The Reality of Movies

Things I love about movies, that make me identify with movies, and make me appreciate them much more:

I love when I recognize where a movie was filmed. Most of the time this isn’t the most challenging observation, but seeing a car chase take place in the Florida Keys (2 Fast, 2 Furious), or a battle scene take place on Alcatraz (X-Men, The Last Stand), or turning point moment take place inside Fenway Park (Field of Dreams), regardless of whether or not I’ve been to the location, there’s something mildly rewarding when you can look at a recognizable landmark or backdrop in a movie and think ‘okay, this, this here is real.’ Movies that take place in fictional land (Avatar) or 10,000 B.C. (10,000 B.C.) don’t have that same universal recognition.

I love when I can say that I’ve actually been where the movie was filmed. Admittedly, this usually revolves around movies filmed in Chicago, but still, seeing a kid run across the street and down the alley I used to live next to (Wanted), or watching police break in on John Dillinger’s girlfriend in her apartment that I used to live in, yes, in (Public Enemies), or seeing some generic school conversations take place on a lawn in front of Lane Tech High School a mile down the road (High Fidelity), it’s more than rewarding, it’s almost like bragging rights. You yell at your friends that Rob’s music shop in High Fidelity is on Milwaukee in the now super-appropriately hipster Wicker Park. You freak out when the chase scene in Wanted goes from Newport and Sheffield to some parking garage nowhere near that intersection. You explain that while the walls look crappy and falling apart, they actually added all that junk to make it look old, but the walls looked fine when we lived there. It spawns such an instant connection with a movie, it’s hard to shrug off.

I love trying to visit otherwise mundane locations just to see where a movie was filmed. Even if the landscape is half of what you expected, there’s still a notion of bigger and better things once walked this ground when you wind up for a pitch in Dyersville, Iowa (Field of Dreams), when you glance down the street to see the Manhattan Bridge (famous view, seen during the blind driving in Scent of a Woman), when you play your regional club baseball tournament in Huntington, IN (the field where A League of Their Own was filmed). The reason we flock to Times Square is to get a glimpse of what we have so frequently seen on the big screen. We take pictures next to pointless town signs (Aurora – Wayne’s World; Welcome to Fargo – Fargo) and identifiable statues (Rocky, Philadelphia – Rocky III; Charging Bull, New York City – Hitch) just to show we’ve been there. We get drinks in otherwise pointless bars (Mothers, Chicago – About Last Night; Woody’s L Street Tavern, Boston – Good Will Hunting) to reenact scenes and conversations from our favorites. We go out of our way to find out addresses of apartments so when we’re in New York City, we can make a special trip just to see the street scene where Keno is yelling at Donny, Leo, Mikey, and April that Ralph is in trouble (Turtles II)(okay, I didn’t actually do this, but I really wanted to). There’s something overwhelming to think that we’re visiting where such famous pieces of history took place. We’re walking with the giants.

I love when movies are based on a true story. There have been many movies that I finished, thought the movie was somewhere between pretty good and really good, looked up some information on IMdb or Wikipedia, then, and only then find out that it was based on a true story, immediately vaulting the quality of the movie. You mean he really took the plea and filed for witness protection (Goodfellas)? You mean he actually forged checks and conned millions of dollars (Catch me if you Can)? You mean he seriously skipped the middle man and revolutionized heroin in America (American Gangster)? You mean to tell me these glorified thugs and thieves were real people that not only approved of the movie, but also provided accurate and consistent direction and critique of the actors during filming? Staggering. I’m even good when I find out that a creator or producer roughly based a show on his or her life (Mark Wahlberg, Entourage), especially because real people appear in the show. Knowing there was more reality than fiction behind the lens makes me not only marvel that these people ever existed, but allows these films to reach me on a level that 200 foot tall transforming aliens never could.

