Recently, I read Anthony Bourdain’s book The Nasty Bits. It’s a treatise on his experiences working in the restaurant world, interspersed with his philosophical ramblings about the nature of food, fame and life itself. It’s sometimes vague, intermittently vivid, occasionally profound and always from the heart. And, its part of what inspired me to begin writing again. If I ever meet him, I’ll thank him profusely for shaking me out of my stupor.
In reading his book, I was introduced to the concept of “food porn”. This is a rich, sensual, adjective-sprinkled narrative about the simple pleasures of eating good food, written in an erotic style normally reserved for pleasures involving more sweat and nudity. They are wonderful to read if you are possessed of any imagination and/or appreciation of a fine meal. (Personal note: Before I die, I’m going to eat sushi at Masa’s. After reading Bourdain’s description, I simply must know if it is as good as he says it is.)
As I read his book, several things occurred to me. The first was that it was pretty damn cool. The second, that I could easily do something similar if I tried. And the third, well…if we have food porn, why not booze porn?
I am a whiskey drinker. I love whiskey, Scotch and bourbon in all its myriad forms. Well, except Canadian; to my mind the Canadians understand whiskey about as well as street mutts understand gourmet cooking. I am not a peat-sniffing single malt snob either; I love Maker’s Mark, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Bushmill’s with equal intensity. Hell, I’ve even had my Wild Turkey/Southern Comfort binges; blaring Poison from my iPod and careening precariously around my living room, bottle clenched in my fist, hair flying about my face like a latter-day Viking. Sometimes I even scream out, “I am a GOLDEN GOD!” at the top of my lungs for no particular reason. It’s something every white boy should do at least once.
But sometimes, if you want a truly transcendent experience, you have to part with some cash and go upscale. Here’s how I do it.
I take a pilgrimage down to Usce’s, a convivial Dublin-themed pub in the middle of the understated liveliness that is downtown Bellingham. I try to come during off-peak hours; the ceilings are high and echoing, and the Friday night college crowd churns out a fairly consistent roar. I like to see people having a good time, but if I want to get deafened I’ll purchase tickets to an Iron Maiden show instead.
I also try and time my arrival for when the owner is working the bar; she’s an elegant woman, with charming laugh lines on her cheeks and a delicate grace to her movements. She pours fine Scotch the way I think it should be poured; slowly, reverently, generously, and with the knowing smile of one that understands the worth of what she’s serving. I stand at the bar, and patiently wait my turn. I don’t usually have to order; she, like all successful barmaids down through history, remembers me and my tastes. (Glenmorangie 18 year, straight up, and a glass of water.) I hand her my twenty bucks (a princely sum for me to part with in my income bracket) and watch her work her magic. She hands me my ticket to bliss, and I search for an empty corner table.
I don’t sit at the bar; I usually try to sit as far away from everyone else as possible. I’m not antisocial, but I believe that sensual indulgence of any form is best done in as much privacy as can be managed. My favorite table is by the window; from there, I can watch the often rain-soaked Northwestern night, observe the passage of humanity through a protective veil of smoked glass, and generally not get bothered.
While searching for a seat, I take a couple of good swigs from my water glass to clear the flavor residue of tobacco, food and whatever off my palate. It’s one good piece of advice for anyone who wants to try wine, scotch or anything else with a complicated evolving flavor; your tongue is about to be overburdened enough, so give it a fresh start. Once seated, I set the water aside and begin seducing the whiskey in front of me.
I cradle the glass and admire the sight of that somber amber hue. I hold it up to the light and marvel at the shades of gold, umber and rich chocolate. At this point I can just make out the faint fragrances that waft up from it. Like admiring the body of a woman as she sheds her clothes before you make love, it is part of the whole experience and shouldn’t be skipped.
I don’t bother taking a sniff over the glass. Good Scotch is surprisingly volatile; you’ll be breathing it almost as much as you’ll be drinking it, and the cradling of the glass in my hand warms it enough that I can perceive the scent without extra effort. (Second piece of advice; with Scotch, don't let it sit too long, or the flavor will go flat.) Besides, sticking my schnoz in the snifter feels pretentious. And it’s my glass.
Nothing compares to that first sip. I take a small one, not enough to swallow; it vanishes on my tongue like a dream in the light of day, leaving behind a riot of flavor. Honey, cream, anise, smoke, cold Highland air and rich earth hold hands on my palate and sing bawdy songs. The wood comes on next; sharp, intense, almost bitter but not quite unpleasant. The sensations are as different as can be, but somehow they all get along. .
The next sips are deeper, so I can feel the warmth in my chest, spreading slowly through my muscles (“like the wings of an angel” as a poetically inclined fellow Scotch drinker once put it) and gently sweeping aside the tensions of everyday life. As the glass gets lighter, the problems and cares of existence fade into the background, and I stop trying so hard to enjoy it and just let it happen.
