"The final test of a gentleman is his respect for those who can be of no possible service to him." - William Lyon Phelps
Again.
I shouldn't be surprised.
And yet I am.
I pulled up to the stop sign, ready to make a right turn after the car on the crossroad sped past.
Just as I pulled out, the car at the opposite stop sign pulled out in front of me, turning left into my lane despite his nonexistent turn signal.
Bit of a close call, but I quickly slammed my breaks and surrendered to this too common occurrence at this intersection.
And he gives me the look.
Seriously?
Okay, truth be told, I gave him quite a look, too. And I tailgated him with a fierce scowl sure to make him think twice about pulling that stunt again.
Yeah, I taught him a lesson by repaying his idiotic move with my own idiotic tantrum.
But nevermind my shortcoming in this instance. Let's focus on the dude who is too important to use his turn signal and too self-righteous or perhaps ignorant to acknowledge his own inconsiderate behavior.
Turn signal ignorance is a peeve of mine. Aside from the potential danger in moments such as the one I described above, it's just annoying to see cars turn without warning or whip from lane to lane with nary a heads-up to fellow road warriors.
What's so hard about flicking the little stick on your steering wheel column to protect yourself and other drivers? I don't understand. Is it too much hassle with your hands occupied by your cell phone, coffee, Big Mac, or nostril mining?
By choosing not to use your turn signal, you are sending a clear signal that you deem yourself more important than everyone else on the road. Your lack of respect turns all other drivers into Rodney Dangerfield.
Time to take a turn or two and drive this writing to an unyielding film-centric point. Maybe.
I've contributed to 20 - give or take - independent film projects over the last few years. As someone struggling to get my own projects off the ground, I know how important it is to get support from peers. I'm happy to offer what little I can, and I admit my contributions make only the tiniest dent in the big picture.
But I give because it's the right thing to do.
Sometimes my gestures are rewarded with a DVD of the finished project or a credit in the movie or a shout-out on Facebook. Really, the reward is inconsequential.
But the one thing I do appreciate - the one thing I expect - is a thank you. It doesn't have to be a public Twitter or Facebook gush. I actually prefer private thanks unless the public broadcast encourages others to offer support.
Just a simple note: "Thank you. I/We appreciate your support." That's it. Is that too much to ask? Have you so little respect for your peers that you can't even send a note of thanks when one of them gives up a couple Blizzards or Concrete Mixers or Mocha Lite Coolers to help you chase your dream?
What kind of signal are you sending when you accept a gift and ignore the giver completely? You're not only refusing to use your blinker, you're actually flicking the right-turn signal and then taking a left turn.
In the span of a couple days a couple weeks ago, I contributed to a couple Kickstarter projects. One project creator (a team of people, actually) made no effort to thank me. I heard absolutely nothing from them. They are new to the scene as far as I can tell. I don't know them.
The other project was created by a professional writer with a major motion picture credit to his name. Less than 10 minutes after I contributed, he sent me a personal, specific message. I didn't know him when I contributed to his campaign, but I'm getting to know him now.
He also went on to send an update to all backers inviting us to set, inviting us to be part of the process, and inviting us to ask him for career advice/insight. He thanked us 99 backers profusely and made genuine effort to show his appreciation.
Who do you think I'll support more ardently moving forward?
I'm not angered by the former's lack of a thank you message. The tone of this writing is meant to be more of bewilderment than anger.
We struggling independent filmmakers want respect and support so badly, but when we get the support, we don't all appreciate it.
Is it entitlement? Self-centeredness? Conceit? Once you get money from somebody, do you feel they no longer have anything to contribute? Are you done with them?
When I ran my Kickstarter campaign a year and half ago, I received 134 separate donations. Those are 134 relationships I intend to foster for years to come. The money they contributed is nice, but the gesture of support is worth more than any mula.
We have to learn not only to appreciate the support others give us, but learn how to show appreciation. Ignoring somebody's support is not the signal you want to send.
Neither is tailgating in anger. But that's another issue for another time.
