Bigotry, Hatred and JOHN WOO!!!

I had an interesting discussion last night about bigotry that I want to try to work out here. By "work out" I mean, I think I know what I think, but in the course of this entry may type some pretty stupid things. Please be gentle.

It started, innocently enough, with an airing of "Mission Impossible 2" on TBS last night. John Woo birds were fluttering across the screen, impossible shots were offing bad guys and Tom Cruise is in the middle of it, driving through fire on a motorcycle. The wife walks in and we start talking about his nutty Scientology video and how his belief structure had cast a different light on his work - it's somewhat tougher to buy Cruise as a secret agent with all those Thedons attached to my spine or wherever it is they attach themselves.

Mitt Romney, the candidate for president who happened to be Mormon, had dropped out on Thursday, and said some things in his closing speech that deserved John Stewarts well thought out commentary "Fuck You!" It really fit, especially if you watched the speech, which I did. But the two events - MI2 being weird because Tom Cruise's religion is weird, and giving the middle finger to Romney who believes Jesus partied with the Native Americans, it sets one to thinking about where the line is between logic-based opinion and bigotry, and more importantly, what side you're on.

For me, it's becoming increasingly tricky as I move further away from religion but closer, I think, to faith. I make no secret of my 2-year existential malaise, where some of my beliefs, I've determined, are simply not true. Where do you go from there? I'm not entirely sure, but I'm finding my way. God is still real to me, be it psychological detachment from logic or the spark of the divine. I feel something and I know, for me, it's real even if it's mental illness. I hope it's God and that's sort of where I'm sitting - between divine intervention and the possibility of insanity. It's not a terribly pleasant place to be, and I haven't yet convinced myself it's better than blind faith.

But in deconstructing (and slowly reconstructing) my own belief structure, I have cast a more critical eye on other faiths and found some of them seriously lacking. Like Scientology. And Mormonism. And that's where I'm finding myself worried that I'm actually intolerant. Where does the line exist between "I think your beliefs are foolish but I respect your right to believe them" and "I think you're crazy and have dismissed you." If I'm over the precipice, can I come back?

Let's get some subtext in here - I actually have three people in my life I'd consider friends who attend the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I like them, they like me. I respect them as all three are talented individuals in their own right. Again, I like them but there are portions of their belief structure that can be disproven right away through the historical record, and some of the church's stances and practices disturb me. So here's the nuts and bolts - do I think less of them for what they believe? The answer...as people, I don't. They're my friends and that hasn't changed. They could believe in Abe Vigoda riding a unicorn as the savior of our ethereal plane and they'd still be the same people I hang out with as long as they weren't overly concerned about converting me to their bat shit crazy religion. As a concept, however, I think to myself, quietly, in that part of your brain you can't control "how can you believe that?" It's something I haven't figured out how to stop.

Of course, all religion and religious people of all sects are subject to the same scrutiny when they reveal their faith. Revealing that you have faith and believe in something you can't prove is a powerful statement and one that's become somewhat easy to do in our overtly religious society. But does that little voice in the back of my head, which disagrees with what someone believes in before I know anything about them is the very definition of bigotry, isn't it? And by extension, seeing "Mission Impossible 2" through a different lense because Tom Cruise believes he's tapped into the spirits of long-dead aliens to help him fight the bad effects of other ancient aliens...isn't that the same thing?

I'm starting to think (again, as I work this out) that the answer isn't acceptance of other people's beliefs or trying to silence that little voice in your head that screams "These People are NUTS!" but to make a concerted effort to meet someone as a person before you're able to classify them based on their religion. This can be tricky, and I think the person on the other end has some responsibility, too. If there's someone on the street, preaching and screaming at the top of his lungs about fire and brimstone, that person has put the "little voice" to the front of my mind and is asking, in a way, to be judged by the fact that he's yelling about fire and brimstone. Enter Mr. Cruise. For years, I saw him as an above average actor and movie star, making smart choices and working with great creative people. Then he jumped on the couch on Oprah and told Matt Lower he was an idiot for believing in science and took Katie Holmes hostage and made that freaky-ass video. In other words, he's asking to be judged as a Scientologist, and brother, you got it. "MI:2" will never be the same and it's 90 percent your fault, and maybe 10 percent mine.

As for Mitt Romney, I think that's a little different. He was asking, in effect, to be the name, face and driving force behind the country I call home, and when you ask for that much responsibility, I want to really examine who you are. Religion, I'm sorry, is part of that. You can't say "I want to lead you" and not have your beliefs come into account. The fact that he's part of the Mormon Church was a check mark against him in my mind, and I don't think that's bigotted. If I said "I will never vote for him because he's a Mormon," if it's a deal breaker on his candidacy, that's a somewhat different story.