The buzz from a glass of good highland Scotch is a singular pleasure; it is warm, philosophical, relaxing and utterly sublime. As I drink, my mind begins to wander away from the glass in front of me, and I let it. I picture the journey of this whiskey from its origins in lichen-crusted mountains to its terminal arrival in my small Northwest town. I imagine the grain, the wood, the peat, the blending and the mixing of all those elements and the passage of years required. My meanderings are probably more fanciful than accurate, but I care not. They please me.
I drink until the glass is gone; too soon but probably just soon enough, it is. My head is suffused with a wonderful glow, and I finish the other half of my water before the wonderful tastes on my tongue can turn sour. I carry my glasses back to the bar and hand my earthbound angel of a barmaid a five-spot (note to readers; if you can’t afford to tip, and tip well, drink at home). I am rewarded with another of her warm smiles, and I step out onto the sidewalk for a smoke.
I smoke a pipe most days; it’s healthier, cheaper and more pleasant to bystanders than cigarettes. I load a pinch of vanilla Cavendish into my beat-up briar, lean up against the wall, light up and ruminate. The noise fades to a pleasant hum, punctuated by the occasional passing car, and I give my mind free reign to go on a walkabout. Some of my best creative notions have resulted this way.
As the glow begins to wear off, the thoughts often turn sad. I think of old friends I haven’t seen in years and lovers long gone. I observe the stars on their heavenly courses, and wonder if the woolgathering of my poetic soul matters to anyone but me. I watch the puffs of smoke from my pipe climb up to greet the moon, and I like to imagine that someone up there is listening, watching, and smiling. By the time the pinch in my pipe is burnt to ash, my head is clear, my day measurably improved.
You may be wondering why I do this, why I would spend what amounts to a large chunk of my discretionary income on such a transitory pleasure. Well, if you are, then turn in your humanity badge right this instant. Give it to someone who’ll make better use of it. God, Fate or evolution gave us our five senses and a soul with which to enjoy their input. I intend to take full advantage of the fact, and you should too.
As to why I drink my favorite Scotch in a bar (when, for the price of six glasses I could buy a bottle and have it whenever I want), the bar is part of the experience. And something that rarified should be an occasional treat, not an everyday pleasure. Besides, if I drank at home, I wouldn’t have an elegant, Hepburn-esque beauty to pour it for me. And to me, watching her do it is a pleasure worth paying a premium for. Someday, if I ever make it big, I’ll buy a bottle to celebrate. And I’ll invite that lovely woman over so I can pour for her.
Enjoy yourself. Try it sometime. It doesn’t have to be fine Scotch; hell, it doesn’t have to be alcoholic at all. Just get yourself the best of your chosen indulgence, and revel in the experience, all aspects of it. Seize that transitory moment, open yourself to it. You’re selling your soul short if you do not, once in a while, live.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
I Demand Satisfaction
I miss the days of pistols at dawn.
I’m not usually a historical romantic; I like living in the modern age. I like cutting-edge medicine, supermarkets, hygiene, Habeas Corpus and the Internet. A lot of gamer/fantasy dorks are all “man, I wish I could live in (insert historical period they have a hard-on for here)”. I want to laugh at them and say, “Have fun getting lockjaw from a shaving cut, you daffy bitch.” Usually I just settle for a smirk and a change of subject.
But some aspects of history actually do resonate with me; for example, the concept of duels.
Quick anecdote; once, I got into a heated argument with someone I know. (I don’t call this person a “friend”, for many reasons.) At the height of said argument, I ordered him out of my house. When he refused, and remained standing in my kitchen, I uttered the following words…
“Get out of my house or I’ll fucking kill you.”
At that moment, everything stopped. He, and everyone else in the room, stared at me. From the expressions on their faces, you’d think I’d announced my intention to fornicate with a dead goat. I stopped too; after all, suddenly I’d gone from aggrieved party to crazy man. I hadn’t even yelled the phrase; it had been a simple (if heated) declaration of the facts at hand. Hell, I was casting about for some kind of lethal implement to do the bastard in with before I noticed all the social awkwardness around me. For an instant, I actually felt guilty and ashamed. Before the incident could progress to mayhem, the individual left. Everyone, even my wife at the time, gave me the cross-eyed look one reserves for psychotics and mumbling bus station lunatics, and I knew I’d crossed a social line.
It got me to thinking; why was what I had done so terrible? Was this not my house? I paid for it, did the upkeep, held the deed. Why should some self-centered jerk-off have the right to stand in my property against my wishes? And most importantly, why should a call to the authorities be my only recourse? Why was it such a taboo to resort to lethality to protect my interests?
It got me to considering other things; why was violence in the defense of one’s principles such a bad thing? When did a man (or woman) lose the right to uphold his beliefs with applied force? When did we become such a cowardly race, dependent upon a certain class of people (police, military) to do our killing for us?