April 15, 2013
April 2, 2013
I wouldn't eat that if I were you
"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." - Havelock Ellis
Little fingers find the littlest trinkets and treasures. Little mouths, like vacuous black holes, absorb everything those little fingers find.
My 11-month-old discovered an eraser today, a half-inch cube. From where I do not know. The level of his eyes introduces him to a world few walking erectly ever see.
Our eyes locked.
He smiled proudly.
I shook my head and lunged toward him, narrowly dodging the blocks, books, and bears scattered across the floor.
My old-man grunts were drowned out by his mocking laughter as he pushed the eraser in his mouth at Usain Bolt speed.
My arms thwarted his attempted escape and I quickly rolled him over and plunged my finger into his swimming pool of a mouth.
His laughter stopped when I successfully extracted the eraser and he gave me an "oh no, you di'n't" look.
Then the tears. Oh the tears.
I just saved your life, young man! And this is how you thank me? With a tantrum?
You could have choked on this eraser and --
-- um --
-- wait a sec --
That's not an eraser.
It's cheese.
When was the last time we had cheese in the living room? Couple weeks? Month?
This cube of cheese was a little harder than an eraser. Full of hair, dust, and probably enough microbials to give even the strongest of digestive tracks a good flush. Pun intended. Duh.
I had the disease-cheese safely contained, but baby boy wanted it back.
In his mouth.
And then in his stomach.
"Don't you get it?" I wondered rhetorically. "This is bad for you. I took it away for your own good."
Cue the painfully obvious parallel.
How much month-old cheese am I still clinging to? Why do I continually throw tantrums when God does His best to rid me of the intestine attacking milk curds? It's for my own good!
I'm getting better. Gradually. Like a fine aged cheddar.
The less I whine over other actors getting roles for which I felt I was more qualified, the more roles I tend to get. The less I sulk at another producer's connection to financiers, the more connections pop up for me. The more I applaud others' fortunes and accomplishments, the more fortunes and accomplishments seem to come my way.
I'm getting better at letting the hard hairy cheese go and just living with the cheesiness of my parables, metaphors, and allegories.
But it's a process. Like Velveeta.
And yes, Chad, I used the word "erectly".
March 18, 2013
I predict unpredictability
"The future depends on what you do today" - Gandhi
Thirteen degrees.
Windchill: four below.
That's the MSP International Airport official temperature at this moment as I type another blogsterpiece.
This day last year saw a high of 79. In 2011 it was 40. 2010: 64.
A year ago I ran 4.5 miles in shorts and a t-shirt.
Today, the ground is buried beneath a foot of snow.
The high temperature in the Twin Cities on March 9, 2012, was 39 degrees Fahrenheit. It was the last day of the 2011/2012 winter in which the high temperature topped out below 40.
This year? Not a predicted high above 32 over the next seven days.
The weather here is volatile to say the least. Three months from today, we could hit 100 degrees like we did last summer. Tomorrow night, the low may dip below zero.
Minnesota weather, like my roundabout path to a point in each blog entry, is maddening. We have spectacular moments throughout the year, especially late spring and early fall, but we have to bear that sadistic Jack Frost's fury far too long.
Life is like Minnesota weather.
Holy underwear, that's cheesy. I may as well plop myself on a park bench with a box of chocolates and wait for a feather to float to my dirty sneakers.
But I'm going with it.
As someone whose mood is affected profoundly by the weather, I'm struggling today. Seven weeks ago I rejoiced as the oozing pustule of a month, January, finally retracted its numbing grasp. Then February, with its unreachable back-itch annoyance, retreated to the hell from whence it came.
In comes March, the last ice dam blocking the infusion of April's showers, May's flowers, and June's 15 hours of sunlight each day. I know you, March. You bring snowstorms. You bring cold. I've met you before. But what you're doing this year is just cruel. Not even a sprinkling of relief amidst the torturous nether of white, lifeless ground and red, runny noses.
Oh, we probably deserve this after last year. The string of upper 70s, low 80s we were gifted 52 weeks ago certainly couldn't become a trend. Even the global warming alarmists didn't expect Minnesota Marches to suddenly become the new May or September.
