Out of Focus

Punch me once, shame on me

It would be too easy for me to assume that some supernatural force, I shall personify as “The Universe,” continues to conspire against my attempts to create (re-create?) a writing habit and routine. For the past several months, I keep experiencing these huge blocks; in fact, let’s call them Great Walls, analogous to China’s. Hurdling the walls shouldn’t be so difficult: each one simply involves a subject I want to discuss, ramble and rant over, but the sit-and-write cubicle of my brain keeps hiding.

Yesterday, however, I was determined to find it. Motivated, mostly focused, and ready to let my fingers do play a coherent form of trampoline on my keyboard, I settled-in at a table at the Sheirdan Square Starbucks (the one on 7th Avenue South near where W. 4th and Christopher Streets cross). Starbucks: I know. But my laptop battery blows, and Starbucks offers me the opportunity for WiFi (free for me), and more importantly, plenty of electrical outlets. I needed to write a few emails, but then I planned to tackle this one post I considered the great drawbridge gate which needed to be lowered so I could cross the moat and get at the more specific subjects concerning individual films, television, theater, and all those other things I think about and apparently, on some level, want to write about.

Climbing the walls I create for myself seems not to be enough for the chess-player some call God, others Fate, or as I apparently decided to personify it in all my conversations yesterday: The Universe. In reality, I’m rational enough to realize that there is no boogie-power out to get me, and I can certainly compare myself and my not-ideal current situation to others and recognize that in the proverbial grand scheme, I don’t have things so bad. Plus, I definitely see how a whole situation could have been avoided had I not essentially ignored one or two things, so of course, I blame myself. Still, with that said, yesterday, The Universe chose to fuck me up.

Now, apparently, if when these metaphysical powers-that-be decide the time is ripe to threaten and rob Aaron, they don’t intend for it to be simple or ordinary. No dark alleys. Nothing as simple as, “He came out of the shadows.” Only events that generally lead to a first response from others that resembles, “You’re kidding,” or, “You’re not serious,” or, “That’s not possible,” or … well, you get the idea.

So there I am: laptop on table. Sitting. Typing. Next to my laptop are my new (used) iPhone and my old (very used) iPod. The iPhone was new to me; after three years of using a now slow and constantly malfunctioning Blackberry Pearl, and no longer tethered to the Microsoft Exchange system of the ex-job, I was finally able to follow my Mac-addicted sensibilities and transition to the iPhone. Lucky for me, my best friend in San Francisco was kind enough hand-me-down his: an iPhone 3G sitting unused ever since he upgraded to the 3GS.

You know all those signs on the subway from the MTA or the NYPD giving advice on things not to do so you don’t get robbed or fall on the tracks? And you know how much of the time you look at the stupidly staged photos or the common sense idea and chuckle a bit at the simplicity of it, obviously thinking, “Well … duh!” That’s how the utter obviousness of this next thought felt to me after, even though I had perpetrated the idiotic mistake.

People: There’s not really any good reason to sit there with a $200 phone on the table where others can ogle it, especially when you’re sitting there alone. Keep it in your pocket. Would that have changed yesterday’s situation … most likely.

R.I.P. Lou

This little corner of the internet is on the verge of returning to plenty of opinion and talk about not-very-important-to-the-proverbial-grand-scheme like movies and TV ever-so-shortly, but today, I found my thoughts interrupted once again. It’s not often that I really find myself contemplating the fragility of life. I don’t mean recognizing it, but rather, seriously considering it. Sadly, the concept hit close to home this week, and it made me not only think about capital L life but also about the strange complexities of familial relationships and especially why something like illness or death can affect each of us to such varying degrees.

Last night around 7pm in San Francisco, my grandmother’s husband Lou passed away. I specifically say “my grandmother’s husband” not out of any disrespect. Lou was a wonderful and admirable man. He was 94 years old, and while he had some health issues during the past few years, he died not from any long-term illness or simple natural causes; rather, about a week ago he was hit by a car. He suffered some broken ribs and vertebrae as well as one arm. All of these injuries, a younger person (one my age, for example) would most likely not have been life threatening. But it’s a virtual cliché, no? We all laugh at the “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up,” Life Alert commercials, but the truth is, a broken hip (or anything) to an elderly person can turn into a death sentence. When we become “elderly,” not only do our bodies no longer heal efficiently, but they also suffer infection and further illness too quickly. And that is what happened to Lou.

Moth Misses Flame Again: The Guilt Complex

Last night, I went to The Moth StorySLAM (@mothstories) at the Nuyorican, once again with a story prepared, and while my odds were better this time (apparently there were 20 total names in the hat as opposed to the 30-plus when I last went in March), I still didn't get called to the stage. It's too bad too, because while I wasn't that happy with how I had the story working in my head, halfway through the evening, even though there really wasn't one truly bad story tonight (a new experience for me), I think mine -- for all its faults -- would have probably been graded in the top two or three.

Doesn't matter. I was actually baffled by the winner again. Just like last time I was at the Nuyorican, the final person selected of the evening was slightly peculiar with a very peculiar story that had the crowd roaring but as much because of the what-the-fuck quotient as anything funny happening in the story. Also, and more importantly, the winning story arguably had very little to do with the them of the evening which was "Ambition."