It wasn’t always so. As recently as a century ago (give or take a decade), a man had the right to “call out” someone who had offended him in word or deed; he could challenge the individual to a lethal contest (using swords, pistols, or some other portable instrument of death) and the matter would be decided there and then. No police, no courts, no litigation, just two parties settling their grievances in a quick, direct fashion. As recently as a few decades ago, it was acceptable for two people to “take it outside” and address their philosophical disagreement with fists and feet. As recently as my own childhood, it was kosher for children on the playground to do the same without too much trouble.
Unfortunately, all that has gone by the wayside. Even threatening violence (no matter what the provocation) is a crime; I have even seen newspaper articles describing grade-schoolers taken to court for schoolyard brawls. I see people filing lawsuits over drunken insults made in bars. I think all this is a terrible travesty. I think it makes us into a bunch of fucking sissies.
Now, I know some of you are probably shaking your heads at my naïveté. I’m sure a few of you are probably horrified at my willingness to end another’s life simply because he refused to leave my home. Before your moral outrage takes firm root, let me explain why I feel I know what I’m talking about.
I work as a bouncer. In that occupation, I am at the forefront of human miscommunication. I have seen a lot of potential violence in the line of duty (seeing as it is my job to prevent it). I have so far managed to defuse all situations I’ve been placed in with simple words; I’ve never had to slug anyone, or wrestle anyone out the door. But I see the kinds of people that start shit in bars, and I think to myself; these dickwads could use a good ass-beating.
While most people who try to pick fights in a bar are (let’s face it) stupid, they aren’t universally so. They know that the person who initiates combat is the one held legally responsible for it. So, they try to cause the other party to be the aggressor, secure in the knowledge that if they manage that feat, they can have a fight without too much legal trouble. These people try such behavior with me, quite often. They yell, hurl insults, spit on me, shove me and generally try to get my goat. I don’t rise to the bait, but it’s a tooth-grinding exercise in patience.
That is why I miss the days of dueling. Despite all the problems it caused (e.g. people getting killed over stupid shit, manufactured conflicts to get rid of political enemies, bullying, etc.), the specter of a lethal or painful response to asinine behavior did have a singular consequence.
It made people a hell of a lot more polite and respectful.
Think about it; if broken bones and splintered teeth were the consequences for shooting your mouth off, you’d keep a civil tongue in your head. If a man could shank you for calling him a liar (without suffering jail time), you wouldn’t do it unless it really mattered. If a woman could legally punt your man-jewels into your sinus cavity for grabbing her ass, you’d keep your hands to yourself. And if someone could shoot you dead for remaining in his house one instant longer than he desired you to, you would leave right fucking quick when ordered.
For my part, I don’t often threaten violence. A lot of people like to do it over trivial matters but I do not. Mortal combat makes for a big hammer, but I don’t see too many nails in my path. I save force or the threat of it only for those principles which matter to me most; my life, the lives of my family and friends, the sanctity of my home and the honor of my word.
Maybe we can’t go back to the age of pistols at dawn, but it would be nice if the concept of spilling or shedding blood over deeply-held beliefs wasn’t anathema to our societal values. I believe that the ability of a person to defend themselves with force would create a new level of maturity and social responsibility. It would certainly toughen us all up and get us in shape (or cause those who are too lazy to do so to keep their mouths firmly shut). A whole class of asshole, the trash-talking gasbag, would disappear overnight. I love that image, but I’m fairly sure it is never going to come about.
I’m sure that many of you believe this to be a flight of ill-conceived, alcohol-induced fancy. I’m equally worried that some asshole is going to test me on this one day, just to see if I’m serious. If you are that asshole, I caution you that this is NOT the case. I am in the process of securing my right to bear arms; I live in a state with concealed carry laws. I’m not an easy person to provoke but it can and will happen eventually, if someone is really serious about it. So if you track me down for the purpose of starting some shit just to see if I really mean all this, be aware that you may well hear the phrase, “On your mark, sir” cross my lips.
At that point, you’d best draw, or run. Because I will demand satisfaction.
I’m not usually a historical romantic; I like living in the modern age. I like cutting-edge medicine, supermarkets, hygiene, Habeas Corpus and the Internet. A lot of gamer/fantasy dorks are all “man, I wish I could live in (insert historical period they have a hard-on for here)”. I want to laugh at them and say, “Have fun getting lockjaw from a shaving cut, you daffy bitch.” Usually I just settle for a smirk and a change of subject.
But some aspects of history actually do resonate with me; for example, the concept of duels.
Quick anecdote; once, I got into a heated argument with someone I know. (I don’t call this person a “friend”, for many reasons.) At the height of said argument, I ordered him out of my house. When he refused, and remained standing in my kitchen, I uttered the following words…
“Get out of my house or I’ll fucking kill you.”