All of these things connect me to movies, but, it’s when I see the reality of a movie that it loses something. When I remember that this is production, that fantasy is taken away. When I walk the paths of Central Park and think of the film crews and off-camera makeup artist and the buffet table just behind the director’s chair, a little bit of magic is gone. When I finally get to the ‘Field of Dreams’ and realize it’s slightly better groomed than my 12-year-old baseball home field, it loses some mystique. When I see the outside of a famous building, but then realize that the interior couldn’t have possibly been the same. When something recognizable for being so ‘New York’ (Seinfeld’s apartment building) was really across the street from a Taco Bell in L.A., it loses its authenticity. When I realize that several actors were offered the role for someone that I couldn’t imagine another actor playing (Josh Hartnett, Sean William Scott, and Joshua Jackson were all offered the role of Evan in The Butterfly Effect before Ashton Kutcher), it loses the destiny that this movie was to be made.

I love grounding movies in reality, but I hate when I can’t get lost in a movie, when I can’t forget about all reality and just immerse myself in entertainment. I love dissecting the reality of movies, marveling at the process, dropping nuggets of trivia, but if you keep stripping away the layers, you find they were built like papier mâché, incredibly intricate on the surface, but withered and hallow inside.

Traveling Music

It’s a Thursday. I’m nearly set to leave for the night, meeting my brother for dinner before joining his friends that are in town for Cubs opening day. I walk up to my dresser, grab enough cash for the night despite using plastic whenever possible, detach my apartment keys from my car keys to minimize pocket space, mist one spray of cologne at my chest, and head for the door. Halfway down the steps of my porch, I halt. No headphones. Problem remedied, I’m on the Brown Line within minutes, audio-occupied, and seamlessly blended into the rest of the traveling masses.

With the emergence and eventual dependency on phones containing music playing devices, in addition to the newest models of iPods getting small enough to pass through a keyhole, it’s actually challenging to spot a solo commuter without some form of audio pumping directly into their eardrums. That train that I got on… didn’t have one person without something jammed into an ear. It’s something so habitual for me, whether I’m taking the ‘L,’ riding a morning bus, sailing on the Metra, or just walking around the city, I can’t think of a time that I don’t have music playing. In the morning, I might be listening to some acoustic stuff, say, Colin Hay. If I’m coming home from work, I usually put on some rock, like KoRn (yes I still listen to KoRn). The most common scenario, I’m heading out for the night, I’m on a long stretch of putting all my David Guetta on random. I’ve even popped my headphones in, thinking I was walking home, got tired, hopped in a cab, and didn’t even take them out. I rode five minutes in a cab with headphones in knowing all well that whatever I was listening to would be better than my driver’s music preference.

I might be pretty far into the forest, but not too far to see the trees. My abuse of music while traveling has made it nearly impossible to establish even a passing connection with any of my fellow train riders. Not that I can’t lock eyes with someone sitting across from me, but, there’s just an alarmingly and disproportionately high probability that I’m not removing my headphones to strike up a conversation. I bet that number is similarly high for the object of my connection. Even with an opening line gift (are you listening to what I’m listening to?), it’s usually considered a nuisance to have to pause your music, remove one or both headphone, and engage a stranger in conversation. Don’t get me wrong, I can confidently say I have never struck up a witty exchange (or any other exchange, for that matter) with anyone seated or standing around me while I travel, so the additional of a little background music is welcomed, trumping the exceedingly pointless and annoying conversations that pollute the vessel of public transit.

But the idea of meeting someone on a train has always been in my head. Whether it be the young professional that takes the same Milwaukee North Metra line to work in the morning (a fantasy I get to enjoy only while my car is being worked on), or the flirtatious cutie that got on at the same brown line stop, the romantic in me would have loved for that to be the ‘how I met your mother’ story.

Instead, all I’m left with is another form of social isolation, another way to limit the person-to-person interaction along with cell phones, expansive cable, social networking, online dating, etc. Don’t get me wrong, I firmly believe that many of these popularity increases in the last 20 years, when used normally and properly, should enhance the amount of face to face contact we have, but the reality is that we have begun to substitute real life for a digital life, we’ve become so occupied with staying connected that we can’t drive to the store without a cell phone glued to our ear, we’ve become so dependent on constant stimulation that we can’t stand to sit in silence, and we’ve become so disconnected in a time when it should be easier than ever.