As it turned out, he was an asshole of a candidate who spent $35 million of his own money and now has nothing to show for it. Christian, Muslim, Mormon or Abe Vigoda riding a unicorn, that's pretty freaking dumb and worthy of scorn and laughter.

Why Do You Ask?

We're eating Thursday night at El Tapatio, pound for pound the best Mexican food in town, when four young people come in dressed all in black, three of them tapping away wildly on blackberries. I lean over to my wife and whisper "they have to be involved with the campaign." Chelsea Clinton was speaking down the street and this crew either seemed like volunteers or people associated with the Clinton campaign in one way or another.

We finish our food and as we're sucking on our mints and waiting for the check to come back, I glance again. I was right. They were involved with the campaign as one of them was, indeed, Chelsea Clinton.

I'm an Obama guy, for a number of reasons, but could live with Hillary as president. I want my daughters to know a democratic president. Anywho, there are two other full tables in the restaurant, and I seem to be the only person who notices one of the most famous people in America, someone who's gone through unbelievable psychic trauma. I mention it to the wife, she agrees and, using only our eyes, we have a conversation about whether or not to go over there and say something to her.

On the one hand, when you have a chance to talk to someone like Chelsea Clinton, you probably want to take it. On the other hand, she's having dinner after speaking in 3 Nebraska locations. Props to her, BTW, for eating at a locally owned eatery, unique to our little town. She chose her vittles well.

I ultimately said nothing to her for two reasons. First, it's not good to bother people who don't need bothering. I know she's campaigning, but I know how much I hate being interrupted during dinner. Second, and more importantly, if your not among the legion of coveted undecided voters, what the hell do you say to Chelsea Clinton? "Thanks for stopping in Nebraska?" "I hope you like the food." Lie and tell her your voting for her mom during Saturday's caucus? I honestly didn't have anything to say to her, but was pleased enough to be in the same restaurant and enjoy her celebrity.

It was also fun telling my oldest who she was as we went to the parking lot. She ran up to the window and smiled at Chelsea. She smiled back at the cute 4-year-old blonde. She's nice. I just don't have anything to say to her and want her to eat in peace.

Book Review: "Born Standing Up" by Steve Martin

The fact that Steve Martin was the most famous stand-up act of the modern era, a man who could pack auditoriums with hundreds of thousands of people, seems almost an afterthought in "Born Standing Up." It's a blur, with such cultural touchstones as Saturday Night Live garnering a page-and-a-half out of the book's 200 or so pages. When describing some of his biggest shows, the predominent feeling is fatigue. "The Jerk" and his career in movies, almost a pleasant afterthought.

It's in his development as a performer where "Born Standing Up" flourishes as both a memoir of a developing performer, and as a fascinating look at where the hell someone like Steve Martin comes from. He starts at the beginning, living as a child with an emotionally distant and sporadically abusive father who's dreams of stardom were squashed but ressurected through his child. He comes from Knotts Berry Farm, of all places, where he was part of a Vaudeville act that played on the grounds. He comes from the classrooms of the USC Philosophy Department, from the counterculture ramblings of his peers and, eventually, from the run down stages of a thousand stages across the country. And this, the infancy of a man who many agree is somewhat of a national treasure, is where Steve Martin's heart is. It's hard not to envision the white-haired comic smiling whistfully as he types about his days working at a magic shop, or working in the theater.

"Born Standing Up" follows Martin's career starting at 13 when he started working, illegally as it turned out, as a program salesman at Disneyland and continues up until he walked off a stage after performing for 100,000 people who knew his act frontwards and backwards, and never doing stand-up again. It's a strange final scene to a book devoted to the demons and delights of persuing and pushing the medium of stand-up.

And oh, the demons. One of the most striking passages in the book comes early on when Martin describes a beating at the hands of his father. He describes it simply, but leaves little to the imagination and then follows it up with this passage: "I have heard it said that a complicated childhood can lead to a life in the arts. I tell you this story of my father and me to let you know I am qualified to be a comedian." For those who know Martin only as the bumbling father from his family films, the Fred McMurray of our time, you've missed a good part of Martin's career as a playwrite and author. It's simple but compelling passages like the one above that really shine in this memoir. Martin doesn't overanalyze, he doesn't exaggerate. It's a compelling style, especially in an age where memoirs spell out more than we ever want to know, quite often.

It's also fascinating to see Martin's influences and how he ultimately rejected them. His stand-up was avant gard and got that way through a lot of thought. But what's great to read, and why I think Martin wrote the book, is how much fun he had trying to figure out what he was going to do. The man was a struggling artist, and that section of his story glows with life. There's women, some of whom he loves. There are friends who drink beers and talk philosophy on car hoods ("At one point, we concluded it was impossible to be having this conversation"). There are goofy stories and the butterflies after appearing on the Tonight Show for the first time. There's the victory of cracking up an audience but also the self-ritous and beautiful pain of performing before no one, or bombing.