At that moment, everything stopped. He, and everyone else in the room, stared at me. From the expressions on their faces, you’d think I’d announced my intention to fornicate with a dead goat. I stopped too; after all, suddenly I’d gone from aggrieved party to crazy man. I hadn’t even yelled the phrase; it had been a simple (if heated) declaration of the facts at hand. Hell, I was casting about for some kind of lethal implement to do the bastard in with before I noticed all the social awkwardness around me. For an instant, I actually felt guilty and ashamed. Before the incident could progress to mayhem, the individual left. Everyone, even my wife at the time, gave me the cross-eyed look one reserves for psychotics and mumbling bus station lunatics, and I knew I’d crossed a social line.
It got me to thinking; why was what I had done so terrible? Was this not my house? I paid for it, did the upkeep, held the deed. Why should some self-centered jerk-off have the right to stand in my property against my wishes? And most importantly, why should a call to the authorities be my only recourse? Why was it such a taboo to resort to lethality to protect my interests?
It got me to considering other things; why was violence in the defense of one’s principles such a bad thing? When did a man (or woman) lose the right to uphold his beliefs with applied force? When did we become such a cowardly race, dependent upon a certain class of people (police, military) to do our killing for us?
It wasn’t always so. As recently as a century ago (give or take a decade), a man had the right to “call out” someone who had offended him in word or deed; he could challenge the individual to a lethal contest (using swords, pistols, or some other portable instrument of death) and the matter would be decided there and then. No police, no courts, no litigation, just two parties settling their grievances in a quick, direct fashion. As recently as a few decades ago, it was acceptable for two people to “take it outside” and address their philosophical disagreement with fists and feet. As recently as my own childhood, it was kosher for children on the playground to do the same without too much trouble.
Unfortunately, all that has gone by the wayside. Even threatening violence (no matter what the provocation) is a crime; I have even seen newspaper articles describing grade-schoolers taken to court for schoolyard brawls. I see people filing lawsuits over drunken insults made in bars. I think all this is a terrible travesty. I think it makes us into a bunch of fucking sissies.
Now, I know some of you are probably shaking your heads at my naïveté. I’m sure a few of you are probably horrified at my willingness to end another’s life simply because he refused to leave my home. Before your moral outrage takes firm root, let me explain why I feel I know what I’m talking about.
I work as a bouncer. In that occupation, I am at the forefront of human miscommunication. I have seen a lot of potential violence in the line of duty (seeing as it is my job to prevent it). I have so far managed to defuse all situations I’ve been placed in with simple words; I’ve never had to slug anyone, or wrestle anyone out the door. But I see the kinds of people that start shit in bars, and I think to myself; these dickwads could use a good ass-beating.
While most people who try to pick fights in a bar are (let’s face it) stupid, they aren’t universally so. They know that the person who initiates combat is the one held legally responsible for it. So, they try to cause the other party to be the aggressor, secure in the knowledge that if they manage that feat, they can have a fight without too much legal trouble. These people try such behavior with me, quite often. They yell, hurl insults, spit on me, shove me and generally try to get my goat. I don’t rise to the bait, but it’s a tooth-grinding exercise in patience.
That is why I miss the days of dueling. Despite all the problems it caused (e.g. people getting killed over stupid shit, manufactured conflicts to get rid of political enemies, bullying, etc.), the specter of a lethal or painful response to asinine behavior did have a singular consequence.
It made people a hell of a lot more polite and respectful.
Think about it; if broken bones and splintered teeth were the consequences for shooting your mouth off, you’d keep a civil tongue in your head. If a man could shank you for calling him a liar (without suffering jail time), you wouldn’t do it unless it really mattered. If a woman could legally punt your man-jewels into your sinus cavity for grabbing her ass, you’d keep your hands to yourself. And if someone could shoot you dead for remaining in his house one instant longer than he desired you to, you would leave right fucking quick when ordered.
For my part, I don’t often threaten violence. A lot of people like to do it over trivial matters but I do not. Mortal combat makes for a big hammer, but I don’t see too many nails in my path. I save force or the threat of it only for those principles which matter to me most; my life, the lives of my family and friends, the sanctity of my home and the honor of my word.
Maybe we can’t go back to the age of pistols at dawn, but it would be nice if the concept of spilling or shedding blood over deeply-held beliefs wasn’t anathema to our societal values. I believe that the ability of a person to defend themselves with force would create a new level of maturity and social responsibility. It would certainly toughen us all up and get us in shape (or cause those who are too lazy to do so to keep their mouths firmly shut). A whole class of asshole, the trash-talking gasbag, would disappear overnight. I love that image, but I’m fairly sure it is never going to come about.
I’m sure that many of you believe this to be a flight of ill-conceived, alcohol-induced fancy. I’m equally worried that some asshole is going to test me on this one day, just to see if I’m serious. If you are that asshole, I caution you that this is NOT the case. I am in the process of securing my right to bear arms; I live in a state with concealed carry laws. I’m not an easy person to provoke but it can and will happen eventually, if someone is really serious about it. So if you track me down for the purpose of starting some shit just to see if I really mean all this, be aware that you may well hear the phrase, “On your mark, sir” cross my lips.
