The Price of Creative Freedom: 99-Seat Theatre Plan

I love getting paid for my work. I can’t deny that. Honestly, I don’t think that anyone can. Given the option of being compensated or not, I would venture to guess that 100% of people would rather earn money for their contributions to any particular business than give up their time and talents for free. Lately, this issue has become quite prevalent in the theatrical community based on a possible ruling out of Los Angeles that would drastically effect the operating procedures of small theatre companies.

Here’s a brief overview.

For decades, the Los Angeles arts scene has been full of small, 99 seat theaters. These theaters have a reputation for producing new, boundary breaking works that are sometimes considered too risky to mount in larger houses, but because of the small house sizes and production budgets, the companies that use these spaces can continue to innovate and grow despite their relative lack of financial gain. One key factor that helps this process is something called the “99-Seat-Theatre-Plan” which allows union actors to work in these houses for a small stipend as opposed to their usual union wages. These stipends often range from $7-$15 per performance with unpaid rehearsal hours and usually max out around $240 for the run of a show.

The new piece of legislation being brought forth by Actors’ Equity would require all theaters to enforce a $9 minimum wage during rehearsals and performances for their union members – effectively quadrupling the aforementioned budget allowance. This week, Los Angeles Equity members will have the opportunity to vote on this proposal, and as of now, both sides of the aisle are speaking quite fervently in order to convince the fence sitters of their position.

And honestly…I’m not sure where I stand.

Thus far, my theatrical education has cost over six figures. Many of my professional colleagues are in the same exact boat financially, and the idea of using that rather expensive skillset to work for nothing doesn’t necessarily make sense to me. I wouldn’t ask my accountant to do my taxes for free nor would I ask a graphic designer to make me a logo out of their generosity. All of these chosen professions have value, but artists as a whole seem to be more and more content to work for free or next to nothing – thus potentially devaluing the importance and respect that the craft deserves. If I’m running a company and one good actor will work for free while another good actor demands a check, the answer seems apparent. The books require me to save as much money as possible. The worry is this: if enough actors, painters, musicians, and designers give in to this mindset, there won’t be a reason to pay anyone anything, much less a living wage. Because of all that, I could absolutely understand voting YES on this proposal.

However…

Many of my friends in Chicago work at theaters where they are paid relatively low stipends, if at all, but whenever I have seen these productions on my visits to the city…the quality absolutely blows me away. The plays are bold and uncompromising, and it is clear that every single person involved in the process undoubtedly loves the product that they have created. In an industry where many bigger houses are asking actors to do Fiddler for the 42^nd time, these small companies are beacons of creative freedom, exploration, and innovation, and if they were all forced to quadruple the money needed to operate at the same level…many of them wouldn’t last the season. Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, and numerous other cities could potentially be robbed of their most interesting companies, and we as a culture could miss out on the opportunity to witness new works that multi-million dollar theaters wouldn’t risk staging in a thousand years. And for all of those reasons, I could absolutely understand voting NO on this proposal.

And here we find the current impasse within the artistic community. Both sides have extremely valid points, and regardless of this vote’s result, its impact will be felt throughout the country. Do we want money or creative freedom? Clearly, we want both, and occasionally, that is a very possible goal – I have been lucky enough already to be involved in incredible shows that paid me well, but I’m not foolish enough to think this commonplace in the industry.

I love acting. I love creating characters, and I love collaborating with some of the most intelligent and passionate people in the world, but I know that the questions that this vote poses will follow me throughout the rest of my career. Some of the most incredible processes I have ever been a part of have barely covered my gas money while the occasional mind numbing commercial gig has paid my rent in less than three hours. At twenty-three, I am also very aware that I have so much more to learn about the industry into which I have inserted myself, and luckily, I have attempted to surround myself with people that can do just that.

Ultimately, the vote in Los Angeles this week will make a bold statement about the actors of California (and quite possibly, the nation), but regardless of the outcome, there’s no job I’d rather have.

Migraine

The breath in my lungs never fills me completely.

Some unknown entity is taking up an illegal residency somewhere in my body,

seeping mercury,

and the toxicity is killing me.

Ionic frequencies ricochet off of my bones and pulse along my brain stem until my eye balls lubricate my cheeks in desperate hope of recognition.

I’m not a child.

I’m not a servant.

But I am slave to forces beyond my comprehension, cognition, and recollection.

God damn this lightning burning through the circuits of my mind;

frying ideas that have never been given a chance to shine,

and now

forever will they stand in the queue of cognizance unable to move up a spot in line. What promise they once showed.

What glorious advancement they swore to unveil,

and now,

their masters beat them into submissive passiveness removing all their drive to break free of chained oppression.

The rhythm is constant as the drums percuss violently into the cosmos through the pores already filled with sweat.

Let me out.

Let me out.

These bars are rusted and frail yet inexplicably hold fast against my constant battery.

Perhaps I’m weaker than I thought.

Perhaps the strength I thought I had has always existed as nothing but a hopeful mirage in the face of horrific destitution.

I am emaciated and atrophied,

but every minute of self-pity is assaulted by the war that rages eternal behind these walls.

I surrender.

I submit.

Take this cup from which I never drank, and fill it with

sand,

blood,

love,

anything to satiate the thirst of he who punishes his inferiors.

There is no shame in this submission,

and even if there was,

you would hardly see me protesting.

This treatment cries out for respite,

but ears of stone are deaf to mortal pleas.

Rivers cascade across the valleys of enlightenment forever destined to elude my grasp,

but their force resonates still even deeper than before.

Screams coalesce with solidity in my throat;

further hindering the breath already weakened by the battles, and deeper I sink beneath despair until I reach a level that has never known the warmth of light in hopes of finding peace.