I’m not sure it always makes sense to do so, but I know that I’m going to try to leave my headphones on my dresser a little more frequently, choosing instead to be aware of my surroundings, listen to the sounds of the city, the people, life, and who knows, maybe even strike up a conversation with someone who shares nothing more than the choice to ride the train.

Annoying Status Updates

So, it recently dawned on me… I created my blog logo years ago without fully understanding what direction my writing would take, but overall, assumed that I would have many polarizing, angsty, annoyed, frustrated, melodramatic, overly wordy rants to the like of Dennis Miller, Dennis Leary, and any other vocabulary-driven orator with frequent annoyances and a platform to project. I got the ‘melodramatic, overly wordy’ stuff down pat, but somehow, I’ve let the everyday things that perpetually piss me off slip through the keyboard as opposed to splattering every page with how even the smallest thing has annoyed me enough to warrant a full-blown rant.

The times they are a changin.

Given my social networking experience, which is extensive, I see a lot of status updates on Facebook. Without belaboring the point, here are the five most annoying categories of status updates, counting down to the single most upchuck-reflex inducing bile that gets spewed, Team America style, all over my newsfeed.

Number 5: TGIF

Example: “TGIF!!!! Wooooo!”

The Breakdown: The mood in the office is awesome on a Friday, I cannot deny this. The idea that going out on a Thursday is okay because waking up Friday morning is always a pleasure is actually pretty sound. Friday morning traffic is beautiful. If the sun is out, multiply the feeling by 4. If you can get out of work early, take a half day, or get out of the office for lunch, do it. It’s magical. But sonuvabitch people, we all know it’s Friday. It’s the day after Thursday. It comes every week, never misses. Aside from masochists that work on the weekend, we’re all glad the work week is over. No one is sitting at the office, droopy-eyed and frowny, miserable that they won’t have a day in front of a computer screen. Announcing to the world of Facebook that you are also glad the weekend is here is about as useful as Apple’s ear buds. No one needs them!

Number 4: Any status that gets liked by the poster

Example: Grace: “6 months today! Can’t believe it’s been so long. Time to collect on some bets!!”

“Grace likes this”

The Breakdown: This falls slightly outside the standard ‘status’ complaint, but seriously. If posting that you’re also excited for the weekend was useless, this is one step above being dead. As far as I know, unless you get hacked, there’s a seriously high percentage chance that you were the one that updated your status. I would be severely disappointed (though not completely surprised) if someone disliked one of their own updates. The general idea behind updating a status revolves around, in some way, using your own thoughts and your own words (unless it’s just a quote or a lyric, which, used sparingly, is acceptable); it's kind of the whole point. If you’re posting stuff that you don’t like, you should get a 6 month ban from Facebook. But if you’re posting stuff, then have the twitching reaction to immediately click ‘like,’ go home, grab a pen, and write ‘I love to reiterate unnecessarily’ (yes every letter) down both arms.

Number 3: Updates about mundane errands and everyday occurrences (also, check-ins regarding same topic)

Example: “Work all day. Walgreens at lunch!”

The Breakdown: About on par with people that ask ‘what’s up’ during work hours (hint: work), there are countless activities that most people handle on a daily or weekly basis, none of which, regardless of who you are, how famous you are, what country you are in, or who you might be doing it with, is exciting. Except sex. But besides that, I have absolutely nothing to do with the knowledge that you’re at the store buying your puppy a toy. What’s next? ‘Stepped into the bathroom for a quick zit popping!’ ‘Had to adjust my balls there for a second.’ ‘Blinked fifteen times in a minute!’ Just stop. We, as humans, as Americans, and as Chicagoans, come across very similar things on a very frequent and consistent basis. Check in to the Starbucks next to work one more time, and the next time you do, the streets will split, lava will begin to gush, and you’ll just fall into the goo, trying one last time to update ‘oop, another Volcano in the city!’ But hey, I'll allow that one.

