victor had allowed himself to be seen at Gale's apartment, and had left his car there. That made Victor a loose end. It's also probable that Victor was responsible for ensuring Gale's safety, a task at which he failed spectacularly. His cocky attitude when Gus arrived likely didn't do him any favors, either.
In typical Gus fashion, he took the unfortunate necessity of having to eliminate a trusted employee and did it in the most efficient way possible. By killing Victor with such brutality, Gus sent a message: Do not cross me. Walt - and by extension, the audience - has always known that Gus is a dangerous man. But he's always had others to do his dirty work. Now it's clear that he's not afraid to get down in mud himself.
Yet at the same time, the move reeks of desperation. As smart and ruthless and careful as Gus is, he's put himself between a rock and a hard place by ignoring his instincts and getting into bed with Walt and Jesse. His only hope for regaining control over the situation is to intimidate them. It might have worked temporarily on Walt, but Jesse, for once, seems to be seeing deeper. He's probably right in thinking that finding a new chemist isn't going to be quick or easy for Gus.
The final shot of the episode is back at Gale's apartment, where a notebook labeled "Lab Notes" sits on the coffee table, just waiting for the police to discover it. As complicated as the working relationship between Gus, Walt, and Jesse is now, you can bet things are going to get a lot more difficult, and soon.
I have absolutely no idea what's coming next, but I can't wait to find out. This will be my first full season watching week-to-week like everyone else (I didn't start watching Breaking Bad until last spring, so I caught up midway through last season). I can already tell that the suspense is going to kill me.
Stray thoughts:
- Giancarlo Esposito made himself the early frontrunner for a Best Supporting Actor Emmy next year. Not counting the cold open, he had five words of dialogue, and yet he managed to completely own this episode, communicating so much just with his eyes and his physical movement. Incredible.
- Aaron Paul was right there with him, though he got some dialogue to work with in the last 10 minutes. Going from near-catatonic to perfectly normal, after shooting someone in the face and then watching a guy get his throat slit, isn't exactly a good sign. Not to mention the expression on his face as he met Gus's eyes while Victor was bleeding out. I'm excited, and a little terrified, to see where Jesse's character arc goes from here.
- In an hour full of subtle acting gems, my favorite bit was the way Mike instinctively pulled his gun when Gus cut Victor. It might have been scripted, but either way, kudos to Jonathan Banks.
- The scenes with Saul, Skyler, and Hank/Marie were all good, but I'm not sure they worked in the context of the episode. Maybe I just wanted to spend the whole hour in the lab.
- For such a bleak episode, there were a lot of funny moments: Skyler conning the locksmith, the matching Kenny Rogers (who was a Chicken Man himself at one point) shirts, Jesse's first line, pretty much the entire scene with Saul. It never ceases to amaze me how much humor Breaking Bad is capable of gleaning from such dark material.
- A lot of callbacks in this episode, from the infamous bathtub scene to the teddy bear's eye.
- Nice nod to Pulp Fiction with the criminals in goofy outfits having breakfast.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Beginners, Part I
"What do any of us really know about love? It seems to me we're just beginners at love. We say we love each other and we do, I don't doubt it. I love Terri and Terri loves me...[b]ut sometimes I have a hard time accounting for the fact that I must have loved my first wife too. But I did. I know I did. There was a time when I thought I loved my first wife more than life itself. But now I hate her guts. I do. How do you explain that?" - "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love", by Raymond Carver
I met Rachel early in my sophomore year, at one of those random house parties you can find on any street of any college campus on any weekend. Though I was 19, up to this point I was quite inexperienced with women. I'd kissed maybe half a dozen, and briefly dated two. I'd received oral two or three times, but nothing more. Having high standards and a crippling lack of what is referred to as "game" is not a combination conducive to getting laid often. Still having my v-card weighed on me a little, but not enough to just settle for whoever would have me.
Rachel approached me. As far I can recall, this is the only time in my life that this has ever happened at a party. Whether that says more about me or the way that society works is a matter of personal opinion. Regardless, she liked my shirt (black, with "I'm Surrounded by Idiots" stenciled in white, a shirt my mother had bought me for at Disney World that summer), and we struck up a conversation while we danced.
She was completely my type. Smart. Witty. Red hair. Fabulous ass. And, awful as I was (and probably still am) at reading signals, it seemed like she was interested in me. Perhaps somewhere deep in my subconscious, I recognized this as an opportunity not even a coward like me could pass up, or maybe I was just drunk and high enough to approximate the action of a functional human being. Whatever the case, I went for it.
A while later, breathless from rapid-fire conversation and making out, she told me she had a boyfriend. A boyfriend 10 hours away, sure, but nevertheless. Naturally, given my age, temperament, and the rarity of me meeting someone with a mutual attraction, I didn't really care. We continued as if she hadn't said a word, although I give myself a shred of credit as a decent person for not fucking her that night. I figured she'd have enough regret on her plate when she woke up the next morning without that happening. So I walked her home and expected never to talk to her again, despite exchanging numbers.
I was inside of her inside of a week. After a month of casual cuckolding, during which she broke things off with her hometown boy and I fell ass over teakettle in love, we were a couple. Stupid? Of course. So was moving in together at the end of the school year. So was ignoring the million telltale signs that she was thinking of straying - which, much like thinking about puking, isn't too far from actually doing it. So was getting back together after we broke up on our anniversary. Rachel and rational thought on my part rarely coincided.
It took her actually fucking somebody else, late in my junior year, to change that. As soon as she copped to it - over a week after it had happened - I ended things. Of course, screwing somebody else is pretty much an unofficial way of breaking up with somebody, but I at least had the good sense not to believe we could continue on. Even then, for the first few weeks, I entertained delusions of things working out between us. It was, as you are no doubt laughably aware at this stage, not a healthy relationship. I don't know that it was love on my part, so much as obsession. I simply allowed myself to be far too dependent on her for my own happiness, which probably encouraged her to fall back into a well-developed habit of infidelity. (Cheating on her boyfriend at the time with me was far from her first rodeo. She told me this pretty early on, yet I committed to a relationship. I deserved what I got.)
When classes ended, she went back to her parents' house in New York. I stayed in Pittsburgh. She decided not to continue with school, but visited at the end of the summer. It became quite clear during that week that we had nothing left to say to one another. That summer was definitely a formative experience for me, and based on the fact that I barely recognized the girl I'd known so well, it was for her as well. I felt a sadness at this, but it was driven more by nostalgia than any desire to keep her in my life. I don't think I fully got over her until then. Her. Not what had happened. I don't know that anyone ever "fully gets over" that kind of betrayal.
Over two years would pass before I felt anything beyond casual affection for another woman.
