Blockbuster Busts Out

In case you haven't heard, or in case you're surprised to learn they still had any stores open, Blockbuster has officially decided to close all its corporate retail rental stores. I for one welcome the news, remembering as many others do Blockbuster's awful customer service, its policy of being hard nosed about late fees, and its limited selection and tendency to focus too much on carrying dozens of copies of the latest releases and very few foreign or independent films. (What kind of slogan is "Be kind. Please rewind."?) It's also ironic, of course, that Blockbuster now faces the same fate as the many mom-and-pop neighborhood rental stores it put out of business.

Nonetheless, the story has me feeling nostalgic about the video-rental glory days, physically going to the video store and ritualistically gazing at the empty boxes of available movies, deciding want to rent for a quiet night at home. Physically perusing the shelves at the video-rental store, as opposed to going through endless lists of streaming videos, seemed more like shopping, the promise of the perfect rental remaining tantalizingly just out of sight as you looked at all the available videos, each one a mystery, its contents only suggested by the cover and the names of stars. I used to drive partners mad as I lingered looking at all the different movie boxes. I sometimes wanted to go down every row, see everything that was available, as opposed to just grabbing the first promising video.

With VHS movies in particular, those boxy, worn-out covers often revealed forgotten gems, obscure movies that had only been printed once. I remain nostalgic particularly about the magic of VHS, the first home-rental movie format (if we conveniently forget about Beta, since I never had a Betamax). The movies felt like real movies in those boxy, book-like packages, even if the actual video quality of the movies was substandard and grainy by today's standards (and even in comparison to the resolution of standard TV in those days -- VHS movies always had that strange, cartoonish quality; you knew when you were watching a "video").  But there was something odd and promising about being able to fast forward and scan through movies to find your favorite scenes, something real about the way the video tapes rewound, clicked in the machine, and whirred and buzzed when played. Video tapes also gave us our first opportunity to watch movies at home, at our own leisure, without waiting for a favorite to come back on to TV broadcast.

I remember my last physical video rental, a DVD a friend and I hunted down after a few drinks. It was 2008, and he was determined that I see Superbad, because I hadn't seen it, and so we took a trip to the last of the neighborhood video store holdouts in my area, a store that has since closed down. Streaming video wasn't yet available, at least on my system, so the only real option was to find a video store and find the movie. Video stores gave you that opportunity for adventure, a hunting trip to the local video store to find that movie you had to watch that night. Sometimes you even had to buy the video if it wasn't available for rental.

Now our options seem endless, and the chance for a hunting adventure, a drive to the local video store, seems ridiculous and quaint, just a few years after my last trip. We still have our DVDs and Blu-Rays, of course, but they too will be quickly fading. Soon we will never have to leave the house at all.

Breakfast

Every one of those flippant online lifestyle articles about how to lose weight always mentions that you should eat breakfast regularly. These articles state, without much variation, that healthy people start their days with a healthy, high-fiber or high-protein breakfast. Attractive and enviable young urban professionals know that eating a healthy breakfast gets your metabolism going and gives you the energy to keep moving, thereby burning more calories throughout the day. Furthermore, these anonymous lifestyle experts suggest, not eating breakfast signals to your body that you are "starving," slowing down your metabolism to conserve energy and that you will overeat at your next meal, scarfing down hamburgers and french fries because you didn't eat a bran muffin for breakfast.

I question the wisdom of the this particular advice, and it's not because I'm one of those people who doesn't like breakfast or normally skips it. I think the lifestyle editors like to offer this advice because they know so many people don't eat breakfast, so it seems like an easy thing to say, easy to say and easy to dismiss, since most people will continue to eat breakfast or not. (Most people who skip breakfast or aren't interested in it probably are waking up too early and just aren't ready to eat.)

The thing is, and I know this is anecdotal, non-scientific evidence, most of the skinny people I know do not eat breakfast at all. That's it.  So maybe I'm a conspiracy theorist, but this "you need to eat breakfast" thing seems like a nice way for skinny people to keep everybody else fat. Whatever the motivation, there are so many different kinds of advice for losing weight and dieting because nothing works exactly the same way for everyone. (It's sort of like all the different types of cold remedies, hangover cures, and headache pills. If one thing worked for everyone all the time, that would be the solution.) Yes, burning more calories than you consume always works theoretically, but not in exactly the same way for everyone; you must also consider factors of age, hormones, gender, and metabolism.

