Crazytown

FAT MATH

For as long as the word “diet” has existed, you’ve probably heard people say “don’t count calories” and instead opt for “no fat,” “low carbs,” or “high protein.” 

True, each of these things is a bright, healthy idea, but it wasn’t until last year when I was taking a peak over various dieting trends that I realized how exactly calories, grams of fat, carbohydrates, and protein are all closely related, and that counting one means you might as well be counting the others…  

Now for some math.  You may or may not know that:  

Where Calories are C, Protein is p, Carbohydrates are r, and Fat is f.  

For those of you who hate math and are unfamiliar with this concept, let’s break it down a bit further:  

• A gram of protein is made up of roughly 4 calories.
• A gram of carbohydrate is also made up of roughly 4 calories.
• A gram of fat is made up of more than the other two combined, sitting at 9 calories.  

To prove this equation correct, let’s take a peek at the food closest to me, a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, which contains 11 servings and which I somehow ate in 4 sittings.  Hmm.  

CINNAMON TOAST CRUNCH
3 Grams of Fat, 25 Grams of Carbs, 1 Gram of Protein

The box says 130 calories.  Close enough!

Common thought on nutrition has long been that your day’s worth of calories should be broken up this way:

• 10% of your daily calories should come from Protein.
• 30% from Fat.
• 60% from Carbohydrates.  

Other diets (and in my opinion, simply a better school of thought) suggest this as a superior model, especially for weight loss and muscle building:  

• 30% from Protein.
• 30% from Fat.
• 40% from Carbohydates.  

Talk about brainfood… the sad thing is, you’d think that knowing this information would force those good at math make better eating decisions… but as they say, being smart doesn’t make you skinny; going to the gym does.

And as they say, numbers be damned: Nothing tastes as good as skinny looks.

IT'S NOT ALRIGHT: AN EPIDEMIC

Friend:  

In the last several decades, an epidemic has swept across our great country—nay! the world.  

Worse than Irish-Catholic priests.  Worse than widespread morbid obesity.  Worse than dumpster babies.  Yes, certainly worse than all of those.  

You wouldn’t write “their” if you meant “they’re,” would you?  Or “too” when you meant “two”?  Or “alot” [sic] when you meant “a lot”?  

Yet so many people are “alright,” when they should be “all right.”  I would like to say “alright” simply isn’t a word, but I would (now) be wrong.  It has now slithered its filthy way into our list of “acceptable” but “improper” forms.  It upsets me nearly as much as henna tattoos and Crayola markers. 

The English language must evolve—I mean, totes—but there is a difference between new, fun, or intriguing words, and words that we never take the time spell correctly.  

Believe me, I understand what it’s like to be an idiot.  Until last year, I spelled the words as “imput” and “privelage.”  But I have learned from the error of my ways and after much therapy and self-torture, have taken my given privilege to input the necessary changes into my life.  

So, my brothers and sisters, if you are with me—do so by spreading the Gospel of the Word, and I promise, everything will be all right. 

KIDS ARE STUPID

Or at least, I was.

Today, I fancy myself a relatively well-educated, intellectual human being.  As a child however, I was retarded.  But no offense intended; I mean that in the truest sense of the world… literally I think my brain’s development was slower than that of other children.  Proof:  

(For those of you who have watched Watchmen, you should imagine the following in Billy Crudup's Dr. Manhattan voice.)  

MISFORTUNE
It is 1995.  I am 11.  My Mom buys me Super Horoscopes 1996, which purports horoscopes for the following year.  I believe I am now able to tell the future.   

STAR TO BE OR NOT TO BE
It is 1996.  I am 11 years old.  I have an audition for the Wes Anderson film, Rushmore.  My mother hears that the movie takes place at a prep school and puts me in a polo, with a sweater tied around my neck.  I give a delightfully queer 11-year old interpretation of the role that would later be played by Jason Schartzman.  I am convinced I will "at least get a call back."  I am not called back.  

BOY FROM OZ
It is 1993.  I am 8 years old.  I raise my hand and ask Mrs. Bray if the past was in black and white.  I find this query reasonable because old movies, television shows and photographs are all in black and white.  My “teacher” snarkily asks, "What, do you think one day somebody turned all the color on?"  I sit in my chair thinking, "I don't know.  You tell me."

EVERYBODY POOPS
It is 1995. I am 10 years old.  My world is turned upside down when I am confronted by the fact that girls also poo.  How I learned this is of little importance.  

GAS PROBLEM
It is 1990.  I am 6 years old.  I have been gifted a Fisher Price "Flintstones" Car (foot operated).  Seeing my parents put gas in our car, I knew we had a tank of gasoline for our lawnmower in the shed, and thought my car would run without my hard manual labor if but only for some gasoline.  I climbed the five shelves to get it, and unable to hold it, fell down, spilling it all over face.  911 is called.  I survive.  Darwin's theory proved false.