I met Rachel early in my sophomore year, at one of those random house parties you can find on any street of any college campus on any weekend. Though I was 19, up to this point I was quite inexperienced with women. I'd kissed maybe half a dozen, and briefly dated two. I'd received oral two or three times, but nothing more. Having high standards and a crippling lack of what is referred to as "game" is not a combination conducive to getting laid often. Still having my v-card weighed on me a little, but not enough to just settle for whoever would have me.
Rachel approached me. As far I can recall, this is the only time in my life that this has ever happened at a party. Whether that says more about me or the way that society works is a matter of personal opinion. Regardless, she liked my shirt (black, with "I'm Surrounded by Idiots" stenciled in white, a shirt my mother had bought me for at Disney World that summer), and we struck up a conversation while we danced.
She was completely my type. Smart. Witty. Red hair. Fabulous ass. And, awful as I was (and probably still am) at reading signals, it seemed like she was interested in me. Perhaps somewhere deep in my subconscious, I recognized this as an opportunity not even a coward like me could pass up, or maybe I was just drunk and high enough to approximate the action of a functional human being. Whatever the case, I went for it.
A while later, breathless from rapid-fire conversation and making out, she told me she had a boyfriend. A boyfriend 10 hours away, sure, but nevertheless. Naturally, given my age, temperament, and the rarity of me meeting someone with a mutual attraction, I didn't really care. We continued as if she hadn't said a word, although I give myself a shred of credit as a decent person for not fucking her that night. I figured she'd have enough regret on her plate when she woke up the next morning without that happening. So I walked her home and expected never to talk to her again, despite exchanging numbers.
I was inside of her inside of a week. After a month of casual cuckolding, during which she broke things off with her hometown boy and I fell ass over teakettle in love, we were a couple. Stupid? Of course. So was moving in together at the end of the school year. So was ignoring the million telltale signs that she was thinking of straying - which, much like thinking about puking, isn't too far from actually doing it. So was getting back together after we broke up on our anniversary. Rachel and rational thought on my part rarely coincided.
It took her actually fucking somebody else, late in my junior year, to change that. As soon as she copped to it - over a week after it had happened - I ended things. Of course, screwing somebody else is pretty much an unofficial way of breaking up with somebody, but I at least had the good sense not to believe we could continue on. Even then, for the first few weeks, I entertained delusions of things working out between us. It was, as you are no doubt laughably aware at this stage, not a healthy relationship. I don't know that it was love on my part, so much as obsession. I simply allowed myself to be far too dependent on her for my own happiness, which probably encouraged her to fall back into a well-developed habit of infidelity. (Cheating on her boyfriend at the time with me was far from her first rodeo. She told me this pretty early on, yet I committed to a relationship. I deserved what I got.)
When classes ended, she went back to her parents' house in New York. I stayed in Pittsburgh. She decided not to continue with school, but visited at the end of the summer. It became quite clear during that week that we had nothing left to say to one another. That summer was definitely a formative experience for me, and based on the fact that I barely recognized the girl I'd known so well, it was for her as well. I felt a sadness at this, but it was driven more by nostalgia than any desire to keep her in my life. I don't think I fully got over her until then. Her. Not what had happened. I don't know that anyone ever "fully gets over" that kind of betrayal.
Over two years would pass before I felt anything beyond casual affection for another woman.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Nietzsche Pie, Extra Hamlet
I feel like I ought to be more sure of things at this point. You know? Have some idea what I want, where I'm headed, why that is, who I should be with, how I'll do it, when I'll get there.
Instead, as Bubbles once said, I am "equivocatin' like a motherfucker." I've always had something of a Hamlet complex, but that's a luxury you can afford while you're growing up. Two years out of college, ambivalence isn't the best quality to have.
Hell, I've got a Hamlet complex about my Hamlet complex. I sometimes wonder if it's a good thing, on some level, that I reject the idea of things being black and white, of easy solutions to complex problems, of what I'm "supposed" to do. Then I come at it from the other side. It's immaturity, it's fear of commitment, it's a refusal to face reality. Rebuttal: What's happening here is a struggle to reconcile what I think I want because society has told me I should want it, and what will actually make me happy. Rejoinder: Don't hide behind the "they made me this way" defense. You can't call everyone else on that bullshit and then use it yourself.
You see the problem.
The ability to see things from multiple angles is something I've always been proud to have, especially in an age where it seems like the chasm between sides on any and every important issue grows wider every second. Yet it's that fact of life that makes this ability more of a curse than a gift. It doesn't help matters that I sometimes (okay...often) fall into the trap of using this dichotomy as justification for being lazy, ineffectual, or apathetic.
I could always side with Nietzsche and hold that there is no such thing as truth; ergo, certainty is an illusion. But this is depressing, not to mention reductionist. Don't give me that shit, Friedrich. You ate the last slice of pizza. I fucking saw you.
Instead, as Bubbles once said, I am "equivocatin' like a motherfucker." I've always had something of a Hamlet complex, but that's a luxury you can afford while you're growing up. Two years out of college, ambivalence isn't the best quality to have.
Hell, I've got a Hamlet complex about my Hamlet complex. I sometimes wonder if it's a good thing, on some level, that I reject the idea of things being black and white, of easy solutions to complex problems, of what I'm "supposed" to do. Then I come at it from the other side. It's immaturity, it's fear of commitment, it's a refusal to face reality. Rebuttal: What's happening here is a struggle to reconcile what I think I want because society has told me I should want it, and what will actually make me happy. Rejoinder: Don't hide behind the "they made me this way" defense. You can't call everyone else on that bullshit and then use it yourself.
You see the problem.
The ability to see things from multiple angles is something I've always been proud to have, especially in an age where it seems like the chasm between sides on any and every important issue grows wider every second. Yet it's that fact of life that makes this ability more of a curse than a gift. It doesn't help matters that I sometimes (okay...often) fall into the trap of using this dichotomy as justification for being lazy, ineffectual, or apathetic.
I could always side with Nietzsche and hold that there is no such thing as truth; ergo, certainty is an illusion. But this is depressing, not to mention reductionist. Don't give me that shit, Friedrich. You ate the last slice of pizza. I fucking saw you.
Friday, July 8, 2011
These Colors Don't Run
"You're actually rooting for the clothes, when you get right down to it." - Jerry Seinfeld
I'm much less of a sports fan than I used to be.
Part of that came from living in a city with different allegiances than the place where I grew up. While there isn't really a football rivalry to speak of between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia - they play each other once every four years, after all - living in Pittsburgh effectively killed any interest I had in that sport, though I admit the process had already begun. This town is obsessed with the Steelers, to the point where it's incredibly obnoxious. Not that you can't say the same of countless other places, including Philly. Pittsburgh just happens to be the only other place I've lived. Whenever I move to another city, I'm sure I'll develop a distaste for their fans and teams.