Here is how author Gore Vidal said he started his day: "First coffee. Then a bowel movement. Then the muse joins me."  I rather like that breakfast suggestion as a bit of writing advice.

The word "breakfast" (break-fast), by the way, comes from the idea of "breaking the fast" that you endure while sleeping. Thus, when you awake at a natural time, after sleeping sufficiently, you will often be hungrier than you are at any other time of day.

I offer the cover art from Supertramp's 1979 album Breakfast in America for no particular reason, other than the fact that I like the songs. Also, you'll notice the Twin Towers represented on the cover behind the orange juice. 

Why Teachers Love "Breaking Bad"

The series finale of the landmark cable series "Breaking Bad" has now come and gone, with much comment by pundits, critics, and fans alike about the worthiness of the final episode and the hidden meanings of various gestures and images. It's worth noting that as series finales go, "Breaking Bad" certainly did a fine job of wrapping up the loose ends and leaving viewers satisfied. There isn't much else you can do, in spite of some fans' complaints that the finale wasn't exciting or "big" enough. We are talking about television, and even this show must keep its plot twists believable within the context of the show. As an anti-hero and a tragic hero at that, Walter White had to meet his end in a certain way, and his relative calmness in the final episode made for some enjoyably tense moments.

One thing that always made this show believable (as a work of fiction) was Walter White's initial status as a middle-class science teacher. He is overworked and exhausted, but he continues to forge ahead, does his work and gives the students some kind of exposure to scientific thinking. He does a few visually dazzling experiments in class, but mostly he seems like a teacher who was once inspired and passionate about teaching, but who is now going through the motions. He's still excited by science, but he's rather tired of trying to transfer that passion to eternally bored students.

As his obsession with his now-rich former partners suggests, Walter regrets that his apparently brilliant knowledge and abilities in science have not made him wealthy or powerful, hence the motive (once he gets sick) for his descent into the criminal world. As he admits in the series finale, it's the power that has driven him more than the money or the need to provide for his family; he's found something he's "good at" that also rewards him with financial gain.

Even though Walter White is ostensibly "evil," teachers relate to and appreciate his special brand of madness even more so than the average viewer, I would argue. They see Walter with his ugly, paid-for Pontiac Aztec and his nerdy short-sleeve shirts, they see him trying to reach a classroom full of distracted teenagers, and they think, yes, I've been there. Even teachers with more passion than Walter (and passion tends to come and go, hence the high burn-out factor for teachers) can relate to moments when he's just not connecting with the students, just not able to make them see what he sees. It's the ever-present challenge of teaching, and it doesn't just go away.

Of course, watching a dramatic show about a semi-bored science teacher would probably be excruciating. What teachers really like about Walter White, and what we like about any worthy protagonist, is that he takes action. He gives himself the kind of power that teachers hardly ever feel. I would argue that male teachers in particular wrestle with questions of job identity and male power, and this is one reason Hank provides such a powerful and initially obnoxious counterpart to Walter. In the early episodes, Hank practically bullies Walter with his overbearing personality and bravado-driven comments about his empowered job as a DEA agent. He gets to fire a gun and push around criminals, while Walter plays with Bunsen burners and grades papers as he's wiping chalk dust from his pants.

Walter changes his destiny, and thereby gives teacher-viewers a vicarious sense of thrilling empowerment. He jettisons teaching, which the all-powerful capitalist society and surrounding culture do not endorse or support through any kind of financial rewards or even prestige, and pursues the purely money-making endeavor of drug manufacturing and sales. Although making and selling meth is clearly illegal, it's also more supported and rewarded by the culture at large, as evidenced by the financial rewards and sense of respect that Walter begins to command. In spite of the law, drug-making is the most purely capitalist activity around; it is totally market driven and is not regulated or overseen by government, except for being illegal in fact. Walter makes a lot of money selling a high-quality product that is in high demand. There's no real reason for the product to exist, but it creates its own demand. 