But that doesn't help me today! Or this week! I want good weather! And I want it now!
And I want to make movies with budgets! And I want to be a series regular on a popular TV show! And I want Forrest's box of chocolates!
And I want the exclamation point to replace the period as the preferred sentence-ending punctuation!
Like the weather, we can try to predict the lunch we'll eat tomorrow, the movie we'll see next weekend, the project we'll undertake next month, or the better job we'll accept next year, but inevitably, something will prevent us from fulfilling at least some of our self-prophecies.
My 22-year-old self wouldn't have predicted where I'd be today, and my current self has all but given up making predictions. The best we can do is work toward a satisfying goal. Along the way, there will be 2012 Marches with little to no snow, record highs, and ice-free lakes; but there will also be 2013 Marches sucking the very will to breathe. Nay, sucking the very ability to breathe. It hurts. Oh how it hurts.
We can't change the weather (unless we're Steve Martin in LA Story), so we need simply accept it for what it is, knowing it too shall pass. Today is nearly over and tomorrow is predicted to be -- um -- even colder. But then the next day is -- colder yet. But maybe - just maybe - next week will bring a few hours of above-freezing temperatures. Then the 40s, 50s, and 80s aren't far behind.
My career may be stuck in 2013 March, but it can't last forever. While I'm here, I can whine about the frozen expanse of emptiness or I can continue planting seeds in preparation for the thaw. Even if I'm stuck in the cold a while longer, eventually it will warm up. Right?
Life is like a box of Minnesota weather alright.
Thirteen degrees.
Windchill: four below.
That's the MSP International Airport official temperature at this moment as I type another blogsterpiece.
This day last year saw a high of 79. In 2011 it was 40. 2010: 64.
A year ago I ran 4.5 miles in shorts and a t-shirt.
Today, the ground is buried beneath a foot of snow.
The high temperature in the Twin Cities on March 9, 2012, was 39 degrees Fahrenheit. It was the last day of the 2011/2012 winter in which the high temperature topped out below 40.
This year? Not a predicted high above 32 over the next seven days.
The weather here is volatile to say the least. Three months from today, we could hit 100 degrees like we did last summer. Tomorrow night, the low may dip below zero.
Minnesota weather, like my roundabout path to a point in each blog entry, is maddening. We have spectacular moments throughout the year, especially late spring and early fall, but we have to bear that sadistic Jack Frost's fury far too long.
Life is like Minnesota weather.
Holy underwear, that's cheesy. I may as well plop myself on a park bench with a box of chocolates and wait for a feather to float to my dirty sneakers.
But I'm going with it.
As someone whose mood is affected profoundly by the weather, I'm struggling today. Seven weeks ago I rejoiced as the oozing pustule of a month, January, finally retracted its numbing grasp. Then February, with its unreachable back-itch annoyance, retreated to the hell from whence it came.
In comes March, the last ice dam blocking the infusion of April's showers, May's flowers, and June's 15 hours of sunlight each day. I know you, March. You bring snowstorms. You bring cold. I've met you before. But what you're doing this year is just cruel. Not even a sprinkling of relief amidst the torturous nether of white, lifeless ground and red, runny noses.
Oh, we probably deserve this after last year. The string of upper 70s, low 80s we were gifted 52 weeks ago certainly couldn't become a trend. Even the global warming alarmists didn't expect Minnesota Marches to suddenly become the new May or September.
But that doesn't help me today! Or this week! I want good weather! And I want it now!
And I want to make movies with budgets! And I want to be a series regular on a popular TV show! And I want Forrest's box of chocolates!
And I want the exclamation point to replace the period as the preferred sentence-ending punctuation!
Like the weather, we can try to predict the lunch we'll eat tomorrow, the movie we'll see next weekend, the project we'll undertake next month, or the better job we'll accept next year, but inevitably, something will prevent us from fulfilling at least some of our self-prophecies.