FOUR FUCKED-UP FILMS

Four movies so upsettingly disturbing, I nearly walked out.  Spoilers abound.  

THE HILLS HAVE EYES (2006 Remake of the 1977 Wes Craven film)
Premise: A family (Mom, Dad, Eldest Daughter+Husband+Baby, Youngest Daughter, Son) is terrorized by hill-mutants while heading off on vacation.

Why I Almost Walked Out: I love horror movies.  I do.  But there has to be a line.  And that line was crossed when, in the span of roughly four minutes:

• Dad (played by Silence of the Lambs' Buffalo Bill!) is tied to a tree and set ablaze.
• Mom is shot in the chest with a shot gun.
• Their eldest daughter (herself a mother) is suckled by a mutant and then shot in the head in front of her baby.
• Their youngest daughter (Lost’s Claire!) is raped by a mutant.
• A baby gets a gun to its head.
  

...Tor. Ture. Porn.  I mean, WTF!?!??!?!?!?!?!??!?!!?!?!?  I find this film completely horrible and wretchedly irresponsible.  PS, here’s the scene!

(Just kidding.  This is actually the same scene from the 1977 original which is still pretty messed up, but not NEARLY as terrible.)  

FUNNY GAMES (2008)
Premise: A family (led by Naomi Watts) is terrorized and then murdered by two polo-wearing, sweet-talking serial killers (Michael Pitt—of course—and Brady Corbet). Directed by Michael Haneke.

Why I Almost Walked Out:

• A golden labrador is beaten to death with a golf club.
• A sweet, rambunctious 10-year boy is murdered with a shot gun in front of his pleading, screaming parents, while one killer makes a PB and J.
• The father is clubbed in the knee caps and then shot in the stomach.
• Naomi Watts is tied and gagged, dropped into the middle of the river to drown (which she does) as her captors engage in an educated discussion on the myth of heroism.
• All with no motive (and that's the point).  

I confess I actually really appreciate this movie.  Its whole POINT is to comment on our perception of horrific violence and enjoyment of exploitative cinema.  It is, to me, the worst of these films because of its sheer horror factor--but also undeniably brilliant.  It spends much of its time commenting on our desire to see terrible things happen, and our expectation that somehow a hero will come and rescue them.

(A pretty fantastic scene from FUNNY GAMES.)

All the violence occurs off-screen, an ironic (but fitting) choice considering the film's subject.  

The movie features an exciting number of Broadway actors, including Robert Lupone.  

But perhaps the most informative fact about Funny Games is that is a shot for shot exact recreation of Haneke's original German film.

(The American version of FUNNY GAMES is a shot for shot re-creation of the original German film.)

And what's alarming is, with all things being (roughly) equal, Germans lauded the movie for its brilliance while Americans were disturbed by it

GRIZZLY MAN (2005)
Premise: Documentary about Timothy Treadwell, who lived a season too long with Alaskan bears and was eaten alive by them, as was his estranged girlfriend who was with him—and it was all caught on camera.

Why I Almost Walked Out: Oh, so many reasons. 

• I usually have a lot of respect for Werner Herzog (Rescue Dawn), but I find his perspective on this movie totally peculiar.  The movie makes you LOL at every turn, yet Mr. Herzog takes this ridiculous and grim situation with a straight face.
• Speaking of straight, everybody knows Timothy Treadwell is the gayest thing since Johnny Weir.  Well, except Timothy Treadwell. 

(Tabitha is HUNGRY!  Melissa is eating her BABIES!!!)

• The bears that ate Tim-O and his GF left his head, part of his backbone, and his hand still wearing a wrist watch.  That is some F-ed up shit, yo.  And here to discuss this is:

(This Coronor is straight out of a Christopher Guest movie.  Those eyes!  And that awkward awkward pause at the end of this clip!!!!!!!)

This movie is a seven car, two fatality pile-up.  So I don’t blame you if you look.  Have alcohol near and take a swig every time Timothy screams, proselytizes, or says "Mr. Fox Face."

And last but not least:

BAMBI (1942)
‘Nuff said.

LIE ME A RIVER

You touch your nose a lot when you lie.

I’ve mentioned Dr. Linda Edelstein’s A Writer’s Guide to Character Traits before on this blog, and it continues to fascinate and inform my writing.  But furthermore, it also reads a bit like a short-form, skimming intro to human psychology, so for those of you with minimal interest in the subject, it’s a great gym read.