Walter gives up on teaching because teaching and society have given up on him. Yes, he was living a comfortable existence in a nice middle-class home, and that is where most teachers will stay, and they will be relatively happy with that existence. But the fantasy of Walter White, the fictional science teacher who builds a drug empire, triumphs over this suburban malaise. He makes teachers grin and smirk as they watch television, thinking about tomorrow's lesson plan and the stack of ungraded papers before them. We cheer Walter on, in spite of his evilness, because we know exactly where he's coming from.  

MORE READING: "Breaking Bad" career tips 

On the Importance of Trivia

In her review of Charlie Chaplin's The Kid in 5001 Nights at the Movies, Pauline Kael, one of the 20th century's most important film critics, noted that "a little girl named Lita Grey (known as Lolita), later to be Chaplin's wife, appears in a dream sequence set in Heaven."

This final trivia note in her review surprised me in a way and got me thinking about the whole notion of "trivia," which we literally take to mean things of little importance. Kael does not strike me as one to include "unimportant" bits of information in her review, so her inclusion of this strange bit of information made me rethink the potential importance of what we normally call trivia.

 At first, this particular piece of trivia strikes one as slightly salacious, especially given that Kael bothers to note that the girl was known as "Lolita" (a word that, long after Chaplin's film, became associated with underage sirens), and that the "little girl" appears in a dream sequence in Heaven. Chaplin married Grey when she was just 16, just a few years after The Kid was released, and she was one of several much-younger women that he was involved with during his life. Kael's bit of trivia, then, prods us to do additional research (to see if she was actually one of his underage wives) and also seems to emerge as a kind of dig at the long-dead Chaplin, suggesting that he saw young girls as idealized dream figures, after all.

That's all well and good, but how does it help us understand the film? Why does trivia ever matter?  My students are always interested in a similar bit of salacious trivia involving Edgar Allan Poe -- the fact that he married his 13-year-old cousin. So, yes, part of it seems to revolve just around gossip-mongering and the desire for dirt. Yet trivia also humanizes our subjects, reminds us of the intersections between art and life and helps us to get to know filmmakers and authors better by examining their flaws and various obsessions. The Kid, though made in 1921, idealizes and even sentimentalizes children through the gauze of Victorian lace curtains, and Chaplin's ability to understand children affected both his work and his personal life. The Kid is a great movie, my favorite Chaplin film, mostly because of the performance of Jackie Coogan, but we can also see the danger of sentimentalizing childhood. For Chaplin, this led to a messy personal life and even potential legal troubles; in his film, his sentimentality, as Kael notes, was "often awkward, and even mawkish." The perfection of The Kid allows us to see the purity of Chaplin's vision, what he was really going for when he wasn't stumbling on these flaws.

On a more basic and intuitive level, trivia complicates our subject in ways that aren't always clear. Trivia is often strange and surprising; it makes us reexamine our assumptions. Chaplin cast his future young wife as a dream girl. So what? There may not be any clear answer, but it gives us something to think about. That's the simple beauty of trivia. 

"It's not really about me": Writing and the problem of persona

When a writer works in the realms of poetry or fiction, or anything that isn't strictly nonfiction, he must deal with the problem of people thinking that the origin of the poem or story must be autobiographical. Frequently it is, of course, but writers also need to feel free to create art without worrying about how the art will be perceived as a reflection of the self. This is particularly a problem with significant others, I think, because they look at the writing as potentially providing clues about people (writers) who are often taciturn and frustratingly difficult to understand. If you're Stephen King's wife, you read a novel like Carrie, which King reportedly threw in the garbage can, and tell him, "I think this is publishable," instead of, "I can't believe you wrote a novel about a weird high-school girl getting her period and killing everybody at the prom." But not everybody can be Stephen King's wife (herself a poet and apparently also a solid proofreader).  Sometimes a significant other can be less-than-ideal as a "first reader" because they're reading the story or poem for clues about the reader instead of reading it on its own terms.You can't really blame them.