And what's even worse is the tone the book takes once Martin - who aspired to be a teacher, a playwrite, a musician and many other professions - finally dedicated himself to stand-up and the stars started to align in his name. He describes obsessing over his act and the lonliness the road induced. He never out and out says why he isolated himself in hotel rooms or what happened to his friendships, though he does have a fascinating story about developing panic attacks. He withdraws as he becomes more of a public figure, and by the time he's a star, he's about hollowed out. It gets to the point where when he finally leaves standup for film, it almost seems like a hollow victory, like there's nothing left, and maybe there isn't.

You have to love honesty like that, and I also love this book and plan to re-read it. It's funny, though in an inside baseball kind of way, and endlessly interesting. When he dropped the Wild and Crazy Guy act, Martin seems like the party guest you never want to leave - self depreciating, witty and somehow noble.

Good book. Go read it.

Tuesday Picture

I meant to do this Monday, but ah well.

Every so often, I get a really good picture off, or find something that's completely worth photographing. So here's the photo, with comment.

Today my tire went flat. I leave work and by the time I turn my 2nd of 5 corners, I can tell something is seriously wrong. Shimmy shimmy, shake shake, pull over into a park to find my front driver's side smoking. I could have sworn I saw flame, but it might have been my imagination.

I grab the jack and tire iron and get to work. After a couple minutes, I'm puffing pretty hard and the snow's really coming down. I decide to walk, just a few feet, to catch my breath and saw a truck which obviously hadn't moved for a while, with it's back door open. I walk up to it and find that note. I go back to the car, take a picture of the note - ta da.

I finally got home about 6:45 after spending $70 on a new tire.

Upon downloading the picture, it makes me wonder why the author of the note didn't take care of the mouse themselves. Yet another mystery.

Annoying Church Song Line of the Week

Singing in church is fun anyway, because it's often highly personal sentiments being expressed en mass, but this morning I almost cracked up at this line from the song "I Walk By Faith":

"Every prayer I make is a prayer of faith"

As opposed to all those non-faith related prayers I make.

"Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you?"
"I pray for a decaf skinny mocha. Amen."

The other option is like the movie "Malice" where Alec Baldwin's character proclaims that people who pray during their children's surgeries are actually praying to the surgeons. That's all I could come up with, but the mental exercise got me through most of the sermon.

Mood Music

Some days you just get in a mood - not a funk, not a cloud, not a kick kor a rant, but a mood. And when you're in that mood, things strike you differently.

With that introduction, I present to you my new favorite video on Youtube. I'll probably not be nearly as enamored with it in the morning.

And Yellow Thunder Woman might very well be the hottest thing on the planet.

A Time And A Place

Once I attended a screening of "Seabiscuit" at the Grand Theater here in town, and had a blast watching the movie and listening to an old lady cheer at the screen. The drama was highlighted, the races more fun, the movie a better experience. It's nice to remember that after tonight.

For the first time in three months, Sarah and I went to the movie without the kids, and saw "No Country For Old Men." We were, more than likely, the youngest folks in the audience which is fine. No problem there. The problem came in when the old lady behind us treated the thoughtful, arthouse film as if it were "Seabiscuit."

A selection of comments, with a few comments running through my head:

-(Once Javier Bardem comes on screen) "Eww. He's Creepy" That's kind of the freaking point!
-"That poor dog." Yeah, bleak isn't it. Just like the rest of the movie. Maybe there's a theme here.
-"Why doesn't he just run away" STFU
-"He should go to the police" STFU STFU STFU
-"This movie doesn't make any sense." No. No. You're an idiot. This movie makes perfect sense if you pay attention you focus shifting old tart. The more you pay attention to things like setting, dialogue and thematic elements, the clearer subtext, and in this case meaning, becomes. The more you carry on like an ignorant troglodite with a special place in hell waiting for you because you talk in the theater, the less you're going to get out of the movie and the more you're going to reinforce the stereotype that we don't DESERVE these kinds of movies here in this city. God Dammit! STFU!!!!

You get the point. What's strange to me is if I had been in "Cloverfield' and been in front of the same woman, she would have enhanced the experience instead of detracting from it. What it boils down to is a need for people to understand not just what they're going to be seeing, but the type of reaction expected. Laugh at comedies - not hard. Don't talk like a moron through a movie that might, in lesser hands than the Coen Brothers, be nothing more than a taught thriller but turned out to be a multilayered brillaint adaptation of a bleak, minimalist tome - more difficult.

I love The Grand, but maybe DVD is the way to go on these types of films. Though it was nice to see Josh Brolin's riteous facial hair on the big screen.