Edelstein’s book (which you can buy here) has a really fun section on “Verbal and Nonverbal Traits Associated with Lying.”  I think it’s fair to say that at one time or another, we all tell a fib or, worse, are told one.  Here’s how to tell when you’re being taken for a ride:

Their Mannerisms

• Someone who is lying may purse his lips together.
• His pupil size may increase (they’re concentrating).
• He may not necessarily fidget, blink or become physically uncomfortable; in fact the best lying remain completely still.
• He rubs his nose.
• He may hide his hands, ie, put them in his pockets.

Upon Questioning

• Someone who is lying tends to pitch his voice higher.
• He tends to take longer to form answers than if he were telling the truth.
• He provides shorter answers.
• He creates more “perfect” stories.

Their Story

• The story of someone who is lying contains fewer facts and information, more rhetoric and commentary.
• His story repeats words and phrases multiple times.
• His story contains fewer first person pronouns, distancing themselves from their stories—they speak about other people’s involvement in the story and not their own.
• He may use more “negative words” like “hate” and “worthless” because their anxiety and guilt are upon them

Catch them with their pants on fire.

Bib.
Edelstein, Linda N.  "A Writer's Guide to Character Traits" (2006): 341-342. Print.

ALEX AND JAY’S KENNEDY CENTER KISS

My song “Halfway”—a duet for lovers driving from opposite coasts and meeting midway in Tonganoxie, Kansas—has recently begun to feature the two singers kissing.
 
Because the singers are traditionally two men, we Americans refer to this phenomenon as a “gay kiss.” At my recent concert at the Kennedy Center, Alex Brightman and Jay Armstrong Johnson joked that they, too, would share a kiss during the “kiss measures,” which occur after the two men climax (if you will) on high B and high G, on the word, “staaaaaaay.”

I forbid them to do it, mind you—because such an event (a gay man and a straight man kissing) would pull my world off its axis—but one insisted they do it, while the other insisted they shouldn’t.

I’d like to draw your attention to the night in question, the Kennedy Center Concert (so kindly extracted by TheBestArts.com curator and my pal, Kevin Ireland), to see how it all went down.

And now, a play-by-play. 

• At 2:49, Alex weaves his fingers into Jay’s. He’s communicating, “I’m going for it, Dude.”
• At 2:51, Alex closes his fingers into Jay’s, asking “Ready, Lovemuffin?”
• At 2:52, Alex pushes forward.  He’s going in.
• At 2:53, Jay uses his held hand to push him back, saying sweetly, “No, Motherfucker.”
• At 2:54, Alex laughs, thinking, "Faggot."
  
• At 2:55, they drop hands, and Jay hangs his head, thrilled the kiss was averted.
• At 2:57, they do a bizarre straightboy finger snap love thing which I don’t understand.

I was pleased, but esteemed YouTube commentator “sbort” was not, remarking:
“MISS THE KISS!!!!!!!!!! OMGGGGGGGG:ALSJD:KJSDJ!!!!”

Certainly, “sbort” is not the only one who missed the kiss, no doubt with similar feelings of ALSJD:KJSKJ. That said, purchasers of "Halfway" (email requests to sheetmusic@ryanscottoliver.com) will now find the sheet music looking a bit differently these days. 

But for those of you who insist on seeing two men kissing, there are a number of websites you may wish to buy monthly memberships to, and also these versions of “Halfway”:

(The "ONLY THING STRAIGHT ABOUT IT IS JAY'S HAIR" Kiss, Morgan Karr and Jay Armstrong Johnson--Jay's twin brother with straight hair at Cutting Edge Composers, kiss at 3:32)

(The "I'M NOT GAY" Kiss, Morgan Karr and Jay Armstrong Johnson at Morgan Karr Back at Joe's Pub, kiss at 3:01)

(The "SAVED BY THE BELL" Kiss, Trent Saunders and Patrick Shelton, kiss at 3:04)

Keep loving boys-- but if you must kiss, please send me a video of it.  No homo.

NOT GONNA WRITE YOU A LOVE SONG

Purging love, grief, and hypochondria through writing.

In July 2001, my moody English springer spaniel Sox was hit by a car.  He had taken himself for a walk in my mountainous hometown of Sierra Madre, California just east of Pasadena.  My family assured me Sox would be all right while they drove the pooch to the local vet, and so sixteen-year-old me remained at home to continue what I was doing, writing a comic jazz waltz for The Crucible, the musical.  Seriously.

When I got the call shortly thereafter that Sox was getting The Big Sleep, I immediately thought of my closest memories of him-- my jogging companion who would too frequently run ahead of me (in our mountain town he could be off-leash with little concern).  And as my parents and brother had no time to come fetch me, being left alone with my memories and a crappy 61-note keyboard, I took the next hour to write a short eulogy for my dog, called "Peace."