A related issue, unfortunately brought up by the events at Virginia Tech a few years ago, is what writing can tell us about the potentially violent tendencies of a person. This is a wholly misguided and dangerous effort. While the Virginia Tech shooter's creative writings might have been disturbing, what might happen if we looked at the books of a writer like King and decided that he was a danger to society? (Another interesting yet sad footnote: King has refused to allow reprints of one of his disturbing novels, published under his Bachman pseudonym, because he was afraid it was inspiring high-school shooters. This is an unfortunate way of looking at things, and if Salinger had thought the same way, we wouldn't have reprints of Catcher in the Rye. But it's obviously King's right, and it certainly reveals his caring and compassionate side.)

Writers tend to hide behind the idea of "persona," telling friends and especially significant others, "This isn't really about me. It's a persona. It's fictionalized."  This is true, of course, in that all creative writing involves a reimagination of the truth.  But it's also true that writing can tell you something about the writer -- not about his evil thoughts or his past devious deeds, but about what he's thinking about and obsessed with.

Either way, it's important for the writer and the reader to not get too hung up on what's based on real life and what works can tell us about an author. Creative writing instructors, myself included, are always trying to convince students that it doesn't really matter if something happened -- it has to be believable and valuable on its own terms as writing. This also works in the converse; we shouldn't look to discern the "real truth" behind a work of fiction or a poem if it works on its own. We might be curious and that might tell us something about whether the story is good (our imaginary conception of Poe as a deranged drug addict says more about the compelling nature of his stories than about anything he did in real life), but we should push that aside as much as possible, and allow the poem or story to speak for itself.

The Magic of Writing

Writing has sometimes been compared to magic, most famously by Borges in his essay "Narrative Art and Magic." At the danger of simplifying this author, who does not need my assistance (the essay should be allowed to speak for itself), Borges argues that the logic of narrative is similar to magical thinking, in that we as readers and writers allow ourselves to make connections between images and ideas, connections that have no real basis in real logic or rationality. Writing represents a "reordering of the real," and good fiction makes sense the way dreams often make sense. 

The writing act itself also has parallels to what magicians do, in making the reader pay attention to certain things while ignoring others. The magician "reorders reality" through the power of suggestion and distraction, keeping the viewer's focus where he wants it to be. Of course, as Tennessee Williams suggests through his character Tom in The Glass Menagerie, whereas magic attempts to trick and entertain people, by presenting illusion disguised as truth, writing gives you "truth disguised as illusion."* We're speaking here, of course, of the truth as immortalized by Keats. Writers must be "truthful," but they do so by making up stories and fictionalizing reality to get at the underlying truth.

When I think of writing and magic, though, and all this business about the nature of illusion and trickery, I think of the difference in feeling in writing prose and poetry. For me, writing stories and other prose often feels like it involves the magical logic described by Borges. In writing poetry, though, it often feels as if the work transcends these ideas. Poems, at their best, feel not like an act of magic as we usually think of it, the magic of top hats and performance art, but real magic. Poetry is like word sorcery, making words do the impossible and, in doing so, changing the nature of reality.

*Play performances seem similar to magical performances as well. They entertain and enthrall us, and, if done well, make us forget that what we're viewing is an illusion. And the best magicians also know that magic is performance art; it must be dramatic, funny, and mysterious. I think it's also interesting that some magicians of the past were called "Professors," as if they are teaching the audience something.

**Neil Gaiman has some excellent stories and comments about magic in his collection Smoke and Mirrors. As he points out, magic is compelling in part because it makes us question the nature of reality, as do stories. 

On Overwriting

"Overwriting" exists as a curious problem for new and emerging writers, and for some experienced writers it remains a problem to be guarded against. Much of my own early writing, in particular some of the essays I wrote in the 1990s (see links at left) suffers from what I would now call overwriting -- that is, the inflation of language and description at the risk of losing the reader and losing the meat of a story. At its worst, overwriting calls attention to the language itself through flowery description and wordiness. At its best, and good overwriting perhaps only exists in postmodern fiction, overwriting calls attention to the idea of overwriting and the way that words can mask reality.

Overwriting is not simply writing too much or too long, of course. We may be tempted to call "Paradise Lost" an example of overwriting, but I'm not talking about that kind of genius. Just because something is long or difficult to read does not make it overwritten. I am talking about the way newer writers especially often give in to the temptations of language by "showing off" an adeptness with words and phrases. As an isolated problem, overwriting is not such a bad issue for young writers to have, as it reveals a love of language, and it allows the writer to practice expanding images, providing more detail and description. (Underwriting is a far more common and difficult-to-overcome malady.) But overwriting is absolutely something that must be worked toward solving and guarded against as a writer develops.