My 22-year-old self wouldn't have predicted where I'd be today, and my current self has all but given up making predictions. The best we can do is work toward a satisfying goal. Along the way, there will be 2012 Marches with little to no snow, record highs, and ice-free lakes; but there will also be 2013 Marches sucking the very will to breathe. Nay, sucking the very ability to breathe. It hurts. Oh how it hurts.
We can't change the weather (unless we're Steve Martin in LA Story), so we need simply accept it for what it is, knowing it too shall pass. Today is nearly over and tomorrow is predicted to be -- um -- even colder. But then the next day is -- colder yet. But maybe - just maybe - next week will bring a few hours of above-freezing temperatures. Then the 40s, 50s, and 80s aren't far behind.
My career may be stuck in 2013 March, but it can't last forever. While I'm here, I can whine about the frozen expanse of emptiness or I can continue planting seeds in preparation for the thaw. Even if I'm stuck in the cold a while longer, eventually it will warm up. Right?
Life is like a box of Minnesota weather alright.
March 11, 2013
When you got a job to do you gotta do it well
"Whatever your life's work is, do it well. A man should do his job so well that the living, the dead, and the unborn could do it no better." - Martin Luther King, Jr.
The regular delivery of my neighbors' mail in my curbside box is annoying, but tolerable.
Watching her clench a letter in her lips before putting it in my box is gross, but not deplorable.
The breaking of my and my neighbor's mailbox flags is a nuisance, but I suppose it happens.
And the time she refused to bring a package to my door last winter because I hadn't yet shoveled the inch of freshly fallen snow from my walk was flabbergasting, but I got over it.
But now she's making Newman look good.
My neighbors and I do our best to clear the snow from the curb beneath our mailboxes, but our latest powdery cloud dump left a pile of white fluff that was admittedly an inconvenience for the stubby little truck with the steering wheel on the wrong side.
An inconvenience. Certainly not an insurmountable obstacle.
After a day without mail, we received this note:
As did several neighbors.
Just the note. Not our mail.
Our lovely carrier managed to get to our mailboxes to drop these notes but opted to keep our mail at ransom.
Oh well. Not the end of the world. I had intended to make a clearer path anyway.
So I did.
And did she deliver our mail the next day?
No.
How 'bout the next?
Nope.
I finally got to the post office and explained my displeasure. I wasn't alone. Nor was I offered an apology or an adequate explanation.
Turns out the carrier, that very day, delivered a package to my neighbor's door and explained that the snow wasn't adequately cleared.
Luckily, my local newspapers are delivered via Sherman Tank so they're able to get through the vast dam of snow - nay - frozen rock without leaving behind tactless notes.
Was there a time when people would do their jobs without manufacturing excuses and blaming others for their decision to underperform? Or have we always been this lazy and unappreciative of actually having work?
There are countless folks who would absolutely love to have my postal carrier's job. Is mail delivery a life passion of many? Probably not. But it's a job. A good job. With benefits. How many people don't have that luxury? And here is a woman who refuses to bend an inch when saddled with even a minor inconvenience.
What is this rant's relevance to a blog supposedly centered on a guy's journey from small-town Minnesota to Hollywood?
I'm glad you asked.
Well, I'm glad I asked.
In my efforts to establish myself in the entertainment industry, I have been burdened by more than a Crayola crayons' box worth of menial, uncreative projects or parts of projects. Putting finishing touches on a video of drying paint in the middle of the night isn't exactly living the dream, but doggone it, I don't want to phone it in on anything.
(For those literalists out there, I've never actually done a video of drying paint. It was a metaphor.)
The end results - drying paint videos or otherwise - don't always prove I gave my all, but it's not for lack of effort. I have a hard time investing anything less than 100%. Usually. I mean, sometimes I vacuum lazily or buy canned chicken stock or run at a slower pace than I'm capable...
I digress.
My point - no, really, I have one - is that work is a privilege and should be treated as such. And lest I write myself into a corner here with implications that I really am committed 100% to everything I do, the full disclaimer here is that I'm reminding myself to appreciate any work I get. If it helps pay the bills and buy Barbies and Matchbox cars, it's a blessing.