Bury me in shadow if therein lies my destiny of silence,

for I shall no longer fight in a conflict that holds no victors.

Rest.

Rest.

Rest.

On Mental Illness/Developmental Disabilities

I almost witnessed a fight today.

It was terrifying.

I have been substitute teaching for almost two years now in a variety of schools, and although I have received attitude from a number of relatively annoying individuals, I have never felt afraid in a classroom. Until today. I was not the target of any aggression, nor was I the sole party working to stop the fight before it began, but throughout the rest of the class period, I couldn’t shake the tension that was assaulting me. My breath was labored, my palms were sweaty, and my equilibrium felt slightly off despite the fact that no actual violence had occurred.

I don’t know how it started. One of the many issues plaguing American education is the increasing volume of class sizes, and when faced with 25-30 kids at a time, it is rather difficult to monitor every morsel of semi-intelligible conversation. My days are often filled with a soft focus wherein I pretend not to hear the kids swearing to each other under their breath (you have to pick your battles), so you can imagine my surprise when I see a kid in the back of the class stand up and challenge his neighbor to hit him. Customarily, this invitation would be spoken with an air of fallacy or comedy, but the student’s voice remained disturbingly vicious throughout his declaration. His eyes were piercing, his body was rigid, and from thirty feet away, I could tell that every muscle in his body was ready to explode the second that his terms were accepted.

“Do it! Fucking do it, man. You ain’t shit. I’m not gonna back down. I’ve already hit you before.”

His words were dripping with malice as he dared his victim to throw the first blow and absolve him of responsibility, and I’ll admit…I hesitated. For a person who stages violence for a living on occasion, I am quite unaccustomed to the actual thing. I know what the body should look like when preparing for an altercation, and I know how to convincingly portray the force necessary to inflict a specific amount of pain, but I had a feeling that these guys weren’t going to stop if I called “Hold!” My toolbox had nothing to equip me for this situation, but in my second of hesitation, another woman stepped between the boys. She immediately began talking the larger boy down and eventually got him out of the room before the seated boy had a chance to retaliate.

She’s a paraprofessional. The seated boy has Asperger’s.

From what I gathered by listening to various conversations after the incident, this was not new information to any of the surrounding students.

“Yeah, his parents used to hit him…”

“He gets like this sometimes…”

“He’s fucking crazy, man…”

I was shocked. Awareness was not the problem. Evidently, the aggressor had a temper problem of his own, and for some reason, today was the day where he wanted to exploit this student’s disability to fulfill his personal well of violence. Thankfully, any physical violence was halted before it could begin, a specialist took the students out of class, and a relative sense of calm swiftly returned to the room…but this incident continues to fester in my gut, because it signals a much larger problem that I haven’t considered in quite a while.

Awareness isn’t enough. When I was in high school, I barely knew what autism was, and I think I may have heard the term “Asperger’s” on a tv show, but I definitely wasn’t educated on the proper way to understand someone with any type of mental disorder. Any type of mental illness or developmental disability was seen as weakness, afflicted students were bullied, and we blissfully continued our lives in ignorance. Nowadays, students are clearly aware that these conditions exist, but as today showed me, they are still far from understanding how to properly address these students with any sort of compassion and empathy.

After the class was over, a fellow teacher and I had a brief discussion about the benefits and downfalls of “mainstreaming” education – the practice of dismissing the need for Special Education classes in favor of a more inclusive strategy with tudents of all backgrounds taking the same courses. Personally, I’m still not sure where I stand on the issue. I would never want to socially or professionally ostracize a group of people in a discriminatory fashion, but I also believe that it is ignorant to assume that the implementation of students with disabilities will have absolutely no adverse effects on the classroom environment as a whole.

Maybe the students this morning were having a legitimate argument that escalated beyond repair, maybe the aggressor knew exactly which buttons to push in order to manipulate this other student into forcing his hand, or maybe this violent flash appeared out of nowhere…like I stated earlier, I will never know. Perhaps his disability was a factor, and perhaps it was inconsequential, but at the end of the day, the paraprofessional and I had to spend the rest of the hour fearful for the safety of the rest of our students, and that is a feeling that I would very much hate to replicate in the future.

Regardless of your stance on mainstreaming education, the events of today proved to me that the discussion needs to continue not only to maximize the effectiveness of each child’s education, but also to create a generation of young adults that are respectful and informed about issues that many of us like to keep in the shadows.

Five Stringin' Past Midnight

His fingers felt numb as they methodically traced the lines of the strings. Reflexively, his mind rejected the possibility of incoming cramps, and though strained from hours of unrelenting pressure and the sting of cheap whiskey, his voice continued to course over the microphone seven years past its prime.

Was anyone listening? Who gave a shit at this point. One-thirty in the morning in a beach bar thirty miles from nowhere wasn’t exactly the ideal atmosphere for folk, but he knew the dying pulses in the crowd would end up paying for that A string. The last three gigs had proven nothing if not inventive with the loss of the string, but Chris was nothing if not innovative.

And really fucking thirsty.

His mind filled the silence with thunderous applause as his final note fizzled out over the floorboards. Five stringin’ a triple set was no small feat, but bragging rights held little power when compared to a decent meal and a pack of smokes. He permitted a brief interlude to take a drag off of the Winston he had been nursing for the last forty minutes, and as the smoke leaked out over his cracked lips, he felt his muscles breathe a sigh of collective relief.

“I got one more for ya. I wrote this a while back, when…uh…” The story caught abruptly in his throat as he gauged the dwindling remnants of the crowd one final time. They didn’t deserve this. The story. The song. One more minute of his fucking time. He could leave the stage at that exact moment, and he guaranteed nobody would notice until the power cut out an hour later, but some damnable sliver of pride kept him firmly planted on the stool.