(Get it?  "Life is rough?"  Life, "ruff?"  Like what dogs say?  Eh?  Eh?)

Though I shed tears while I wrote it, I never cried during the song or about the dog at any point afterward.  Knowing that it wasn't for lack of caring, I realized that, for me, writing was a purging process, taking something out of my mind, my body, or my heart what-have-you, and being rid of it.

Or simply taking it out so that I can examine it... I did a similar thing with another song of mine, "A Hypochondriac's Song" (2005), a bizarre, autobiographical song about my perpetual concern that I have a hilariously unlikely, terminal illness.  Writing the song was a big first step to getting over it, because unlike a private diary entry, this collection of thoughts was public.  And much like the condition itself, the song is embarrassing for me, and awkwardly silly and sad in equal parts. 

"A Hypochondriac's Song,"  performed by Lizzie Klemperer.

But of course, the biggest purge has come from my unhappiest love songs. Looking back on that catalogue, I find that they truly encapsulate a specific time of intense feeling.  They embody an emotion so strong I could only commit hours of my time to create music and lyrics to keep my head screwed on.  I hate these songs.

For one, I wrote a ten-minute long quartet oddly titled "The Quartet" (1999), a find-the-razors whine-fest, which was as ridiculous as the emotions associated with it.  For another I wrote a song aptly named "Tired" (2003) which would make anyone who hears it go to sleep.  Still another got three songs, a trio of tunes with some good material in the end: "Stupid Boys," "Just Lust; Damn" and "To Do" (all 2008).  And there are others.

"To Do" performed by Natalie Weiss.

I kept in mind all the while that I never wrote these songs for these people.  They are about them, but they are for me.  They were therapy in which I literally worked through something-- frequently looking back and seeing them as humbling, character-building moments in my life, and with each one, knowing I was one step closer to never needing to write that way again.

But perhaps more intriguing, until the last year, I never wrote a happy love song, one that began and ended with the joy and elation of a good, healthy love.  Which isn't to say I haven't loved before now...  I just seriously feared that, to write one, would be to take a good feeling, one I wanted to keep, and give it up, never to be felt privately again, causing a gap in me and harming the relationship.  I was right.

In one recent song, I began writing with a positive, complicated feeling of care and devotion.  But by the time it was done and I put it out into the world, I felt that feeling leave with the song, and I knew then that this happiness was truly gone.  Four months later, that relationship just shy of a decade was over.

Maybe Sara Bareilles knows what I mean: "I'm not gonna write you a love song 'cause you ask for it, 'cause you need one."  Art shouldn't be a gift.  And if it must be, it can't be a gift for one person; unless it's kept private, it is a gift for the world.  But it all sounds so self-important, doesn't it?

I wonder if other writers do this.  Or for actors, directors, and other artists, if making art is not always a process of fulfillment but often simply tossing some head-junk in a Glad Force-Flex bag and taking it to the garbage.

Perhaps some of you are thinking about several recent, happy love songs I've written: "On Monday," "Make Me Happy," "The Seraph," "Cut You a Piece."  Either I've moved in swift spasms between four different loves and depleted them, or, I've discovered an alternative: love that is a renewable resource.

"On Monday" performed by Natalie Weiss.

And one last thing: it's been educational to watch the response to the happier songs, which is much larger than that for the sadder set, even the popular "To Do."  What it means, I think, is that in general people truly do prefer hopeful and happy over down and dismal.  Either that, or my work is better when I do.  So here is to getting all those big feelings OUT.

Begone, I say!

X-MEN AND MAMA ROSE

Making heroes super.

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with X-Men trading cards.  I liked them because not only was I into their stories and their way rad graphic designs, but I was actually more intrigued by the backs of the cards.  The backs included basic biographical and statistical information about them, and even included a bar graph quantifying a set of traits.

At some point during my writing career I began to conceive of my protagonists (who traditionally are often aptly referred to as “heroes”) as being actual superheroes.  Not with the ability to control the weather or equipped with razor sharp adamantium claws, but with some special ability which makes them truly superhuman and special—or like an X-Man, simply “uncanny.”  And like superheroes, the characters would be conceived with fatal flaws, tragic weaknesses—their version of “kryptonite.” 

Like so:



It's awfully useful to me, allowing me to:

• Compare and contrast characters
• Give thoughtful attention to strengths and weaknesses
• Decide slight differences between similar characters
• Apply it to actual writing: Character A has greater "Intelligence" than Character B, and thus is more likely to outwit them in dialogue or be clearer-headed in lyric

So who do you think would win in a fight?  Mama Rose or Diana?  At first I thought Mama Rose, but then I realized that Diana would know where the sharp objects are.