Number 2: Arbitrary number countdowns

Example: “OMG 247 days til the big day. Can’t wait!”

The Breakdown: Besides the fact that nothing more than ~6 months should ever be counted, why, oh why, have you chosen this number to signify your excitement? Are you so bored at work that you’ve decided to page ahead for 9 months, counting every single square (since clearly this number is not determined by common math skills) until you realize that the world needs to know that there are 117 more days until your birthday, so we should probably start planning. 67 more days til Vegas? Great. Hope Vegas burns down while you’re trying to think of what number comes after 20, just to spite you. Wedding days, anniversaries, birthdays, prison release dates, movie release dates, doesn’t matter. There are only a handful of acceptable numbers to count down from, and I’m being generous… 6 months, 3 months, 1 month (because saying 91 days implies you counted squares, and that’s not allowed), 20 days, 10 days, 3, 2, 1. I’ll even add in 24 hours, 18 hours, 12, and 6, because occasionally something is that exciting. Anything else, cut it out. You just seem desperate. Put the calendar down and function normally without prematurely pissing yourself with anticipation.

And the number 1 most annoying update on Facebook: ‘Best Boyfriend Ever!!!!!’

Example: Got a dozen roses delivered to my office today. BEST BOYFRIEND EVER!!!”

The Breakdown: Wow, what a gesture. I’m seriously blown away. I know I’m a hopeless romantic, so the idea of sending flowers to your baby at work is legit, especially for no reason (which probably means he did something wrong and is buttering you up first). But seriously, choose your words wisely, I’ve chosen mine. I have no problem with announcing to the world that you are happy with your relationship and you appreciate the nice, sometimes over-the-top acts of romance, compassion, or sympathy that your significant other has come through with, but I have a slight-little-tiny tidbit of news for you: There’s an alarmingly high probability he’s not the best ever. He might be awesome, but he’s not the best ever. He might have carried you up the stairs after riding in on a white horse, but he’s not the best ever. He might have booked a surprise trip to Hawaii because he saw you were stressed, but he’s not the best ever. The shocking thing is: most of these are about such trivial and craptastic moments that it shouldn’t even warrant a ‘eh, he’s a decent boyfriend.’ “Came home and the house was clean, best boyfriend ever!” Really? He’s probably slightly more trained than a dog, and figured there would be a time that this would come back to him in the future. Sorry to burst the bubble. Let’s just all agree that many people in relationships are very pleased with their current mate, ignore the fact that there’s a really good chance you won’t be together forever, indicating, in fact, he wasn’t the best boyfriend ever, and just peacefully and appropriately leave these over exaggerated bragging sessions in your head, where they belong, and stop polluting my newsfeed.

Thanks, I needed that.

Honorable Mentions: Copy and Paste for a cause; Overly personal business; Anything political; Running distances and times (usually not impressive either)

Also, can't wait to violate one of my own rules and get called out.

Autobots: Roll Out

So 3 ½ years ago, almost to the day, I wrote “the truth is, she affected my life when I was 10 years old cuz she said yes when I asked her if she liked me. But now she’s a baseball card, a Hot Wheels car, a stuffed duck. The only use they serve is to populate a box of memories that might one day resurface in a trek of nostalgia.” Well, last weekend, I had that trek. My mom had some time off and decided to purge their crawlspace. Why? Well you can’t store and save and package and preserve more shit until you get rid of the old. So with my brother and I set to be propped up in the burbs for the weekend, it was an ideal situation to have us rip through boxes of our childhood, splitting everything into three simple piles: take with you, give away, throw away. No gray area, no ‘can we keep this a little while longer,’ no ‘I don’t have room for this, but you do!’ etc. If we didn’t take it, it was gone. As it turns out, this distinction became necessary.