We don't have to love what we are doing, but whenever we have something to do, we should be thankful. As Harry Connick, Jr. croons in Hear Me in the Harmony, "There's a whole lotta hard workin' people that could take my place."
The regular delivery of my neighbors' mail in my curbside box is annoying, but tolerable.
Watching her clench a letter in her lips before putting it in my box is gross, but not deplorable.
The breaking of my and my neighbor's mailbox flags is a nuisance, but I suppose it happens.
And the time she refused to bring a package to my door last winter because I hadn't yet shoveled the inch of freshly fallen snow from my walk was flabbergasting, but I got over it.
But now she's making Newman look good.
My neighbors and I do our best to clear the snow from the curb beneath our mailboxes, but our latest powdery cloud dump left a pile of white fluff that was admittedly an inconvenience for the stubby little truck with the steering wheel on the wrong side.
An inconvenience. Certainly not an insurmountable obstacle.
After a day without mail, we received this note:
As did several neighbors.
Just the note. Not our mail.
Our lovely carrier managed to get to our mailboxes to drop these notes but opted to keep our mail at ransom.
Oh well. Not the end of the world. I had intended to make a clearer path anyway.
So I did.
And did she deliver our mail the next day?
No.
How 'bout the next?
Nope.
I finally got to the post office and explained my displeasure. I wasn't alone. Nor was I offered an apology or an adequate explanation.
Turns out the carrier, that very day, delivered a package to my neighbor's door and explained that the snow wasn't adequately cleared.
Luckily, my local newspapers are delivered via Sherman Tank so they're able to get through the vast dam of snow - nay - frozen rock without leaving behind tactless notes.
Was there a time when people would do their jobs without manufacturing excuses and blaming others for their decision to underperform? Or have we always been this lazy and unappreciative of actually having work?
There are countless folks who would absolutely love to have my postal carrier's job. Is mail delivery a life passion of many? Probably not. But it's a job. A good job. With benefits. How many people don't have that luxury? And here is a woman who refuses to bend an inch when saddled with even a minor inconvenience.
What is this rant's relevance to a blog supposedly centered on a guy's journey from small-town Minnesota to Hollywood?
I'm glad you asked.
Well, I'm glad I asked.
In my efforts to establish myself in the entertainment industry, I have been burdened by more than a Crayola crayons' box worth of menial, uncreative projects or parts of projects. Putting finishing touches on a video of drying paint in the middle of the night isn't exactly living the dream, but doggone it, I don't want to phone it in on anything.
(For those literalists out there, I've never actually done a video of drying paint. It was a metaphor.)
The end results - drying paint videos or otherwise - don't always prove I gave my all, but it's not for lack of effort. I have a hard time investing anything less than 100%. Usually. I mean, sometimes I vacuum lazily or buy canned chicken stock or run at a slower pace than I'm capable...
I digress.
My point - no, really, I have one - is that work is a privilege and should be treated as such. And lest I write myself into a corner here with implications that I really am committed 100% to everything I do, the full disclaimer here is that I'm reminding myself to appreciate any work I get. If it helps pay the bills and buy Barbies and Matchbox cars, it's a blessing.
We don't have to love what we are doing, but whenever we have something to do, we should be thankful. As Harry Connick, Jr. croons in Hear Me in the Harmony, "There's a whole lotta hard workin' people that could take my place."
February 28, 2013
A Perfect Life
"Dear God, please give Denise and her family more money so they can have a perfect life like we have." - P. Overlander
Sigh.
Heart melting.
Perspective granted.
Remember Rolf and Leisl chirping back and forth about being 16 going on 17 in The Sound of Music? My oldest is 7 going on 17. She speaks of a boyfriend. She demands a cell phone. She begs to wear makeup.
This little girl, anxious as she is to grow up, has always had a heart of gold. From her delicate way of prefacing criticism with: "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Dad, but..." to "I don't want to hurt other dads' feelings, but you're the best dad ever," she has me wrapped ridiculously tightly around every one of her fingers.
Yet she still floors me from time to time. Like the night she said her table grace and threw in the above request.