The rivalry between the Flyers and Penguins reignited a few years ago, when the Penguins parlayed economic overhaul in the NHL and a string of high draft picks into a return to relevance. Pittsburgh has won a championship and ended the Flyers' season twice in the last four years, gaining the upper hand in a rivalry that was traditionally one-sided in favor of the team from the eastern side of the state.
Last week, two players who made major impacts on the history of the Penguins franchise signed contracts to play for the Flyers. The reactions varied, but the most common was anger. How dare they join the ranks of the enemy, of the unclean, of...the other? This being the age of social media, thousands rushed to their electronic pulpits to cast down judgment, and disparage the same person they openly rooted for a few days earlier. What changed about the athletes in question? Nothing, other than their employer. And yet, in the eyes of many, Jaromir Jagr went from being a potentially dangerous complementary scorer to an over the hill has-been who had no chance at playing a full season. Maxime Talbot went from a beloved energy player to a borderline NHLer.
Whether any of these conclusions were accurate is mostly irrelevant. What matters is that tunes were changed, the second it became apparently that the athlete is question was now "one of them" rather than "one of us." This provincial attitude is the major reason for my increasing ambivalence toward the enterprise of professional sports.
I pride myself on being as objective as possible. I don't feel as though cheering for a specific outcome gives me an excuse to abandon my rational faculties, or, put more bluntly, to be an obnoxious asshole. If I'm watching a game and my preferred team makes a mistake or commits a violation of the rules, I acknowledge it, rather than try to explain it away or pin the blame somewhere else. I'm capable of admitting when the team I'm rooting for is outperformed. There are precious few fans who follow suit, based on what I've seen. I'm not picking on any one fanbase in particular; this lack of sense is rampant everywhere.
The more that I've thought about it, the more I've realized that sports fandom is simply nationalism on a smaller scale. These guys wear our colors, what they do is right. These guys don't, and so whatever they do is wrong. And I find it pretty sickening, to be honest.
In the old days, when team owners held a ludicrous amount of power at the negotiating table, this kind of attitude made more sense. Athletes often spent their entire careers in the employ of the same organization. Other teams and players were rarely seen, except for when they came to town.
Now? A player who sticks with the same team for his entire career is a rare commodity. Every season, there's a fair amount of turnover on any team's roster. Thanks to technology, we know more about athletes than ever before...and yet we persist in irrational expectations. As often as John Q. Public cynically says, "Athletes don't care about anything except money," we never fail to react violently when a fan favorite bolts for greener pastures. We toss around heavy words like "betrayal" and "greedy," never really admitting to ourselves that loyalty doesn't exist in the sports world.
It's stupid. It's stupid, and it's wrong, and it's nonsensical. And it isn't going to change.
I'm much less of a sports fan than I used to be.
Part of that came from living in a city with different allegiances than the place where I grew up. While there isn't really a football rivalry to speak of between Pittsburgh and Philadelphia - they play each other once every four years, after all - living in Pittsburgh effectively killed any interest I had in that sport, though I admit the process had already begun. This town is obsessed with the Steelers, to the point where it's incredibly obnoxious. Not that you can't say the same of countless other places, including Philly. Pittsburgh just happens to be the only other place I've lived. Whenever I move to another city, I'm sure I'll develop a distaste for their fans and teams.
The rivalry between the Flyers and Penguins reignited a few years ago, when the Penguins parlayed economic overhaul in the NHL and a string of high draft picks into a return to relevance. Pittsburgh has won a championship and ended the Flyers' season twice in the last four years, gaining the upper hand in a rivalry that was traditionally one-sided in favor of the team from the eastern side of the state.
Last week, two players who made major impacts on the history of the Penguins franchise signed contracts to play for the Flyers. The reactions varied, but the most common was anger. How dare they join the ranks of the enemy, of the unclean, of...the other? This being the age of social media, thousands rushed to their electronic pulpits to cast down judgment, and disparage the same person they openly rooted for a few days earlier. What changed about the athletes in question? Nothing, other than their employer. And yet, in the eyes of many, Jaromir Jagr went from being a potentially dangerous complementary scorer to an over the hill has-been who had no chance at playing a full season. Maxime Talbot went from a beloved energy player to a borderline NHLer.
Whether any of these conclusions were accurate is mostly irrelevant. What matters is that tunes were changed, the second it became apparently that the athlete is question was now "one of them" rather than "one of us." This provincial attitude is the major reason for my increasing ambivalence toward the enterprise of professional sports.
I pride myself on being as objective as possible. I don't feel as though cheering for a specific outcome gives me an excuse to abandon my rational faculties, or, put more bluntly, to be an obnoxious asshole. If I'm watching a game and my preferred team makes a mistake or commits a violation of the rules, I acknowledge it, rather than try to explain it away or pin the blame somewhere else. I'm capable of admitting when the team I'm rooting for is outperformed. There are precious few fans who follow suit, based on what I've seen. I'm not picking on any one fanbase in particular; this lack of sense is rampant everywhere.
The more that I've thought about it, the more I've realized that sports fandom is simply nationalism on a smaller scale. These guys wear our colors, what they do is right. These guys don't, and so whatever they do is wrong. And I find it pretty sickening, to be honest.
In the old days, when team owners held a ludicrous amount of power at the negotiating table, this kind of attitude made more sense. Athletes often spent their entire careers in the employ of the same organization. Other teams and players were rarely seen, except for when they came to town.
Now? A player who sticks with the same team for his entire career is a rare commodity. Every season, there's a fair amount of turnover on any team's roster. Thanks to technology, we know more about athletes than ever before...and yet we persist in irrational expectations. As often as John Q. Public cynically says, "Athletes don't care about anything except money," we never fail to react violently when a fan favorite bolts for greener pastures. We toss around heavy words like "betrayal" and "greedy," never really admitting to ourselves that loyalty doesn't exist in the sports world.
It's stupid. It's stupid, and it's wrong, and it's nonsensical. And it isn't going to change.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
"You're Getting Old": Meditations on the Nature of Art and Audience
"This is the essence of the transaction between storyteller and audience. The 'true' story is not the one that exists in my mind; it is certainly not the written words on the bound paper that you hold in your hands...The story itself, the true story, is the one that the audience members create in their minds, guided and shaped by my text, but then transformed, elucidated, expanded, edited and clarified by their own experience, their own desires, their own hopes and fears." - Orson Scott Card, introduction to 1991 hardcover edition of Ender's Game
Like many people in my demographic, I am a fan of South Park. Whatever you think of the program personally, its cultural impact is undeniable. When it first aired 14(!) years ago, it was a cheap, crudely made cartoon on a struggling, little-viewed cable network. Now it's the subject of scholarship, and Comedy Central has become a sensation (Dave Chappelle and Jon Stewart deserve credit for the latter as well, but South Park was the network's breakthrough hit).