Box 1: College. 95% trash. Pretty sure all I kept were some poker chips, and only with the intentions of passing them along to a friend that would use them more than I would. The rest was filled with useless crap that at one point held some sort of sentimental attachment, but across the board, nothing was even worth giving away, nevertheless keeping.

Box 2: Hot Wheels. Now these cars hold some memories. Can’t even begin to describe the hours spent with this four-wheeled fleet. I know it’s cheating since I just saw them all over the weekend, but I’m pretty sure I could name you make/model/color of at least three quarters of the collection (including the badass looking cars that came with temporary tattoos). I know which cars roll the farthest, which ones weigh the most, which ones are the best to break up a man-made Hot Wheels traffic jam (long story). I was immediately brought back to nights when my mom went out for a haircut and it was boys night in with my dad and brother, picking and rolling our collection of monster trucks, attempting to maximize distance (don’t sleep on Hickey). But after all the flashbacks, they didn’t have a place in my future. I’m imagining the idea of passing them down to a future son or daughter, but my childhood pride would probably step in and yell at the kid for not playing with them the right way. “No!! Bigfoot is the best one. Big Pete is just a stupid half broken truck!!!!” or something. So I grabbed the most nostalgic member (a beaten and chipped Green/White/Gray Nissan 300zx) and plopped the rest in the ‘give away’ pile. On to the next one.

Box 3: Transformers. Another unbelievable send back through time, though admittedly a larger part of my brother’s life than my own. The mildly abused toys from the 80s are still kickass, but along with Hot Wheels, there just wasn’t a place in my future that I found these fitting in. Additionally, I knew they would find a better home: My 30-year-old cousin who writes a blog called ‘Full-Grown Child.’ Vintage, collector items, and classic toys are his forte, so I’ve done well to keep them in the family.

Box 4: Everything that I ever accumulated on my 3 shelves that stood the test of time while I resided with my parents. I stuck so much shit on them, packed, balanced, rearranged, piled, and just plain buried every little trinket or postcard or necklace or keychain or trophy or bottle or feather or troll or baseball card or note or Grave Digger. When I moved out, I literally slid everything into one box, wrote ‘Chris’ Shelves’ on it, and drove off to the city. Well, needless to say, my Insane Clown Posse ‘Silent J’ doll didn’t make the cut. I saved a handful of random preciouses, and sent the rest to meet their demise.

Box 5: Childhood. We’re talking baptism candles, 2^nd grade report cards, a stained list of baby accomplishments (apparently I was pretty par), every card my parents received regarding my birth (many of which they couldn’t identify the sender), hospital bracelets, classroom birthday gifts, and even the gimmick-type ‘awards’ that teachers give out for being a good friend and not gluing your hands to the table. Most of it was kind of fun to see. What I saved? My two favorite childhood books (The Saggy Baggy Elephant and Where the Wild Things Are), my hospital bracelet with my birth time and date, three pages from a book of 2^nd graders telling me why they liked me for my birthday, and that stained list of things I accomplished as a baby, like taking my first wobbly step. The rest? Torpedoed. Jettisoned into the abyss of trash, lost forever. I’m a grown-up, right?

As I began my departure home, I callously chirped ‘had fun throwing away my childhood.’ To be honest, it felt good to rid myself of so many things I was holding on to. These poorly drawn cartoon characters and faded mini plastic football helmets, what are they worth to me now? I don’t need to see my markered-blue Toyota MR-2 to remind me of rolling cars down my best friend’s long ass sidewalk. I don’t need to see the unfortunate looking necklace I wore for half of high school to remind me that I dressed like a tool. I don’t need the 3^rd grade report card confirming what I still face, ‘tons of talent, lacks motivation.’ These are things that I cherish as it is, and the excess of junk that piled up over the years, things I was too afraid to throw away for fear of regretting it, these were all things that, in the grand scheme of my life, have no place in it.

It was fun to reminisce with my family and a bottle of whiskey, but it’s hard to move onto the future if you have one hand holding onto the past.