At that point, you’d best draw, or run. Because I will demand satisfaction.
I Want a Tank
(I shouldn't have to say it, but this is a piece of WHIMSY, please take it as such.)
I want to own a tank. A real, honest-to-God modern battle tank of the M1 Abrams variety. I want to park that fucker in my front yard; I want to operate it as my primary vehicle. Just imagine, if you will, the kind of freedom that would result from driving a lethal instrument of war around town.
No one would ever cut you off. No one would dare to carjack you (unless they also had a tank, but since we don’t live in fucking Serbia that’s not likely) and people would be REALLY NERVOUS about pitching you shit when you park funny. I mean, imagine the possibilities.
Myself, I’d blow up or run over vehicles that annoy me. Examples; “tricked out” mid-80s K-cars with spoilers and spinners would get shat out the back of my tank with extreme prejudice. Rich, snooty hippies driving Priuses; DONE. Pedestrians that step off the fucking curb without looking; SEE YA! Sleep-deprived, meth-addled truckers who aren’t paying attention; WAKE UP, BITCH! Even pulling into the drive-thru at Burger King would suddenly take on a whole new dimension. After all, at that point would you really NEED to wait in line?
Why, I’d even paint my tank Day-Glo green so no one could claim they didn’t see me coming. With, perhaps, a big shark’s mouth painted on the front and some fuzzy dice hanging off the cannon barrel. Maybe I’d even call up the folks at “Pimp my Ride” and see what they could do with it. It would be worth the look on their faces when they showed up.
Maybe if everyone drove tanks, people would have more respect for the rules of the road. I mean, picture it; if someone could touch off a 105mm cannon for offending them, you’d be more likely to be polite and keep your own garden. If pedestrians could get mowed down by machine gun fire, they wouldn’t be so eager to step out in front of you, causing you to slam on your brakes and get rear-ended by the asshole behind you.
Of course, I don’t really want EVERYone to drive a tank. Just me. I like the idea of being king of the fucking road, and having armor piercing cannon and .50 caliber machine guns at my disposal would definitely grant me monarchal status. Who HASN’T dreamed of possessing a rocket launcher or high-powered cannon for the moment when some trophy wife in her whale-like SUV does a felony-stop impersonation because she’s too busy yakking on her cell-phone to watch where she’s fucking going? I have. Who HASN’T wanted to simply run over the dickhead in the dual-wheeled truck who takes up double-digit parking spaces because he can’t wait to catch the fishing gear sale at Big Five? I have.
And don’t fucking lie to me, you have too.
I want to own a tank. A real, honest-to-God modern battle tank of the M1 Abrams variety. I want to park that fucker in my front yard; I want to operate it as my primary vehicle. Just imagine, if you will, the kind of freedom that would result from driving a lethal instrument of war around town.
No one would ever cut you off. No one would dare to carjack you (unless they also had a tank, but since we don’t live in fucking Serbia that’s not likely) and people would be REALLY NERVOUS about pitching you shit when you park funny. I mean, imagine the possibilities.
Myself, I’d blow up or run over vehicles that annoy me. Examples; “tricked out” mid-80s K-cars with spoilers and spinners would get shat out the back of my tank with extreme prejudice. Rich, snooty hippies driving Priuses; DONE. Pedestrians that step off the fucking curb without looking; SEE YA! Sleep-deprived, meth-addled truckers who aren’t paying attention; WAKE UP, BITCH!
Why, I’d even paint my tank Day-Glo green so no one could claim they didn’t see me coming. With, perhaps, a big shark’s mouth painted on the front and some fuzzy dice hanging off the cannon barrel. Maybe I’d even call up the folks at “Pimp my Ride” and see what they could do with it. It would be worth the look on their faces when they showed up.
Maybe if everyone drove tanks, people would have more respect for the rules of the road. I mean, picture it; if someone could touch off a 105mm cannon for offending them, you’d be more likely to be polite and keep your own garden. If pedestrians could get mowed down by machine gun fire, they wouldn’t be so eager to step out in front of you, causing you to slam on your brakes and get rear-ended by the asshole behind you.
Of course, I don’t really want EVERYone to drive a tank. Just me. I like the idea of being king of the fucking road, and having armor piercing cannon and .50 caliber machine guns at my disposal would definitely grant me monarchal status. Who HASN’T dreamed of possessing a rocket launcher or high-powered cannon for the moment when some trophy wife in her whale-like SUV does a felony-stop impersonation because she’s too busy yakking on her cell-phone to watch where she’s fucking going? I have. Who HASN’T wanted to simply run over the dickhead in the dual-wheeled truck who takes up double-digit parking spaces because he can’t wait to catch the fishing gear sale at Big Five? I have.