I wasn't allowed to watch South Park when it initially hit the airwaves. I had an overprotective mother and I was only 10 years old at the time, so that's really not surprising. Before too long, though, I was watching it regularly. Forgive the cliché, but South Park and I grew up together.
The past few seasons, in the estimation of myself and many others, have left something to be desired. The criticisms are many: Trey Parker and Matt Stone have crossed the line from satire to sermon. They've lost the edge, an inevitable result of a nearly unheard of decade and a half of existence. They've fallen prey to Family Guy syndrome, using the same tired approach, tricks, and gags that they eviscerated that program for only a few years ago. They were too busy working on their Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon (I haven't experienced it yet in any form, but judging by word of mouth and the zillion Tony Awards it received, if they really did neglect South Park, they were at least productive).
Any of those criticisms, as well as numerous others, may have some truth to them. But what if the real reason is that we as an audience have changed as much, or more than, Parker and Stone?
I've always been fascinated by the interaction between artist and audience, for the simple and obvious reason that art in its various forms is the focal point of my life, and I experience the relationship from both sides. In particular, I am endlessly intrigued by the inherent relativism that rules over the enterprise. Art is, of course, subjective, and open to any number of interpretations. You could argue, as I often do, that the "best" art is subtle, complex, and causes an array of reactions. But these do not simply vary from person to person; rather, they vary for you or I or any other person from time to time. So many factors play into how you receive a work of art, from your present mood, tastes, and interests, to your experiential pool. You can read the same book, watch the same film, listen to the same song at various points throughout your life, and the way you react will be different each time. The change may be subtle, even imperceptible. It may be the absolute inverse of how you felt before. Whatever the degree, there is a change. It's simultaneously the most exhilarating and most terrifying aspect, the best and worst thing about being an artist: In the end, you have no control over how anyone else views your work, and even if people like it the first time through, they may change their minds as they age.
Enter "You're Getting Old," the finale of the fifteenth season's first half - and, a circulating theory posits, the series itself. If you haven't seen, go watch it before you read any further. Or, if you're lazy, just Wikipedia it. Either way.
Stone and Parker, for their part, have publicly denied that this is a surprise series finale. They're under contract to produce another 35 episodes, and they've claimed that they'll do just that. They appeared on The Daily Show two weeks ago, where Parker said, "Obviously, [the episode] had a lot of themes and things we were feeling in it, but we came back and people were like 'Are you okay? Is the show coming back?' And we were like, 'Yeah, we had a really fun time doing that!'"
It's not hard to understand why a lot of people wondered whether, after 216 episodes, this was the end of the line. Everything about "You're Getting Old," from the title to the premise to the downbeat ending, suggested a weariness and a self-reflective sobriety that have arguably never appeared in South Park before; at least, not on this level. If you could boil the philosophy of the series and its creators down to one simple, essential truth, it would be this: Everyone needs to relax and stop taking everything so seriously. And yet this episode ran counter to that; it's a lack of passion that leaves Stan isolated from his friends and the Marsh family ripped apart.
Another way to describe the essence of the series would be to say that nothing is sacred; everyone and everything is fair game for criticism and mockery. Perhaps what shocked us as viewers so much is that for the first time, we were in the crosshairs. Sure, Stone and Parker have poked fun at so many different groups and institutions that none of us can honestly say we haven't been indirectly skewered at least once. This, though, is pointed squarely at fans of the show. Is it possible that this wasn't their intention? Of course. But intent, particularly as it pertains to artists, is not, ultimately, what matters - and given the content, it's hard to imagine what else their aim could have been.
At 24, I'm still rather young. But even now, I'll sit and watch a cartoon or kids' show with my two-year-old niece and wonder how the hell anyone could be entertained by it. This coming from someone who, not even six months ago, spent 12 consecutive hours watching Angry Beavers and loving every minute of it. Is the difference in quality of programming really that pronounced, or have I simply gotten too old to appreciate some things? There's no shortage of media I couldn't appreciate earlier in my life that I do now. Can I say with any degree of certainty that this is not a zero-sum game?
This, I think, is what Stone and Parker are wrestling with, or at least what they were wrestling with that particular week. They're around 40 years old now, with a wife, a girlfriend, and two kids between them. As Stone said in an interview with The Hollywood Reporter in March, "We have, for better or worse, gotten older." The greatest enemy of a creative individual is stagnation, and when you've spent as much time on a project as these two have on South Park, it's a constant threat. Concurrently, though success is presumably the aim of any venture, the pressure and responsibilities that success creates can lead to resentment and bitterness, or at the very least, ambivalence. Despite what they said in their Daily Show interview, and how sincere it seemed, I suspect that within Stone and Parker, there's an ambivalence toward their magnum opus that has emerged. That doesn't necessarily mean that they don't still enjoy their work, it's simply an occupational hazard. Spending enough time on anything, whether it's a job or a hobby or a person, will cause the object of your affection to lose some luster, and inspire conflicted emotions. Human nature is often intractable.
When you've made a career out of being shocking and subversive, as Stone and Parker have, it's a gift as well as a curse. It's extraordinarily difficult to keep surprising and entertaining your audience when you've been creating the same thing for them for 14 years, especially in the information overload age. But at the same time, as disenchanted as some diehards may feel with recent episodes, they know as well as anyone just how great these guys have been at subverting expectations and breaking the mold. Whatever "You're Getting Old" means for the series going forward - and it's entirely possible that the show may just fall back on the familiar cartoon trope of everything returning to status quo when the second half of the season kicks off in the fall - what Stone and Parker managed to do was really get people talking about South Park again.
If the conspiracy theorists are right, and this is indeed the end...I loved it. As different and depressing as it was, at its core, it was vintage South Park. Because underneath all the toilet humor and sophomoric hijinks, there was a core of emotion and thoughtfulness that challenged me to consider my views and assumptions. And in the end, that - not talking turds or crab people or even chicken fuckers - is what kept us coming back to a little mountain town in Colorado for so many years.
Like many people in my demographic, I am a fan of South Park. Whatever you think of the program personally, its cultural impact is undeniable. When it first aired 14(!) years ago, it was a cheap, crudely made cartoon on a struggling, little-viewed cable network. Now it's the subject of scholarship, and Comedy Central has become a sensation (Dave Chappelle and Jon Stewart deserve credit for the latter as well, but South Park was the network's breakthrough hit).
I wasn't allowed to watch South Park when it initially hit the airwaves. I had an overprotective mother and I was only 10 years old at the time, so that's really not surprising. Before too long, though, I was watching it regularly. Forgive the cliché, but South Park and I grew up together.