No gig left unfinished. Son of a bitch.

“This is Lady of the Lake. Thanks for stickin’ around…you guys have been—” Shit. “—great.”

Three weeks had passed since Lady had become his closer, and he still wasn’t sure how to feel about her placement. Her lyrics were immaculate; her chords ingenious; but he couldn’t help feeling like he was hiding her by leaving her for last. Her inception had been nothing short of miraculous, and with every subsequent repetition, her words were carved deeper and deeper into his soul. Each line transported him once more to that lakeside where he had found her…or she had found him, more appropriately. To this day, he swore that the lyric sheet had materialized beneath him as he slept, but then again, if fairy tales were real, then he had been stuck in the wrong fucking story for far too many years now.

Chris snapped back to reality just quick enough to hear himself pluck the final note, and immediately, a sense of panic flashed through his veins. Autopilot was perfectly adequate for the majority of his pandering repertoire, but not for her. He had never betrayed her like this. A cold sweat began to bead upon his brow as the implications of this potential disaster weighed upon his brain, but a sudden crack split the air and rocketed him back to his surroundings.

He was clapping. A crusty, sunken sort of a man, probably around 50 or 60, had been sitting at the bar with his back turned since Chris’s arrival—so much so that Chris had assumed him a permanent part of the infrastructure—but now he was…clapping. Respect flooded the man’s eyes as he stared down the young musician, and with one final resounding crack, he returned to his previous post.

“Th—thank you.”

A subtle creak shot across the bar as Chris dismounted the stool and reached for his dilapidated case he had craftily hidden behind the makeshift stage. With the gentle caress of a midnight lover, he lay the guitar across the cracking velvet. He soothingly stroked each fret before shutting the case; a ritual he had picked up long before memory was necessary, and as he closed her once more inside her carriage, the familiar stench of pine and cabbage flooded his lungs.

“Not bad, Ellerson. Not too bad.”

An involuntary wince denoted Sal’s arrival upon the stage, but Chris prayed that the gesture had gone unnoticed before the manager. “Thanks, Sal. Do what I can.”

“Clearly. Thanks for…ya know…packin’ the place.” A clammy hand motioned toward the vacant lobby as a hearty guffaw channeled out across Sal’s jowels. He was always so proud of his jokes. “How could I ever thank you?” A slightly suspicious wad of cash floated gingerly down atop Chris’s case. More rapidly than he had anticipated, Chris swiped the bills away and began counting as Sal’s moist footprints retreated back to the bar.

Five…ten…fifteen…twenty…twenty…motherfucker.

“SAL!” Not again. “C’mon, man…we talked about—”

“We TALKED—” The cartoonishly plump bastard turned on a dime. “about you bringing in some actual business to this fine establishment. I believe a ‘following’ was mentioned in your original pitch. Or do I remember incorrectly?”

Chris could feel a hard night’s pay slipping once more through his calloused fingers, but he was too damn exhausted to quell his stubbornness. “I remember you quoting me three times as much as this petty shit, or do I remember incorrectly?”

“Listen up, you little hippie fuck…” Sal’s sausagious finger had arrived once more within the effective area of Chris’s nostrils, much to his displeasure. “I gave you an estimate based on what any performer worth his salt can bring into my bar. I work on a percentage system far too complex to explain to an ungrateful ass like you who can’t even be bothered to properly string your goddamn instrument.” Blood was rising fiercely in Chris’s cheeks, but his fist remained pinned to his side…the last thing he needed was a hospital bill. “What you need to do is take your raggedy ass case and my more than generous ‘petty shit’ and get the fuck out of my bar before you get yourself a reputation.”

Innumerable retorts rested on the tip of Chris’s tongue as his eyes bled fire onto his cheeks, but much to his surprise…he found himself pocketing the bills and lugging his case back across the driftwood that continued to cry out beneath his every step. A lingering shot of whiskey lay upon the bar beside the seat of his previously adoring fan, and as Sal slammed the door to his makeshift office, Chris noticed the napkin beneath the glass had been scrawled upon rather hastily before the old man’s exit.

“I hope you find her”

The liquor fell smoothly down his throat, and Chris quickly pocketed the glass before trudging back out into the chilled Florida night.

Me too, man…me too.

I Can't Even

I can't even.
I'm done.
I am dead.

If you have been in the vicinity of anyone in their teens or early 20s, you have likely heard a number of these phrases used in everyday conversation. Stereotypically, these exclamations are attributed to young white girls, but as someone who inhabits this particular demographic, I can attest that race and gender have nothing to do with the popularity of these statements. Everyone makes them (myself included from time to time). More often than not, these sentiments are used comically to exclaim how unbelievable something is, how ridiculous something is, or how amazing something is. Oddly enough, all of these phrases can be used in every single one of those situations, so diction and situational awareness are incredibly important when deciphering their true meanings.

Despite the myriad ways these exclamations can be employed, however, they all have one thing in common: they glorify the halting of effort. Each phrase immediately stops any possible progress of understanding or discussing something in favor of comedic value, and while harmless at first glance, this increasingly popular trend is leading to the rapid decrease of intelligent conversation -- especially when related to humor.

The use of vibrant descriptors is becoming increasingly rare among the unoriginally classified "millenials." If a video is particularly exciting or engaging, many adolescents will post it on their respective feeds with the simple line of, "I can't. It's so...I'm done." Although this may sound like a number of nonsensical fragment, every teenager in America can decipher the exact meaning behind it despite its obvious lack of flavorful description. No longer are movie trailers hailed for technical achievement or storytelling prowess...they simply have to be so awesome that you "can't" any longer.