And don’t fucking lie to me, you have too.
Why Actors Self-Destruct
ow many times have you read about an actor destroying himself? Probably, if you even glance at the headlines of the supermarket tabloids, you see it quite often. Did you ever wonder why?
I never do. For, in my own small way, I am one of those people.
Now, I probably should explain. For the last 12 years of my life, I have engaged in a hobby referred to as Live-Action Role-Playing (hereafter acronymed into “LARP”). It is a combination of theater and role-playing games, where the participants dress in costumes and act out their characters instead of sitting around a table rolling dice. A sort of “Let’s Pretend” for the people who never grew out of it.
People have said that I’m good at it. The jury’s still out as far as I’m concerned; I’m self-aware (and perhaps humble enough) to admit that I have no idea if this is true or not, but enough people have told me such that I am willing to say it’s at least partially true. Just the other week I was praised for my ability to change characters as easily as another might change clothes; I had indeed done this but was not aware that the effect was so easily noticed. So, I started to wonder why this was so. (Danger, danger, another blog entry in the making!)
I am a student and admirer of the school of acting called “the Method”. For those of you who don’t know, “method” acting is projecting your own memory of an emotion through the filter of a character. If your character is supposed to be angry, you call upon a time when you were angry, and use that raw emotion to fuel your acting. I instinctively was drawn to this type of character presentation (indeed, I thought I’d discovered something new until my high school drama teacher told me otherwise) and have refined the technique over the years. I’m no Robert DeNiro, but I’d like to think I’ve done well for myself.
So, the other week when people were commenting on my ability and gushing praise about it, I started to wonder; what made me so good? Why was my emotional portrayal better than someone else’s? What gave me the ability to shed one persona and take on another with the ease that others shed clothing and don another set? After some pondering, I realized my gift lay in my emotions.
Compared to some people, I’ve been through a lot. I’m not trying to claim my life has been shit or that I have a right to some sympathy, just that I’ve seen and done a lot interesting stuff that many people (particularly sheltered, socially nervous gamers) have not tried. I’ve seen the peaks of ecstasy (in one case, literally). I’ve been angry enough to kill a man. I’ve been down and depressed enough to kill myself. In that agony and ecstasy, I draw my strength as an actor.
Example; the session of LARP that I referred to in the beginning of this post, I had to play two characters. Without going into too much detail (you don’t need an explanation of Werewolf the Apocalypse to understand the point I’m getting to), here’s a basic rundown. The first character was a bitter old soldier-type who was returning to his old comrades after a long absence, who was not greeted with the warmth he expected. He’d made some questionable decisions when he led this group of fighters, and after some time had passed and the stories had gotten garbled, people viewed him as the bad guy. (Whether this was a correct opinion or not is somewhat beyond the scope of this post.) Since he had risked his life to lead them, and had suffered to protect the sacred ground they all defended, he felt misrepresented and maligned. He was bitter. He lashed out. He took refuge in bitter cynicism and bleak depression. But at the core of it all, he was indignant about being judged by people no better than he was.
Now, I’ve been there in my own life. I have felt those emotions. When the moment came to portray my character’s reaction to this situation, I drew on that life experience. I projected that feeling of anger/hurt/betrayal through the construct of an old soldier who had seen more war than he could really handle. Sure, I screamed and yelled (anger is an easy emotion to portray) but it carried the timbre of pain; someone who is taking refuge in anger but really just wants to cry. After that character’s defiant exit, I switched personae.
The second was a calm, disciplined warrior, faithful to both his cause and his religion, who had chosen to do what was right because it was right, not because someone else told him to. This persona was more of a challenge for me; I am not by nature a faithful or religious person, and here was someone who believed in his faith down to the marrow of his bones. Despite all that the world had thrown at him (and without getting into too much detail, believe that it was a lot) he believed that his deity would come through for him.
The characters that my first persona despised, the second liked. I went from projecting venom at these characters to giving a gentle nod of respect. I have believed in things strongly before; I have had faith (and in my recent life, my faith in the all-powerful is stronger than it once was). I drew on this conviction and portrayed it to the group at large.
The point I’m getting to is that to make a character work, you have to bring your heart into it. They have to feel as you do; they must have a heart or they are not believable people. Some people talk of “getting out of your own skin” when you act, but I vehemently disagree. You have to get deeper into yourself to make your character believable. To act, you must bare your soul to your audience.
This is why actors are self-destructive; they are searching for the muse of emotion. They must know how it feels to experience the agony and the ecstasy. They must know love, and they must know betrayal. They must be the hero and the villain. To be an actor is to be curious about every facet of the human condition; every experience, every pain, every pleasure becomes a color in the palette of an actor’s ability. And this (I can tell you even from my own relatively limited experience) is not easy to do if you want to retain your sanity. For the other half of the equation is the ability to come back to yourself once you are done acting.