Denise is a little girl from the Philippines that we sponsor through Compassion International. She's been a remote part of our family for a few years now, sending notes and drawings regularly, occupying our prayers daily. I've heard my girl pray for her many times.
It's impossible to know the exact image of Denise's family my daughter holds in her heart, but it's clear she understands that Denise's isn't a life of prosperity.
But how can my little girl think ours is a perfect life? Doesn't she know that most months our bills are greater than our income? Doesn't she know her dad is lustful of a bigger home, a lake home, a California home? Doesn't our worn, stained carpet torment her like it does me? What about our toilet than runs unless we lift the tank lid and wiggle the doohicky connected to the thingamajig? And don't get me started on our yard. And kitchen. And my wardrobe.
Lest I paint myself a materialistic covetous whiner, please know I appreciate my blessings of which there are many. Too many to count.
But I dwell too often on the have-nots in my life. We all do. Except my little 7-year-old. She has it right. In this instance, the student has outclassed the teacher by a mile.
My desire to be a professional actor and writer and director and producer is still there and always will be, but if life is already perfect, what more could a career in those fields add? New carpet? New shoes? A steak dinner?
I want to close this entry with a pious spiritual claim that if nothing were to change in my career path I would be content in this already perfect life. But I can't. Doggone it, I can't.
Eventually my 7-year-old will tot's be 17 like for realz. Is that how 17-year-olds talk? Um probs not. Anyway, she'll have a new perspective on this 'perfect' life. Hopefully she's able to find a middle ground between the perfect life she perceived at 7 and whatever melodramatic malady she's burdened with at 17.
At any rate, if the life we live today is perceived as perfect by my 7-year-old, it brings sunshine to my periodic pessimistic pity parties. And that's close enough to perfect for me.
Sigh.
Heart melting.
Perspective granted.
Remember Rolf and Leisl chirping back and forth about being 16 going on 17 in The Sound of Music? My oldest is 7 going on 17. She speaks of a boyfriend. She demands a cell phone. She begs to wear makeup.
This little girl, anxious as she is to grow up, has always had a heart of gold. From her delicate way of prefacing criticism with: "I don't want to hurt your feelings, Dad, but..." to "I don't want to hurt other dads' feelings, but you're the best dad ever," she has me wrapped ridiculously tightly around every one of her fingers.
Yet she still floors me from time to time. Like the night she said her table grace and threw in the above request.
Denise is a little girl from the Philippines that we sponsor through Compassion International. She's been a remote part of our family for a few years now, sending notes and drawings regularly, occupying our prayers daily. I've heard my girl pray for her many times.
It's impossible to know the exact image of Denise's family my daughter holds in her heart, but it's clear she understands that Denise's isn't a life of prosperity.
But how can my little girl think ours is a perfect life? Doesn't she know that most months our bills are greater than our income? Doesn't she know her dad is lustful of a bigger home, a lake home, a California home? Doesn't our worn, stained carpet torment her like it does me? What about our toilet than runs unless we lift the tank lid and wiggle the doohicky connected to the thingamajig? And don't get me started on our yard. And kitchen. And my wardrobe.
Lest I paint myself a materialistic covetous whiner, please know I appreciate my blessings of which there are many. Too many to count.
But I dwell too often on the have-nots in my life. We all do. Except my little 7-year-old. She has it right. In this instance, the student has outclassed the teacher by a mile.
My desire to be a professional actor and writer and director and producer is still there and always will be, but if life is already perfect, what more could a career in those fields add? New carpet? New shoes? A steak dinner?
I want to close this entry with a pious spiritual claim that if nothing were to change in my career path I would be content in this already perfect life. But I can't. Doggone it, I can't.
Eventually my 7-year-old will tot's be 17 like for realz. Is that how 17-year-olds talk? Um probs not. Anyway, she'll have a new perspective on this 'perfect' life. Hopefully she's able to find a middle ground between the perfect life she perceived at 7 and whatever melodramatic malady she's burdened with at 17.
At any rate, if the life we live today is perceived as perfect by my 7-year-old, it brings sunshine to my periodic pessimistic pity parties. And that's close enough to perfect for me.
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