The past few seasons, in the estimation of myself and many others, have left something to be desired. The criticisms are many: Trey Parker and Matt Stone have crossed the line from satire to sermon. They've lost the edge, an inevitable result of a nearly unheard of decade and a half of existence. They've fallen prey to Family Guy syndrome, using the same tired approach, tricks, and gags that they eviscerated that program for only a few years ago. They were too busy working on their Broadway musical, The Book of Mormon (I haven't experienced it yet in any form, but judging by word of mouth and the zillion Tony Awards it received, if they really did neglect South Park, they were at least productive).
Any of those criticisms, as well as numerous others, may have some truth to them. But what if the real reason is that we as an audience have changed as much, or more than, Parker and Stone?
I've always been fascinated by the interaction between artist and audience, for the simple and obvious reason that art in its various forms is the focal point of my life, and I experience the relationship from both sides. In particular, I am endlessly intrigued by the inherent relativism that rules over the enterprise. Art is, of course, subjective, and open to any number of interpretations. You could argue, as I often do, that the "best" art is subtle, complex, and causes an array of reactions. But these do not simply vary from person to person; rather, they vary for you or I or any other person from time to time. So many factors play into how you receive a work of art, from your present mood, tastes, and interests, to your experiential pool. You can read the same book, watch the same film, listen to the same song at various points throughout your life, and the way you react will be different each time. The change may be subtle, even imperceptible. It may be the absolute inverse of how you felt before. Whatever the degree, there is a change. It's simultaneously the most exhilarating and most terrifying aspect, the best and worst thing about being an artist: In the end, you have no control over how anyone else views your work, and even if people like it the first time through, they may change their minds as they age.
Enter "You're Getting Old," the finale of the fifteenth season's first half - and, a circulating theory posits, the series itself. If you haven't seen, go watch it before you read any further. Or, if you're lazy, just Wikipedia it. Either way.
Stone and Parker, for their part, have publicly denied that this is a surprise series finale. They're under contract to produce another 35 episodes, and they've claimed that they'll do just that. They appeared on The Daily Show two weeks ago, where Parker said, "Obviously, [the episode] had a lot of themes and things we were feeling in it, but we came back and people were like 'Are you okay? Is the show coming back?' And we were like, 'Yeah, we had a really fun time doing that!'"
It's not hard to understand why a lot of people wondered whether, after 216 episodes, this was the end of the line. Everything about "You're Getting Old," from the title to the premise to the downbeat ending, suggested a weariness and a self-reflective sobriety that have arguably never appeared in South Park before; at least, not on this level. If you could boil the philosophy of the series and its creators down to one simple, essential truth, it would be this: Everyone needs to relax and stop taking everything so seriously. And yet this episode ran counter to that; it's a lack of passion that leaves Stan isolated from his friends and the Marsh family ripped apart.
Another way to describe the essence of the series would be to say that nothing is sacred; everyone and everything is fair game for criticism and mockery. Perhaps what shocked us as viewers so much is that for the first time, we were in the crosshairs. Sure, Stone and Parker have poked fun at so many different groups and institutions that none of us can honestly say we haven't been indirectly skewered at least once. This, though, is pointed squarely at fans of the show. Is it possible that this wasn't their intention? Of course. But intent, particularly as it pertains to artists, is not, ultimately, what matters - and given the content, it's hard to imagine what else their aim could have been.
At 24, I'm still rather young. But even now, I'll sit and watch a cartoon or kids' show with my two-year-old niece and wonder how the hell anyone could be entertained by it. This coming from someone who, not even six months ago, spent 12 consecutive hours watching Angry Beavers and loving every minute of it. Is the difference in quality of programming really that pronounced, or have I simply gotten too old to appreciate some things? There's no shortage of media I couldn't appreciate earlier in my life that I do now. Can I say with any degree of certainty that this is not a zero-sum game?
This, I think, is what Stone and Parker are wrestling with, or at least what they were wrestling with that particular week. They're around 40 years old now, with a wife, a girlfriend, and two kids between them. As Stone said in an interview with The Hollywood Reporter in March, "We have, for better or worse, gotten older." The greatest enemy of a creative individual is stagnation, and when you've spent as much time on a project as these two have on South Park, it's a constant threat. Concurrently, though success is presumably the aim of any venture, the pressure and responsibilities that success creates can lead to resentment and bitterness, or at the very least, ambivalence. Despite what they said in their Daily Show interview, and how sincere it seemed, I suspect that within Stone and Parker, there's an ambivalence toward their magnum opus that has emerged. That doesn't necessarily mean that they don't still enjoy their work, it's simply an occupational hazard. Spending enough time on anything, whether it's a job or a hobby or a person, will cause the object of your affection to lose some luster, and inspire conflicted emotions. Human nature is often intractable.
When you've made a career out of being shocking and subversive, as Stone and Parker have, it's a gift as well as a curse. It's extraordinarily difficult to keep surprising and entertaining your audience when you've been creating the same thing for them for 14 years, especially in the information overload age. But at the same time, as disenchanted as some diehards may feel with recent episodes, they know as well as anyone just how great these guys have been at subverting expectations and breaking the mold. Whatever "You're Getting Old" means for the series going forward - and it's entirely possible that the show may just fall back on the familiar cartoon trope of everything returning to status quo when the second half of the season kicks off in the fall - what Stone and Parker managed to do was really get people talking about South Park again.
If the conspiracy theorists are right, and this is indeed the end...I loved it. As different and depressing as it was, at its core, it was vintage South Park. Because underneath all the toilet humor and sophomoric hijinks, there was a core of emotion and thoughtfulness that challenged me to consider my views and assumptions. And in the end, that - not talking turds or crab people or even chicken fuckers - is what kept us coming back to a little mountain town in Colorado for so many years.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Revision
I wrote this almost four years ago (Jesus, where does the time go?) for one of my fiction courses. I had a lot of issues with the professor, and I found most of my classmates to be pretentious, faux-intellectual douchebags. These were probably valid criticisms, but I was also lashing out at their criticism of my own work, which was likewise valid because, well, it was pretty lousy.