Not everyone can do it. And not everyone can do it all the time. Some can get out but not in, and some just can’t handle the strain and implode from the constant risk-taking their perspective demands. And some are just plain unlucky, and the risks they take end up killing them.
I wouldn’t say that it’s a conscious decision on an actor’s part to place themselves in risky situations just to be better at characterization. It’s an instinct, a state of mind, a perspective. Some people have it and some don’t. Whether I do or do not is definitely open to debate, but it’s how I do what I do and I don’t plan on changing anytime soon. I enjoy having a large body of experience and emotion to draw on when I act, and I think it’s worth the price.
I never do. For, in my own small way, I am one of those people.
Now, I probably should explain. For the last 12 years of my life, I have engaged in a hobby referred to as Live-Action Role-Playing (hereafter acronymed into “LARP”). It is a combination of theater and role-playing games, where the participants dress in costumes and act out their characters instead of sitting around a table rolling dice. A sort of “Let’s Pretend” for the people who never grew out of it.
People have said that I’m good at it. The jury’s still out as far as I’m concerned; I’m self-aware (and perhaps humble enough) to admit that I have no idea if this is true or not, but enough people have told me such that I am willing to say it’s at least partially true. Just the other week I was praised for my ability to change characters as easily as another might change clothes; I had indeed done this but was not aware that the effect was so easily noticed. So, I started to wonder why this was so. (Danger, danger, another blog entry in the making!)
I am a student and admirer of the school of acting called “the Method”. For those of you who don’t know, “method” acting is projecting your own memory of an emotion through the filter of a character. If your character is supposed to be angry, you call upon a time when you were angry, and use that raw emotion to fuel your acting. I instinctively was drawn to this type of character presentation (indeed, I thought I’d discovered something new until my high school drama teacher told me otherwise) and have refined the technique over the years. I’m no Robert DeNiro, but I’d like to think I’ve done well for myself.
So, the other week when people were commenting on my ability and gushing praise about it, I started to wonder; what made me so good? Why was my emotional portrayal better than someone else’s? What gave me the ability to shed one persona and take on another with the ease that others shed clothing and don another set? After some pondering, I realized my gift lay in my emotions.
Compared to some people, I’ve been through a lot. I’m not trying to claim my life has been shit or that I have a right to some sympathy, just that I’ve seen and done a lot interesting stuff that many people (particularly sheltered, socially nervous gamers) have not tried. I’ve seen the peaks of ecstasy (in one case, literally). I’ve been angry enough to kill a man. I’ve been down and depressed enough to kill myself. In that agony and ecstasy, I draw my strength as an actor.
Example; the session of LARP that I referred to in the beginning of this post, I had to play two characters. Without going into too much detail (you don’t need an explanation of Werewolf the Apocalypse to understand the point I’m getting to), here’s a basic rundown. The first character was a bitter old soldier-type who was returning to his old comrades after a long absence, who was not greeted with the warmth he expected. He’d made some questionable decisions when he led this group of fighters, and after some time had passed and the stories had gotten garbled, people viewed him as the bad guy. (Whether this was a correct opinion or not is somewhat beyond the scope of this post.) Since he had risked his life to lead them, and had suffered to protect the sacred ground they all defended, he felt misrepresented and maligned. He was bitter. He lashed out. He took refuge in bitter cynicism and bleak depression. But at the core of it all, he was indignant about being judged by people no better than he was.
Now, I’ve been there in my own life. I have felt those emotions. When the moment came to portray my character’s reaction to this situation, I drew on that life experience. I projected that feeling of anger/hurt/betrayal through the construct of an old soldier who had seen more war than he could really handle. Sure, I screamed and yelled (anger is an easy emotion to portray) but it carried the timbre of pain; someone who is taking refuge in anger but really just wants to cry. After that character’s defiant exit, I switched personae.
The second was a calm, disciplined warrior, faithful to both his cause and his religion, who had chosen to do what was right because it was right, not because someone else told him to. This persona was more of a challenge for me; I am not by nature a faithful or religious person, and here was someone who believed in his faith down to the marrow of his bones. Despite all that the world had thrown at him (and without getting into too much detail, believe that it was a lot) he believed that his deity would come through for him.
The characters that my first persona despised, the second liked. I went from projecting venom at these characters to giving a gentle nod of respect. I have believed in things strongly before; I have had faith (and in my recent life, my faith in the all-powerful is stronger than it once was). I drew on this conviction and portrayed it to the group at large.
The point I’m getting to is that to make a character work, you have to bring your heart into it. They have to feel as you do; they must have a heart or they are not believable people. Some people talk of “getting out of your own skin” when you act, but I vehemently disagree. You have to get deeper into yourself to make your character believable. To act, you must bare your soul to your audience.