The problem with overwriting, and one of the central paradoxical problems of writing, is that the writer uses words to obscure real meaning. Often, overwriting arises from anxiety, or from a deeply held fear that the writer has nothing to say, that the story itself isn't good enough -- so he hides behind words.  So the irony -- and paradox -- of writing is that language itself sometimes gets in the way of what a writer is actually trying to say. Good writing works toward achieving a balance and harmony (just like good cooking) between the language and the story, so that the language works for the story and not the other way around. This does not rule out the possibility of beautiful phrases and images, those things that strike us in stories as "brilliant," because that, too, is part of the reason for the existence of writing. I continue to struggle against overwriting, and I think it's as much a confidence issue as anything else. We must learn to believe in the stories we want to tell.

Movie Quotes in Real Life

Lately I've been thinking about some of the quotes from favorite movies that I use every now and then in real life, usually to avoid saying something directly, or just to be amusing or mysterious, to see if the person I'm with recognizes the quote. This is a real-life version of oblique dialogue, used in fiction and movies when a character says something but means something else. As an example of oblique dialogue, in Deliverance (one of my favorites movies, but not one I quote from much), the Burt Reynolds character says early in the movie, "I don't believe in insurance. There's no risk in it."  Now, obviously, he's not really talking about insurance, except as way of insulting the insurance salesman Bobby (Ned Beatty) behind his back. He's really talking about risk, and  the line foreshadows the inordinate amount of danger the men soon find themselves in. In the film, you can tell the line is important in a poetic way, because Burt Reynolds pauses before he says it, just as he also pauses before saying, "Sometimes you have to get lost, before you can find anything."

Here's a list of a few of the quotes I actually use, and what they mean.  The lines may or may not be quoted verbatim, but it's how I remember and use them:

• "You're not going to act this way on the boat, are you?" (Jaws).  Everybody always quotes the "bigger boat" line, a fine line indeed, but this line, uttered by Brody when Quint abuses Hooper the first time he meets him, points to the human conflict in the story, which is really the center of the movie. This line is great for saying, "Are you always an asshole like this?" 
• "Do you have some jurisdiction here that I should know about?" (A Few Good Men). I use this line to say, "You're being bossy, and I really don't think you have any power, do you?"
• "Thank you for that fine forensic analysis." (Titanic).  Old  Rose says this at the beginning of the movie. It basically means, "Shut the hell up. You're boring us."
• "Who do you think you're talking to?" (Less Than Zero). James Spader says this line, and I always thought it was a cool moment. Even though it's a fairly ordinary thing to say, something you hear in all sorts of movies, it's not something you hear as much in real life, if you think about it.  I think in that way, the line symbolizes how much more assertive and conflict-oriented characters are as opposed to real people. And actually, this line, not really being oblique, is something I don't say in real life.  But I really want to.
• "Be nice." (Roadhouse). The other bouncers laugh at Dalton (Patrick Swayze) when he tells them to handle rough customers this way.  I think about this quote (though, again, this one's not one I say so much) whenever I'm dealing with difficult people or students who have problems. You can be assertive and stick to your own rules while still being nice. Yes, occasionally you must be less than perfectly nice when dealing with someone who's abusive or who takes a nasty tone, but even then, you can adopt a Zen attitude (remember Dalton's philosophical training) and remember that conflict is best dealt with by taking the anger out of the situation. Another saying of Eastern origin goes, "If something started in anger, it will end in shame." Being angry is sometimes productive, but usually it gets us nowhere. 
• "I am proud neither of what I have done, nor what I am doing." This quote, also from A Few Good Men, comes from a character who is struggling with a heavy moral dilemma, but I find it can be used in much more mundane circumstances and covers a lot of typical human situations. Most of us, after  all, are not proud of some of things we've done. It's best used for truly silly situations, though, like when you've forgotten to buy hot dog buns and you've resorted to using white bread for the hot dogs.