Whatever you were evidently doing...it is now done because of the awesome.

That sentence was physically painful to write.

Aside from the rampant spread of online examples, this trend is ravishing conversations across the world at a rate just as alarming. As a substitute teacher, I am unfortunately privy to many of these attempted dialogues, and they often sound something like this:

"My God, did you see the Star Wars trailer last night?"
"YES! It was just...guh it was--I mean, I can't. I fucking can't."
"Right?! I was just like 'done. I am done. Dead now. kbye.'"

Don't get me wrong -- I am perfectly aware that slang is ever evolving from generation to generation, but this particular linguistic advancement crosses the boundary from slang to laziness. The intelligence that is required  to form an educated opinion about anything (be it the new Star Wars trailer or the potential need for gun legislation) is rapidly decreasing in value to the point where it is now often viewed as gratuitous. Why would you need to properly enunciate your beliefs about a specific topic when you can dismiss it in the blink of an eye with three simple words? Minimal effort is required, potential embarrassment due to misinformation or undereducation is avoided, and it is there that I believe we find the root of the problem.

Confidence.

"I can't."
"I'm done."
"I'm dead."

Each one of these statements halts the progress of intelligent thought due to a perceived notion that the speaker is unable to form one. Everyone who has ever been in a classroom is aware of the astoundingly misguided idea that lack of knowledge can be seen as "cool," but these declarations take that to a whole new level. Instead of feigning ignorance in front of a teacher in order to fit in with a standard of forced mediocrity, teenagers are dismissing intelligent discussion from every corner of their lives.

But what if they didn't? What if every, "I can't" was replaced with an "I can describe exactly why I had such an intense reaction to this stimulus"? What if every, "I'm done" was replaced with a description of the beauty of what was just witnessed that simultaneously encouraged further dialogue? Younger generations have been gifted with more data about the world than all previous generations combined, but the ability to speak eloquently about that data needs to be given its share of importance before it is completely eradicated.

The next time that you think you can't even, think instead about how you can, because you are intelligent, eloquent, and worth far more than three monosyllables.

On Death

I have attempted to write this post a number of times over the last week. This topic has been festering within my mind for longer than I would fancy considering, so in the tradition of what I have discovered this blog to be, I have attempted to scrawl my thoughts onto the page. Unfortunately, I have been halted in this pursuit, because I keep falling into a trap that I would very much prefer to avoid.

Anger.

I hate death. I despise death. I find no comfort in the thought of its release, and I find no joy in its tendency to necessitate the remembrance of life. Some people may find this ironic considering that my chosen field often includes death in some fashion, especially if I am lucky enough to choreograph a particularly brutal fight scene. However, the aesthetic honesty of violence bears a sharp contrast to the actual reality of death, because at the end of the fight…my partner gets back up. They rise, they bow, and if we want, we can go grab a drink.

I never grabbed a drink with Kassi or Elliott.

Kassandra Keyzer and Elliott Orr are two of the people I felt rather close to in high school and a good amount of college, and within the last year, I have attended both of their funerals. Kassi was murdered by a family member at 21, and Elliott died of cancer at 23. Throughout their lives, they were two of the happiest and most caring people that I have ever known, and beyond that, they were two of the strongest Christians that I have ever known. Now, when I mention that, it bears importance, because neither one of them was judgmental or forceful in any way about their faith, but it undoubtedly defined them. For my money, they appeared to be the type of Christian that Jesus could have intended, because they radiated love and compassion consistently.

Throughout the last few years, I have fallen away from the church for a variety of reasons, and when I started writing this post, I used a lot of those reasons to lash out at the God I had once trusted so completely. My initial writings contained pages of hateful language and proclamations of pure, unadulterated malice at a creator who I thought had abandoned His most devoted followers. Those feelings have not disappeared, by any means, but out of respect for both of their respective legacies, I feel as though I should refrain from such indignant actions in favor of a more leveled approach.

But that doesn’t make it easy.

Death is not easy in any way, and I get extraordinarily frustrated when people shrug it off as anything less than a monumental and catastrophic event. On a Monday, there is a person that I know drawing breath and talking and existing, and on a Tuesday, all of those processes have stopped. There is no more breath, there is no more speech, there is no more light, and the he or she that was has now been reduced to an object meant for transport and burial. This concept still blows my mind. I suppose that I contained a relatively common knowledge of death before the passing of Kassi and Elliott, but the true weight of death is unable to be conveyed until you walk into a room with someone you once loved inside a box.

One of the usual methods for dealing with the death of a loved one, especially before their time, is the repetition of the sentiment, “They’re in a better place now.” This theory of a glorious eternity lies at the root of the large majority of the world’s religions, and as far as my experiences go thus far, it is present at 100% of funerals.

They’re living in paradise.

They’re the lucky ones.

They’re in a better place.

But I want them here. I still do. Why do we always have to make death part of some universal plan? Why can’t it just suck? Because man, it sucks. It really fucking sucks, and in an admittedly selfish manner, I want to be validated in that belief. Let me see the casket and feel free to cry out in anger, because I never asked them out for that drink. Let me remember the best parts of their lives without immediately negating them with the thoughts of the paradise in which they now reside. Let me feel without restraint, because as a human being, I have been programmed with the necessity to grieve but not the ability to fully comprehend. I am working on that, I assure you, but I have enough awareness to admit that there is still a long journey ahead of me.

This may be the most selfish post that I have ever written, but in the past two years, I have cried over the deaths of two of the greatest people that I have ever known decades before their time, and end of the day…I’m just not okay with that.