This is why actors are self-destructive; they are searching for the muse of emotion. They must know how it feels to experience the agony and the ecstasy. They must know love, and they must know betrayal. They must be the hero and the villain. To be an actor is to be curious about every facet of the human condition; every experience, every pain, every pleasure becomes a color in the palette of an actor’s ability. And this (I can tell you even from my own relatively limited experience) is not easy to do if you want to retain your sanity. For the other half of the equation is the ability to come back to yourself once you are done acting.
Not everyone can do it. And not everyone can do it all the time. Some can get out but not in, and some just can’t handle the strain and implode from the constant risk-taking their perspective demands. And some are just plain unlucky, and the risks they take end up killing them.
I wouldn’t say that it’s a conscious decision on an actor’s part to place themselves in risky situations just to be better at characterization. It’s an instinct, a state of mind, a perspective. Some people have it and some don’t. Whether I do or do not is definitely open to debate, but it’s how I do what I do and I don’t plan on changing anytime soon. I enjoy having a large body of experience and emotion to draw on when I act, and I think it’s worth the price.
Preface: Read This First
One day, I decided to start a blog.
This actually wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment decision; I’ve been wrapped up in creative expression, in one form or another, nearly all my life. From the moment I became self-aware (and was capable of remembering things for more than five minutes at a stretch) I have wanted to express myself creatively, to give to others my thoughts, ideas, views and feelings.
I’ve tried out many vehicles of expression over the years; fiction writing, poetry, philosophical debate, role-playing games and even a short (and very ill-advised) attempt at songwriting. I am, at best, an indifferent writer; though I can dream up a story just fine, I cannot seem to hold things together long enough to finish. A common curse among writers, and one I must admit I have fallen prey to.
Even my attempts at debate and conversation to express my views fall short of the mark. Though people like and occasionally even praise what I have to say, I never seem to be able to complete the thought/idea to my satisfaction before others attempt to comment on it (or disagree with it). “But I’m not finished!” my mind would shout (yet again) as the conversation moved past my idea. In the attempt to listen and to talk, one or the other would inevitably get shortchanged.
So, this is my next attempt at communication. I feel this will be more successful because alone at my computer I am able to bring thoughts and ideas to their fullest fruition, without dissenting voices and ill-timed topic shifts. However, this is not a new phenomenon; a legion of self-righteous assholes in possession of their own keyboards and opinions have beaten me to the punch. I will try to stand out from the pack somehow. Time and Fate will decide if I succeed.
This is the framework under which all other posts will be made. I felt an explanation of my methods might prevent misunderstanding about what I’m trying to do and how I’m choosing to do it (if people pay attention, which if history is any judge they likely will not but the effort should at least be made).
Article 1: Use of Language
In my quest to express concepts and ideas, I will paint with the whole palette of English that I possess. If evocative or poetic language is called for, that’s what I will use. If a bit of blunt speech or a swear word or two gets the point across effectively, you’ll see them. I will not censor myself to make anyone feel better. This includes the use of “un-PC” phrases like racial and sexual slurs. Like them or not, such phrases spark interest, either positive or negative. Like the fashion model who shaved a Calvin Klein logo into her pubic hair (remember that ad? I sure as hell do) I will be getting your attention by whatever means necessary. And, I am being completely honest about that fact.
Article 2: Defense
These posts will be in the public domain, and every one of them will be available for comment. However, I will not be responding to comments unless the rebuttal actually manages to either get me to change my views or causes me to make another post. Other than that, I feel no need to defend myself. Put bluntly, if you don’t like what I have to say, I really don’t care.
Article 3: Attack
(This almost shouldn’t be necessary but considering my experience with online forums I’m putting it in anyway.)
These are my opinions; doubtless, some of you who read them will poke holes in my logic. I expect it. I am not particularly well-educated, and am not basing my writing on anything other than the knowledge I already possess and my personal observations/feelings. I’m not doing research for any of these entries that I wouldn’t already have done due to simple curiosity. When I choose to attack an idea, I will be as fair as possible, and include myself in the crosshairs of my verbal fire. If you want to take shots at me as well, feel free. But as far as I am concerned, the snarky cynic, the superficial sophist, and the oversensitive reactionary (three common varieties of Internet douchebag) can collectively take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut. I’m not in this to debate. So, save yourself some trouble and don’t bother.
Article 4: Completeness
If you are going to read a post, read it in its entirety before passing judgment. Some posts will not make sense or give the reader the wrong idea if left half-finished; of course I can’t enforce this, it’s just a request but one I hope people will honor.
These posts are not supposed to be in any order, nor are they even really going to all agree with one another. Our beliefs don’t change, but how we choose to express them varies widely with time, experience and even inane things like hormone levels, intoxicants consumed and whether or not we ate breakfast that morning. This blog, in the words of Anton LaVey describing his own “Devil’s Notebook”, “…is like life; it is consistent in its inconsistency.”
I hope you enjoy it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)