Think about revision. Think about revision in the morning after you wake up, at night before you fall asleep. Think about revision at work, in class, in the shower, on the toilet, while you watch TV, during sex. Think about revision at all times. Think about revision while you write, imagining the things people will say when they read it. Does the opening paragraph drag on? Is your dialogue realistic, genuine, heartfelt, or bombastic, ridiculous, overwrought? Is this the effect you are going for? Is this the message you’re trying to convey? Is this what you want? What are you trying to say with this piece? Does this work? Why is this character so passive? Why is this one so active? Why is this character in the story at all? Why does he do this? Why can’t she do that? Whose story is this? Has your character earned this moment? Think about revision as you sit at your small, hard, uncomfortable desk in a classroom that’s too cold and smells like mildew. Think about revision when the teacher asks the class what they like about your story and a full minute goes by without anyone saying a thing. Think about revision after you have sat there, immobile, inaudible, impotent, while a dozen other people rip your story, this painstakingly crafted extension of yourself, into tiny little shreds, and those shreds into still smaller shreds, and have the nerve, the gall to call it constructive criticism. Think about revision. Think about revision as you pace the balcony of your apartment, smoking your first cigarette in one month, eight days, thirteen hours and fifty-six minutes and ranting to your cat. Think about revision as you refer to your teacher and classmates as pompous morons and pretentious assholes. Think about revision - no. Think about a new story, a fresh start. Think about writing a scathing satire, a thinly-veiled attack on all of them: The instructor who can’t manage a class for shit, the hippie girl with her fucking beads that probably hasn’t bathed in years, that stuck-up blonde with a sorority shirt and a tramp stamp who like, makes everything she says into a question? The dumbass emo kid who always writes about how life has no meaning and everything we do is pointless but he just can’t get over her, that guy who looks totally average and doesn’t say much of anything but you hate him anyway, the girl who can’t ever say anything bad about anybody’s work, the guy who does nothing but shit all over anybody’s work, including his own, even though he’s so goddamn brilliant and he’s probably the only person in the entire class who’ll ever get published. Think about how they’re all nothing but stereotypes and clichés and how they’ll realize it when they read your story. Think about going inside when you realize that you’ve actually been saying all this, louder and louder, and your cat isn’t the only member of your audience anymore. Think about making some excuse, apologizing, continuing to rant as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on, but instead say nothing and go back into your apartment, slamming the door behind you and leaving your neighbor wondering whether or not he should phone the authorities. Think about revision. Revision, not of a story, but of your entire life. Think of changing your major (but it’s too late), changing your school (but you only have three semesters to go; you have a lease and a girlfriend and your fucking credits probably won’t transfer anyway), changing your girlfriend (she can’t ever say anything but it’s really good whenever she reads one of your stories, even though they never are), changing your lifestyle (get in better shape - no, gorge on your favorite foods - take a random road trip - no, visit your friends upstate - no, make a surprise trip home - no, don’t go anywhere, you don’t have any money). Think about how nothing makes sense anymore and you’re not as happy as you used to be, and shouldn’t that translate into better writing? Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf; all of them depressed, all of them great writers; sure, they all killed themselves - Hemingway and Thompson shot themselves, Plath shoved her head inside an oven and Woolf walked into a river with stones in her pockets but they are legends, idols, geniuses of the craft, they lived before they died. Think about purposely sabotaging your own life so that you will sink into a deep depression, at which point you will write your great work, your magnum opus, and then put a Magnum to your opus and pull the trigger. Think about taking a deep breath; you are overreacting, being melodramatic, overemotional - you are being cliché. Think about the fact that writers loathe the cliché, how they say it like a curse word - cliché - but they use them all the time. Think about how they condemn characters as stereotypical somethings-or-other, yet nearly every person you know that has ever even once called himself a writer drinks whiskey and smokes cigarettes- usually his own, hand-rolled- and thinks he feels deeper than everyone else. Think about how maybe that’s the reason so many writers have issues; maybe they really do feel deeper and they see themselves as cliché and stereotypical but they can’t do anything about it for all their brilliance, the only thing they cannot revise is themselves. All that bullshit about earning moments and characters’ desires and the moment of crisis, it’s all the same shit, over and over and over, the same tired phrases that people say because they think it makes them sound like they know what the fuck they’re talking about. When was the last time you published something? Since when are you the fucking arbiter of literature? Think about how life, existence itself, is nothing but one giant cliché. Think about sitting down, right then and there, and writing a story based around that. Think about how it will drip with sarcasm and irony, how it’ll get published in The New Yorker and people will call it, “a gleefully irreverent portrait of literary pretention and its reflection on modern life and society.” The best part is you won’t have to kill yourself, you’ve beaten Hemingway and Thompson and all the rest, those classics, those greats, those demigods looming over every word of your writing, telling you that you’ll never be as good as they were; well, you’ve got them beat. Think about revision; revision of your mind. Think about how ridiculous it is that not even an hour ago, you got slammed with criticism from a bunch of amateurs and now you’re dreaming of getting published by the almighty, all-powerful New Yorker and telling yourself you’ve beaten some of the best writers who ever lived. You’ve gone from despair to hope, from anger to joy, from destruction to creation in less time than it takes to read the newspaper. You wonder how anybody who considers himself a writer manages to keep himself out of the mental institution. You feel sorry for the Hemingways of the world; you understand their struggle, their turmoil. Think about all the contradictions, the dichotomies, the absurdities and the ironies, of writing and of life. Think about it all, until your head spins and you need an aspirin, think about it all until you feel like the only thing left to do is scream, a long, loud, bloodcurdling sound from the deepest recesses of your soul broadcast for all your neighbors to hear. Think about how that probably would make them call the authorities and get you thrown in the loony bin. Laugh, flip on the TV, flop down on the couch, and forget about revision.