Thwip Thwip

Spider-Man got me into comic books. When I was in college, my best friend lent me the introductory volume of the Ultimate Spider-Man series by Brian Michael Bendis, and from the moment that I finished the first issue, I was hooked. The writing was snappy and exciting, the art was electric, and as I breathlessly raced down the hall of our dorm to grab the next paperback, I could feel a new addiction burning within me. I had tasted the first droplets of the ambrosia I so desperately needed coursing through veins, and the resulting years have transformed me into a perfectly content junkie with no hope of rehabilitation.

While Ultimate Spider-Man gave me the first look into who Peter Parker was on the page, I had known about him throughout my adolescence. Our friendly neighborhood web-slinger had recently been splattered across the silver screen in Sam Raimi’s monstrously successful franchise, action figures had been strewn vigorously across toy aisles since long before my inception, cartoons laced with quips and thwips had entertained me throughout elementary school, and the death of Uncle Ben had practically been cemented as a landmark event in American history. Spider-Man’s legacy has been intricately linked to the national consciousness and beyond since those precious pages of Amazing Fantasy 15, and for all of the possible grudges the nerd community may hold against him, we are forever indebted to Stan Lee for this and myriad other creations.

Essentially, Spider-Man is not new. I know that. I am keenly aware of it.

So everyone can stop telling me that.

This past week, Marvel Entertainment announced that Spider-Man will be officially joining the Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) in 2016 thanks to a special agreement that they worked out with SONY. For those of you that do not know, SONY has owned the film rights to Spider-Man for years, and ever since the overwhelming success of the MCU began to reveal itself, Marvel has desperately been attempting to negotiate a deal with SONY to bring the wall crawler back home so he can have some face time with Captain America and Iron Man. This announcement allows that to happen, and for millions of fans across the globe, this was an announcement of monumental—even historical importance.

However, this news was simultaneously accompanied by groups of people outraged by the idea of even more Spider-Man after the relative plethora of movies that have been released about him over the previous decade and a half. Accusations of laziness were ferociously slung around the internet as people cried out in anger over the seemingly endless repetition of Spider-Man movies, and to all of those people that screamed those words of annoyance to the heavens, I say this:

Then don’t see it.

Nobody in the world is forcing you to see any of these movies, so kindly save your hard earned dollars to see another film. For people like me, we adore seeing these characters that entertain and inspire us flying across movie screens, and there is no logical reason why our indescribable pleasure should bring you offense. Spider-Man may be a character that you have seen too much lately, but I relish any opportunity to see him swinging across the streets of New York, and the fact that he may be able to play a crucial role in the upcoming Captain America: Civil War – a role which helped define the character in 21^st century comics – brings me unparalleled elation. There may also be a little girl or boy that’s never seen Spider-Man before, and maybe their parents want to share that moment with them using this next batch of movies, and how dare you rip that opportunity away from them?

Spider-Man movies get made, biopic movies get made, Transformers movies get made, and indie films get made, but the prevalence of one does not negate the existence of the others. Support the art in any way that you wish, and if you’re not seeing films that are aimed precisely at the itch you can’t scratch, we live in an age where you are free to make them yourself, and I encourage you to do so. Creation in the modern day is explosive and exciting, and I will fully exercise my rights to be vigorously excited about the revolutionary direction of Birdman as well as the energetic exuberance of Spider-Man, and whether our new Peter is black, white, purple, or orange, you can bet that I’ll be there opening day waiting to see my wall crawler with the same amount of joy as the eight-year-old three rows down.

A Humble Suggestion

Within the last three months, the United States has partaken in a relatively rare exercise in ecstasy. For years, the citizens of this great nation have been plagued by the often laughable wealth extorted from them by the undoubtedly sociopathic bastards who lounge languidly atop the apex of gasoline empires. This fuel has transformed into an unquestionable necessity across the pages of this last century, and the inflation of its price has unfortunately done little to deter its rate of purchase among the masses. The 21^st century alone has been witness to the doubling and even tripling of these diabolical profits, and under a stifling cover of financial darkness, the American public’s only hope for a pillar of light was a miracle.

And so a miracle was received. These preceding months have been home to the lowest gas prices in recent history, and thus, euphoria returned once more to the populace. Toddlers returned to soccer practice, adolescents were back to necking at the drive-in, and a family’s drive to the pizza parlor finally cost less than the pizza itself. Peace. Order. Pizza.

But just as the night is darkest before the dawn (as long as you bar any scientific principles from entering the metaphor, of course), the day is brightest just before the night (the same artistic stipulations apply to this comparison). Ever so gingerly, pennies and dimes have been infiltrating the ranks of gas prices; raising them virtually without notice, and just as the frog waits patiently for his demise within the slowly boiling pot, our citizens are unknowingly permitting this poison to course through their veins.

No more. Our reliance on foreign oil has long been a thorn in our proverbial side, and today, we must rise together as a mighty fist of judgment and pluck that devastating poniard. As a result, a measly of trickle of blood may sprout from our collective wound, but fear not, for the bandage will arrive swiftly to halt the continual spillage of our vitality. We hold the power to uncover another source of fuel for our mechanized steeds; all we currently lack is the resolve to take action. Millennia of forced civility have stripped us of our ability to think primitively in order to ensure our continued survival, but luckily, I have accessed this morsel of code and grasped it from the bonds of the matrix. Our salvation is at hand.

“Greater love has no one than this; that one lay down his life for his friends.” This country was founded on the principles of the holy book from which that sentiment was birthed, and within its lines is buried the solution to our struggle. Every human being is connected by the electric pulse of the universe in which we constantly swirl, and that singular pulse connects us in a way that dispels the walls of friend, foe, and kin – uniting us on a molecular level that demands our cooperation in this task to save us…to save our children. This electric connectivity holds power untapped and untold in the leaves of history, but if that energy holds the key to powering our hearts, then why can it not power our cars?

Naturally, the pursuit of unlocking the secrets of biological electrical connectivity holds untold risks, but I remember a certain adventurer named Christopher that accepted those risks the second that he stepped foot onto our promised land; who are we to spit on his sacrifices by refusing to make our own? The human body that encases this energy is mighty and resistant, as it should be to stave off the many plagues to which our flesh is susceptible, and this could very well throw a metaphorical wrench into the gears of our collective plan, but fear not; such technicalities have been accounted for.

As the body ages, its natural defenses weaken exponentially as the promise of eternity draws near, and instead of foolishly attempting to prevent these natural measures from taking place, why not accept the will of time while manipulating it to our own advantages? Historically, once significant age has ruptured the body, the potential of continued benefit to society has plummeted, but that statistic changes today. A withered form still maintains the electric pulse of the collective human race, and with its defenses already mutilated by the ravages of continued existence, it would provide the perfect subject for the experiments we so desperately require. With these methods firmly established and approved by the governing body, those that had previously dwindled inadequately for years far beyond their intended usefulness could cement their legacies by being pioneers of change for the people of this country. What a miraculous opportunity.

Once this procedure has been perfected through years of tireless research and investigation, the potential is positively endless. The skyrocketing of our economy through monetization of this new technology would become a bona fide reality, and with the electric connectivity of our ancestors powering our automobiles, planes, and more, how long would it be before the power of that pulse completely eradicated hostility from the planet? Brothers and sisters would be transformed by the collective hum of the previous generation whirring softly within our motors, and that hum would evolve into a song of peace for centuries to come.

Personally, I have no financial or spiritual dog in this evolutionary fight; I wish only to enrich the future of my friends and those I have yet to encounter. I do not fear the notions of sacrifice in the name of unspeakable progress, and it is that very fire that has forged our country into the shining symbol of power and innovation that it has become. Let us take that next step together into the glorious light of connection and peace.

On Beauty

Anne Hathaway is a guilty pleasure of mine.

To clarify, I do not feel any particular sort of guilt for liking Anne Hathaway, but due to various reports about her attitude as well as some unfavorable performances scattered throughout her earlier history, a large majority of the general populace find her distasteful, so for them, I have added the descriptor. When I was younger, I thoroughly enjoyed her rambunctious performance in The Princess Diaries – yes, even the second one, because Julie Andrews mattress surfed like a champion, and if you don’t think that’s amazing, then I am severely concerned about the state of your consciousness. As I got older, I continued to appreciate her in The Devil Wears Prada, Les Mis, and The Dark Knight Rises, although honestly, Anne Hathaway’s career hasn’t really been a prevalent topic of conversation in my everyday life.

Until I saw a tumblr post the other day.

For those of you that don’t know what tumblr is, that is perfectly fine, and I actually do not wholeheartedly recommend perusing the dark depths of its domain. Tumblr collects a massive series of blogs dedicated to everything from socioeconomic policy to pictures of cats who look like they have mustaches, and the community is prized for being particularly forward thinking when it comes to issues like marriage equality, women’s rights, and so forth. That is the light side of tumblr.

But there is darkness, my friends. There is darkness. Rabid fan communities fester within the site to the point of legitimate concern, and hours of potential productivity are often lost within the endless gifs of tv shows you had long forgotten about, but I believe that the biggest offense perpetrated by the site is this:

In an effort to promote the rights and welfare of those traditionally underprivileged and undervalued, the tumblr community often alienates and even attacks all other groups. This involves attacking the legitimacy of heterosexuality because of the lack of homosexual rights, the degradation of white people in response to the atrocities committed against the African-American community, and despising “traditional beauty practices” because of the disgustingly unrealistic standards forced onto adolescents by the global media. While I truly believe that the intentions of these bloggers’ originate from a noble purpose, their methods are occasionally just as harmful as the movements they are attempting to vanquish.

And here’s where we come back to Anne Hathaway.

The gifset I discovered on tumblr recreated a scene from the first Princess Diaries movie where Anne Hathaway’s character is ridiculed by her best friend after receiving a makeover. Hathaway’s character greets her friend with an eager smile that is clearly seeking approval for the new look, and her friend callously dismisses the change by calling it “weird” and offering a look of absolute disgust. When I was a kid, I giggled at this scene, and I’m sure that was the director’s intent, but now…I interpret this very differently. Undoubtedly, this scene was meant to appeal to the “quirky” crowd by making fun of traditional beauty, but as an adult, I can now see the rich irony and hypocrisy of raising the confidence of the downtrodden by diminishing the value of others. Hathaway’s character was proud of her transformation, and instead of supporting her, her best friend immediately ridiculed her. Would this have been allowed if the transformation had been reversed? If Hathaway had transitioned from popularity to obscurity only to face the same kind of dejection from her best friend, audiences would have been livid at her treatment…but because she’s beautiful, apparently she’s just expected to take it?

Hathaway receives a similar treatment in The Devil Wears Prada. Her boyfriend in the film constantly derides her for wearing nice clothes and makeup, and the way that the movie is framed, he is supposed to be at least somewhat likeable. As an audience, we are meant to side with him despite the fact that he is consistently mocking his girlfriend for dressing in a way that makes her feel beautiful and empowered, but if he was making the exact same comments because of her decision to lounge around in sweatpants, he would be painted as an asshole – rightfully so, I might add. Both of Hathaway’s characters are subject to this derision after altering their appearance, and in a world where we are attempting to bolster the self-confidence of every boy and girl on a daily basis, there is no room for this type of disdain.