Think about revision. Think about revision in the morning after you wake up, at night before you fall asleep. Think about revision at work, in class, in the shower, on the toilet, while you watch TV, during sex. Think about revision at all times. Think about revision while you write, imagining the things people will say when they read it. Does the opening paragraph drag on? Is your dialogue realistic, genuine, heartfelt, or bombastic, ridiculous, overwrought? Is this the effect you are going for? Is this the message you’re trying to convey? Is this what you want? What are you trying to say with this piece? Does this work? Why is this character so passive? Why is this one so active? Why is this character in the story at all? Why does he do this? Why can’t she do that? Whose story is this? Has your character earned this moment? Think about revision as you sit at your small, hard, uncomfortable desk in a classroom that’s too cold and smells like mildew. Think about revision when the teacher asks the class what they like about your story and a full minute goes by without anyone saying a thing. Think about revision after you have sat there, immobile, inaudible, impotent, while a dozen other people rip your story, this painstakingly crafted extension of yourself, into tiny little shreds, and those shreds into still smaller shreds, and have the nerve, the gall to call it constructive criticism. Think about revision. Think about revision as you pace the balcony of your apartment, smoking your first cigarette in one month, eight days, thirteen hours and fifty-six minutes and ranting to your cat. Think about revision as you refer to your teacher and classmates as pompous morons and pretentious assholes. Think about revision - no. Think about a new story, a fresh start. Think about writing a scathing satire, a thinly-veiled attack on all of them: The instructor who can’t manage a class for shit, the hippie girl with her fucking beads that probably hasn’t bathed in years, that stuck-up blonde with a sorority shirt and a tramp stamp who like, makes everything she says into a question? The dumbass emo kid who always writes about how life has no meaning and everything we do is pointless but he just can’t get over her, that guy who looks totally average and doesn’t say much of anything but you hate him anyway, the girl who can’t ever say anything bad about anybody’s work, the guy who does nothing but shit all over anybody’s work, including his own, even though he’s so goddamn brilliant and he’s probably the only person in the entire class who’ll ever get published. Think about how they’re all nothing but stereotypes and clichés and how they’ll realize it when they read your story. Think about going inside when you realize that you’ve actually been saying all this, louder and louder, and your cat isn’t the only member of your audience anymore. Think about making some excuse, apologizing, continuing to rant as if nothing out of the ordinary is going on, but instead say nothing and go back into your apartment, slamming the door behind you and leaving your neighbor wondering whether or not he should phone the authorities. Think about revision. Revision, not of a story, but of your entire life. Think of changing your major (but it’s too late), changing your school (but you only have three semesters to go; you have a lease and a girlfriend and your fucking credits probably won’t transfer anyway), changing your girlfriend (she can’t ever say anything but it’s really good whenever she reads one of your stories, even though they never are), changing your lifestyle (get in better shape - no, gorge on your favorite foods - take a random road trip - no, visit your friends upstate - no, make a surprise trip home - no, don’t go anywhere, you don’t have any money). Think about how nothing makes sense anymore and you’re not as happy as you used to be, and shouldn’t that translate into better writing? Ernest Hemingway, Hunter S. Thompson, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf; all of them depressed, all of them great writers; sure, they all killed themselves - Hemingway and Thompson shot themselves, Plath shoved her head inside an oven and Woolf walked into a river with stones in her pockets but they are legends, idols, geniuses of the craft, they lived before they died. Think about purposely sabotaging your own life so that you will sink into a deep depression, at which point you will write your great work, your magnum opus, and then put a Magnum to your opus and pull the trigger. Think about taking a deep breath; you are overreacting, being melodramatic, overemotional - you are being cliché. Think about the fact that writers loathe the cliché, how they say it like a curse word - cliché - but they use them all the time. Think about how they condemn characters as stereotypical somethings-or-other, yet nearly every person you know that has ever even once called himself a writer drinks whiskey and smokes cigarettes- usually his own, hand-rolled- and thinks he feels deeper than everyone else. Think about how maybe that’s the reason so many writers have issues; maybe they really do feel deeper and they see themselves as cliché and stereotypical but they can’t do anything about it for all their brilliance, the only thing they cannot revise is themselves. All that bullshit about earning moments and characters’ desires and the moment of crisis, it’s all the same shit, over and over and over, the same tired phrases that people say because they think it makes them sound like they know what the fuck they’re talking about. When was the last time you published something? Since when are you the fucking arbiter of literature? Think about how life, existence itself, is nothing but one giant cliché. Think about sitting down, right then and there, and writing a story based around that. Think about how it will drip with sarcasm and irony, how it’ll get published in The New Yorker and people will call it, “a gleefully irreverent portrait of literary pretention and its reflection on modern life and society.” The best part is you won’t have to kill yourself, you’ve beaten Hemingway and Thompson and all the rest, those classics, those greats, those demigods looming over every word of your writing, telling you that you’ll never be as good as they were; well, you’ve got them beat. Think about revision; revision of your mind. Think about how ridiculous it is that not even an hour ago, you got slammed with criticism from a bunch of amateurs and now you’re dreaming of getting published by the almighty, all-powerful New Yorker and telling yourself you’ve beaten some of the best writers who ever lived. You’ve gone from despair to hope, from anger to joy, from destruction to creation in less time than it takes to read the newspaper. You wonder how anybody who considers himself a writer manages to keep himself out of the mental institution. You feel sorry for the Hemingways of the world; you understand their struggle, their turmoil. Think about all the contradictions, the dichotomies, the absurdities and the ironies, of writing and of life. Think about it all, until your head spins and you need an aspirin, think about it all until you feel like the only thing left to do is scream, a long, loud, bloodcurdling sound from the deepest recesses of your soul broadcast for all your neighbors to hear. Think about how that probably would make them call the authorities and get you thrown in the loony bin. Laugh, flip on the TV, flop down on the couch, and forget about revision.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Shambolic
You can say that things could have turned out differently. That they could have been some other way. But what does that mean? They are not some other way. They are this way. - No Country for Old Men, by Cormac McCarthy
The thing about Dan's birthday parties was that something significant always seemed to happen at them. To me, I mean. I never knew right away, but after a time, I would look back on some moment or phrase and understand that it had meant something important. I guess that's just the way of it all.
On this particular occasion, Dan was celebrating his 25th. I had met him in school, when he was 21. We were both coming off particularly nasty breakups. Maybe that's why we've always been such good friends, even though he graduated and moved to Maryland to work for the Navy less than a year after we met.
Mark was another friend I had met during that period of my life. He was the one driving down to the party. Roxy, my girlfriend, was in the backseat. She had never met Dan, even though he had visited Pittsburgh a few times and I had been to Maryland for Halloween since her and I had started seeing each other six months before. All my other friends had already met her. They all loved her. I wondered sometimes if they liked her more than they liked me.
The trip down was pleasant enough. Mark and I smoked weed and drove too fast and blasted Zeppelin. Roxy slept most of the way. I kept forgetting she was back there, if you want the truth of it. But the few times I looked back at her, I couldn't get over how sweet she looked, and how much I wanted her to open her eyes and give me that gorgeous little smile of hers.
We got to Dan's place pretty late, I remember. The party wasn't until the next night, so it didn't matter much. We'd gotten a little lost. The GPS had died and we were pretty well fried by that point. I passed out almost as soon as we walked in.
We slept in. Dan and his roommates made a huge breakfast. Eggs and bacon and potatoes and toast and pancakes and coffee and orange juice. We sat around watching old cartoons and shooting the bull for a while. Dan's girlfriend Annie, the only girl in a house with five guys, seized an opportunity and whisked Roxy away on a shopping trip. They didn't come back until maybe half an hour before people started showing up for the party.
I can't say how it is for other people, but parties are always kind of a blur to me, at least in the moment. I have a remarkable memory when drunk and I've never blacked out in my life, but the evenings just always seem to blend together. An ethereal haze of conversation, of laughter and friends, of drinking games and drugs.
I didn't interact with Roxy much. I never did at parties. The few I went to comprised the bulk of the chances I got to see my college friends who had moved out of town, which was most of them. And Roxy never seemed to mind. I wouldn't have done it if she weren't so good at acclimating herself. I always kept an eye on her, even though I didn't need to. She seemed to get along so well with everybody all the time.