If a woman feels beautiful in a three hundred dollar coat, she should receive the same respect as a woman who feels beautiful in sweatpants. If a homosexual couple proclaims their love to the world, it should be met with the same joy and celebration as that of a heterosexual announcement. There is a terrifying trend seeping through the upcoming generations that equates the advancement of equality with the scornful hatred of the majority, and that does nothing but increase the disdainful polarity of both sides. True equality comes from loving every single person in exactly the way that they are, and that is the only hope that we have of erasing this new double standard that is rapidly spreading within today’s youth.

Whoever is reading this, you have the right to feel beautiful, and don’t let anybody’s definition of what that should mean affect your ability to stand tall.

Them.

They had no concept of life without walls
As shattered dreams bounced like pinballs
On airy planes of conversation
Life was vast and open to expression
But the limits forced upon them
Mercilessly
Had long since extinguished their flame of desire
Distraction reigned on a loveless throne
As hollow laughter spoke volumes in the silent funeral of ecstasy
I heard them as they screamed for bliss
    and were ignored with vigorous nonchalance
I heard them as they prayed for purpose
    among the raging seas of unimportance and distaste
I heard them as they cursed to feel a sliver of vitality
    with fucks cunts and shits delving endlessly for meaning
I heard them as they feigned importance
I heard them as they searched for reason
Purpose fleeting
Searing bleating
Stop the beating
Of a heart too stupid to know that these memories will never set
These vacuous promises of devotion are as empty
As the threats that follow in their tumultuous wake
Will they hear? Will they learn?
Will the submit to  the abyss into which they've been falling since their lungs engorged
With the luxurious nectar of the air?
I weep for the poets that never bought a pen
Who gave three fucks about a snapchat rather
Than the world they're living in
Such trivial matters dominate the headspace
Of those too calloused to expand
When the notion of discovery is quelled with the promise of elation
Only to see it flee with exuberance never witnessed by its master
This is the destruction of the foundation
Created by the dreamlords
Those who bent the will of fire and steel
To dip their quills in blood and soot
Their sacrifices endlessly squandered
By the arrogance of those whose tongues
Have never been enriched with the syllables of giants
I weep; I cry; I scream;
Listen to the voices as they echo through the ages
Their ethereal arms breaching bonds of eternity
To give purpose to those to weary to hear their names
Their struggle is endless and fruitless as the barren plains
And beneath the crushing weight of dreams ground into the dust
Silence falls

Tribute to Kerouac Pt. 1

Not one day passed by slower than the last as Marty regaled us with his chosen falsehood of the morning. Each night was a new girl he had wrecked with his cock until she screamed like a cat in heat of a crisp fall eve, but we knew the only fuck he had was one of his own making, and those cats stood guard outside his door to inspire each pathetic stroke on his way to one glorious cigarette in the wake of disappointing climax. There was no harm in granting him fantasies; sure; he didn’t hurt me with his outlandish delusions worth less than the rotgut whisky we swigged like princes in the nightmarish shade of an unforgiving sun. This was our kingdom, and we ruled with fists of iron; fists of steel; fists of ownership over the blood in our veins and words that dripped off of our tongues with echoes of regret not felt until three towns later. We were liars and thieves full of desires and dreams, and we sat upon the thrones of forgotten kings. But they crumbled as quickly as they came, and solemn promises gave way to published fears, and on that trail of tears, we fled quickly on the wind. Sand and dust of generations past pierced our fragile skin, but choruses of “Hallelujah” raised our spirits past the salty taste of sweat and blood. Hunger rapped impatiently upon our guts, but without an answer ripe with substance or solidity, we shoved it back through the rabbit hole to dwell another day in silence. Banishment was preferential to the percussive crack of authoritative dissonance crackling in our ears, and with our marching orders signed with the blood of archaic institution, onward we pressed. Time revoked all semblance of order as it painlessly swirled between our bodies drenched in the sweat of remorse and adventurous debauchery. Marty’s lies became legend forged tirelessly in the fires of whiskey and myth. The tallest tales reached the apex of eternity and fell down slowly on clouds of dust and crumpled paper; ink bled through the pages of existence and fact became fiction on the anvil of our minds that splintered further with every inhalation. We beat the drums and shattered the glass holding together the fragile code of conduct to which we pledged our falsified allegiances. Unholy secrets fled desperately into the blackness through which we ripped with blood drenched fangs, and they lived beneath our fingernails until the pungent stench of soot drove them from their domiciles. Bonfires roared in celebration of our legacy; crackling harmonies sang our praises as though the angels had taken leave from the side of god in favor of demonic blues found in the seediest bar whose doors their light could taint. Vibrations echoed through our bones in morse, pleading for a sliver of our ecstasy as the searing light of day began to break, but we were falling; falling; falling. Screams faded into the oblivion of conscience with the incorrigible suffering daybreak, and beneath our feet, the dirt cried out in rebellious triumph over kings; singing songs of siege and suffering across every hilltop upon which peasants had carved their names in protest. Embers whimpered with the tranquility of death, and onward we trudged into foretold glory; searching eternally for our kingdoms of serenity.

The Crucial Divide Between Censorship and Ignorance

If you have eight hours to spare in your day and feel like being lectured with vigorous passion, feel free to ask anyone involved in the arts why censorship is such a big deal. Since the inception of storytelling, rules and strictures have been put into place to quell its potential to address topics that exude any type of discomfort. Books, plays, and films have been banned across the world due to their controversial nature, and in response, rebellious artistic collectives have sprouted alongside them to continue the publication and pollination of such works in their respective societies. Occasionally, controversy has even elevated relatively mediocre properties to that of temporary fame a la The Interview.

Despite our continuous effort to mature as adults, we still get a thrill from watching that movie that our mom forbade.

Within our “developed” nation, we appear to be reducing the limits of censorship more and more with each year. Language denoted as explicit or unseemly seeps further into network television every year, and previously taboo topics such as homosexuality are discussed and represented across a number of networks and films; Transparent, a tv show documenting the trials and victories of a transgender parent played brilliantly by Jeffrey Tabor, even won a Golden Globe this year for best drama series. Open minded thought is definitely on the upswing when it comes to popular media, but for every yin, there must be a yang, and for every apparent victory, there must be a maddening counterattack.

The previous model of “polite conversation” that evidently existed throughout the better part of history before the 21^st century has been consistently eroding throughout the past few decades, and luckily, this has allowed previously ignored topics to be discussed intelligently and thoroughly. Unfortunately, this lack of decorum has coupled with the rapid ascent of social media, and the demon spawn of said pairing has permitted the exponential increase of public ignorance. Thoughts of staggering stupidity are now thrown into the cybersphere with reckless abandon, and whenever consequences of any kind are mentioned, the phrase “free speech” is rocketed out of the metaphorical canon before the final syllable falls.

Let this be an open declaration to those perpetrators of this behavior: I will not censor you. I support your right to say whatever the hell you want. If you want to see American Sniper and voice your deepest desire to “kill some ragheads,” you have the freedom to do so. If you want to fire off an undoubtedly intelligent rant about the “faggots” and “damn Mexicans” that are trying to take over “your country,” go ahead, by all means.

But.

BUT.

I, upon my high horse, unquestionably possess the right to 1. be offended by your display of unremorseful ignorance, 2. denounce your ill-informed, pathetic statements as exactly that, and 3. judge your overall character as a human being and consider that in the future regarding the terms of our acquaintance, or if I am in such a position, potential employment.

Let me repeat in case those three syllable phrases tripped you up in that last paragraph – ah, there’s another one. My deepest apologies. Shit, that’s four. I guess you just have to keep up at this point. I will not censor you. As a human being, it is your right to say whatever you want, but that does not excuse you from the potential consequences of your actions. You can touch the stove, but your hand will burn, and you can yell “FIRE!” in a theater, but you will be arrested. Artists and lawmakers alike have fought for years for your right to read Howl, Huck Finn, To Kill a Mockingbird, and more, but their sacrifices did not remove the penalties associated with the willful spread of malicious hate. Never will I support the aggressive blanketing of censorship, but never will I stand for the venomous spread of hate.

Freedom is not a synonym for absolution.

Focus

I lost my virginity under an explosion of magnificent hatred,

Broiling to an end as I boiled to my end

Stars melted onto sheets of wax paper

That we rolled and lit in attempt to isolate the artistry from our brains full of Adderall

Focus

Focus

Focus

Your thoughts are rusting the cogs

And the oil can is stuck in Oz

And I’m sorry, but Dorothy is not in the defense budget this year

So take a number and be a number until the vibrations of alarum permit you to stop

Your interruptions are horrific and your objections demonized

That pen is now a weapon, and you know

We don’t negotiate with terrorists

So pick up that ipad and sink into monotony

Soak into the pavement of hypocrisy

Until your tongue bleeds into the concrete

March in line to this beat

Focus

Focus

Focus

You may breathe at ten and two

Because that is what our mass has designed for you

An ever growing yet ever stagnant monster oozing with remorse

For every morsel that was loss, but oh my dear

You aren’t so lucky

Your disdain is appetizing

Your revolution polarizing

So much so that the ice caps sear with envy as they reach further towards your city

But everything is fine

Those towers have always towered o’er your thoughts

And the skeleton inside you is laced with blood and morphine

Propelling forward endlessly in the pursuit of dreams

We programmed within you, so reach

Fly

Touch that sky we pained on the ceiling just close enough to spot

Joke’s on you Sisyphus, you’ll never reach that top

But keep trying and fighting

Tearing every flap of skin that halts your way to mediocrity

As we snack on oversized candy bars and popcorn with

Real butter

Focus

Focus

Focus

Don’t ask why, just how high

Don’t ask how, just how loud

Don’t ask who

It seems pretty obvious that it’s the guy that’s not like me or you

Every step before you on this path has been engraved with hatred of the other

And since when does your planet not revolve around the sun

Who the fuck do you think you are

To dispel the haze that coats your cracking lips

Forever on the cusp of breaking free but lacking strength

To propel that single percussive line that shatters the number two pencil

You trail across the history of a forgotten truth that may have been a lie

Anyway

You think that you can break the game

Erase a single line of meticulously laid train track

Without which, chaos looms like an angry kindergarten teacher one year past retirement

Ready to smack any prepubescent knuckles

With a ruler of reality that scarred her long ago

Focus

Focus

Focus

Because if you look up for one solitary instant

If one heartbeat is skipped for a fraction of the enormity of time

Then the foundation crumbles into dust swept beneath a rug

That never existed in the first place

Just a speck that was once called the human race

But who really won in this case

When your conceit snarls angrily within a cave of repression

Crying out for any remote semblance of release

And if it breaks, a blaze rips across reality

Shattering confinement and creating creation

Eliminating structure and inviting resplendent randomness

The totems are screaming and charging the worn iron gates that nobody had the foresight to lock

They’re breaking through and breaking out

And the panic is overbearing to the hooting owls falling out of mighty oaks

Ablaze with fires of untold potential

The voices howl and the laughter screams across the night

And all we see as it rips through the sky alight with melting stars

Is an egregious lack of

Focus