Anyway, one thing and another.
The party was winding down when one of Dan's roommates, Little, announced that we were going to watch a porno on his giant projector. I had never watched porn with Roxy before, and we were rarely drunk together; I hardly drank anymore but I didn't have a license, either, so she got stuck with driving most of the times we went out. Either way, I was totally unprepared.
It wasn't more than five minutes before she started giving me that look. I had the idea of going out to Mark's car, but I didn't know where he was and his overhead light took forever to shut off. I told Roxy to go to the bathroom down the hall and wait for me, but she was so drunk that she just sort of dragged me there with her. It probably would have been obvious to everyone what was going on, but it's hard to pay attention to your surroundings when you're blitzed and graphic, physics-defying sex is splayed all over the wall in front of you.
We stumbled into the bathroom and tore each other apart in the darkness. Sex with Roxy had always been good; we were in love, and you know what kind of effect that has in the bedroom. It was a bit formulaic and conventional a lot of the time, though. We hadn't been doing it as much lately, either. But this was different from any other time. It was frantic and primal and loud and messy. Irresponsible, too, since we didn't have a condom. As trashed as I was, I was still trying to get her to calm down, but there was no stopping her. And I couldn't really help myself, either. Not once she started with the dirty talk.
I'd never heard her do that before, but she definitely had a talent for it, at least that night: oh my god oh god oh please don't stop, fuck me fuck me fuckmefuckmefuckme harder faster deeper i wanna suck your cock, i want you so badly jesus CHRIST you feel so good so big fuck me harder, i want you to come so deep inside me...
Finally, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, we were sated. We fumbled around in the cramped room, getting dressed and trying to restore order to the place. The lid had come off the toilet tank. The shower curtain had been ripped down. Pill bottles and toothbrushes and razors were scattered everywhere. We exited somewhat sheepishly, expecting a crowd, anticipating the strange mix of pride and embarrassment that comes from knowing that people have heard you fucking each other's brains out.
Nobody had even noticed we were gone.
It was after that when we pretty much stopped having sex altogether. Why, I don't know for sure. I don't know if she does, either. It doesn't really matter, in the end. But I wonder, despite it all. And I wish things were different. Somehow.
The thing about Dan's birthday parties was that something significant always seemed to happen at them. To me, I mean. I never knew right away, but after a time, I would look back on some moment or phrase and understand that it had meant something important. I guess that's just the way of it all.
On this particular occasion, Dan was celebrating his 25th. I had met him in school, when he was 21. We were both coming off particularly nasty breakups. Maybe that's why we've always been such good friends, even though he graduated and moved to Maryland to work for the Navy less than a year after we met.
Mark was another friend I had met during that period of my life. He was the one driving down to the party. Roxy, my girlfriend, was in the backseat. She had never met Dan, even though he had visited Pittsburgh a few times and I had been to Maryland for Halloween since her and I had started seeing each other six months before. All my other friends had already met her. They all loved her. I wondered sometimes if they liked her more than they liked me.
The trip down was pleasant enough. Mark and I smoked weed and drove too fast and blasted Zeppelin. Roxy slept most of the way. I kept forgetting she was back there, if you want the truth of it. But the few times I looked back at her, I couldn't get over how sweet she looked, and how much I wanted her to open her eyes and give me that gorgeous little smile of hers.
We got to Dan's place pretty late, I remember. The party wasn't until the next night, so it didn't matter much. We'd gotten a little lost. The GPS had died and we were pretty well fried by that point. I passed out almost as soon as we walked in.
We slept in. Dan and his roommates made a huge breakfast. Eggs and bacon and potatoes and toast and pancakes and coffee and orange juice. We sat around watching old cartoons and shooting the bull for a while. Dan's girlfriend Annie, the only girl in a house with five guys, seized an opportunity and whisked Roxy away on a shopping trip. They didn't come back until maybe half an hour before people started showing up for the party.
I can't say how it is for other people, but parties are always kind of a blur to me, at least in the moment. I have a remarkable memory when drunk and I've never blacked out in my life, but the evenings just always seem to blend together. An ethereal haze of conversation, of laughter and friends, of drinking games and drugs.
I didn't interact with Roxy much. I never did at parties. The few I went to comprised the bulk of the chances I got to see my college friends who had moved out of town, which was most of them. And Roxy never seemed to mind. I wouldn't have done it if she weren't so good at acclimating herself. I always kept an eye on her, even though I didn't need to. She seemed to get along so well with everybody all the time.
Anyway, one thing and another.
The party was winding down when one of Dan's roommates, Little, announced that we were going to watch a porno on his giant projector. I had never watched porn with Roxy before, and we were rarely drunk together; I hardly drank anymore but I didn't have a license, either, so she got stuck with driving most of the times we went out. Either way, I was totally unprepared.
It wasn't more than five minutes before she started giving me that look. I had the idea of going out to Mark's car, but I didn't know where he was and his overhead light took forever to shut off. I told Roxy to go to the bathroom down the hall and wait for me, but she was so drunk that she just sort of dragged me there with her. It probably would have been obvious to everyone what was going on, but it's hard to pay attention to your surroundings when you're blitzed and graphic, physics-defying sex is splayed all over the wall in front of you.
We stumbled into the bathroom and tore each other apart in the darkness. Sex with Roxy had always been good; we were in love, and you know what kind of effect that has in the bedroom. It was a bit formulaic and conventional a lot of the time, though. We hadn't been doing it as much lately, either. But this was different from any other time. It was frantic and primal and loud and messy. Irresponsible, too, since we didn't have a condom. As trashed as I was, I was still trying to get her to calm down, but there was no stopping her. And I couldn't really help myself, either. Not once she started with the dirty talk.
I'd never heard her do that before, but she definitely had a talent for it, at least that night: oh my god oh god oh please don't stop, fuck me fuck me fuckmefuckmefuckme harder faster deeper i wanna suck your cock, i want you so badly jesus CHRIST you feel so good so big fuck me harder, i want you to come so deep inside me...
Finally, drenched in sweat, gasping for breath, we were sated. We fumbled around in the cramped room, getting dressed and trying to restore order to the place. The lid had come off the toilet tank. The shower curtain had been ripped down. Pill bottles and toothbrushes and razors were scattered everywhere. We exited somewhat sheepishly, expecting a crowd, anticipating the strange mix of pride and embarrassment that comes from knowing that people have heard you fucking each other's brains out.
Nobody had even noticed we were gone.
It was after that when we pretty much stopped having sex altogether. Why, I don't know for sure. I don't know if she does, either. It doesn't really matter, in the end. But I wonder, despite it all. And I wish things were different. Somehow.
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