To me, it seemed only natural what my story would be if only because I had no other personal stories relating to ambition immediately springing to mind. Ironically, one of my most ambitious (and unmet) goals over the past couple years was to use these storyslams as as personal deadlines and writing exercises. I've found that thoughtless free writing has been very helpful to me at times, and utilizing the themes for the Moth storyslams a a launching point could help me form a valuable writing habit and become a regular outlet. Sure, I could do that without going and signing up to tell the story, but of course, omitting that part is actually a bit of a cop-out, and having that hard deadline where I might have to stand in front of people and tell my story means that I need to focus on it at least a little bit more than simply sitting with the theme and writing a few pages at will.

But my ambitions in this arena have met total failure. I've intended to do this for a long time, and yet, I've only written and gone (including tonight) four times. The first time I went over two years ago, I was selected to tell my story, but the second time, I was among a large throng that didn't even get into the room. And then there was June at the Nuyorican where I wasn't picked.

I wasn't picked again tonight, and fair warning: I didn't write about my Moth ambitions. Of course not. I wrote about what occupied my brain most of the summer and has dominated the few posts on this blog over the past several weeks. But this is it: a slightly different (and much shorter) take on my triathlon experience. The last time I talk about the damn thing until I maybe decide to do another one. Starting tomorrow, Out of Focus will return to its more logical and organic (i.e., non-athletic endeavors usually featuring flickering images of light) state. But for now, for the last time, the story I would have told had my name been called last night at The Moth: The Guilt Complex after the jump.

Aaron’s Summer Vacation Part 4: The Conclusion--As if swimming, biking and running weren’t enough …

(Like a neverending story that finally reaches its conclusion, behold the final chapter in a series of posts that has taken too long to unveil but needed to run its course. Pt. 1 is here; Pt. 2 is here; and Pt. 3 is here. By the way, it’s currently still possible to donate to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, supporting my participation in the Westchester Triathlon in memory of my grandfather Harold. While I passed my required donation minimum, I had hoped to raise more for such a great cause. Just visit my donation page here, and if you already donated, thanks again.)

It was dark out. Not quite pitch-black, but plenty dark. Too damn early on Sept. 27, 2009. Too many people were awake and lazily shuffling around the lobby of the hotel, but that’s because like me, they were all just waiting to hop on the bus at 4:45 am in order to be at Rye Playland by 5 when the transition area officially opened. The race didn’t start until 7 am. I was “lucky”: because of my age group, I would be in the third wave to take-off at 7:06 am. Friends I had trained with would have to wait an additional 10, 15, 30 minutes … some even more before they got to start. And it wasn’t just dark: it was raining.

We arrived at the transition area, i.e., one of the Playland parking lots, and it was still pretty empty. My bike had been moved since the night before because the triathlon organizers had miscalculated the number of racks and spaces they needed. I began to set-up up my roughly three square feet of ground space next to my bike. Generally, you would just lay out your bike gear and run gear on a towel or on the ground, next to your bike so it would be ready to go. But it was still raining out, and the weather reports indicated it wouldn't stop any time soon. So instead, I put my bike gear into one garbage bag and my running stuff into another. The transition area was slowly filling up with people, but I felt like I was done. I wasn’t set-up near any of my teammates, so I wandered around a little. I decided it was probably a good idea to try going to the bathroom again meaning waiting in line for the scary porta-potties. Still raining, still dark, with just the illumination of the parking lot lights overhead.

Around 6 am, i started getting myself ready. I was already wearing my trishorts and top. I put on my heart rate monitor and started putting body glide lubricant in the necessary places, especially important when wearing a wetsuit in salt water. Around 6:30, I went with a bunch of other people down to the beach. It was starting to get light, but it was so overcast and grey, it wasn’t that great. We got in the water and started to warm up a little, let the wetsuits fill with water. The water temperature wasn’t that bad, and in the wetsuit, it was almost balmy.

People started moving towards the beach for the start. Suddenly, it was a mob. Hundreds of people, all wearing the swim cap colored to identify their respective waves. It was kind of chaotic. Couldn’t hear the PA announcer. Standing around. And then suddenly … off they went. The male pros go first. I was hoping to finish the whole race in 3 ½ hours if I was lucky. These guys sprinting and dolphin leaping through the water were likely going to finish in a vicinity closer to two hours. But if they were starting, that meant I was too in just six more minutes.

I’m not sure what happened next. I was excited and scared and saying to myself, “What the fuck am I doing here.” We were standing around, shuffling near the shoreline and then suddenly, a horn, and we were off.

Aaron’s Summer Vacation, Part 3: The day before crawls by in a flash

(This is the continuation and penultimate chapter of the Douglas Adams style-trilogy of posts I started more than a month ago. Pt. 1 is here; Pt. 2 is here. Just pretend those weeks never happened. I’ve been trying to do the same.)

I hadn’t had the best luck when it came to weather and endurance athletic events. In fact, 100% of the endurance athletic events in which I had ever participated were negatively affected by the weather. Now, to be fair, that 100% figure results from two out of two, so we’re not looking at the biggest sample here, and to call it a trend would surely be overstating the situation. But the fact remained: first was the AIDSRide meets Hurricane Floyd. And then, just weeks before the Westchester Triathlon, my warm-up and the only chance to actually experience swim-bike-run all together in a row at the Staten Island Triathlon (a “sprint” race), New York City had closed its beaches because of the weather the day before, and the swim portion was canceled.

So when I took a look at the weather for the coming weekend and saw rain … RAIN … are you fucking kidding me with the rain? We had finally had beautiful weather for most of the weeks leading up to the event. It was almost like Autumn had decided to return us to a world of four seasons instead of the newer global warming reality of two: Hot and Cold. Meanwhile, a whole bunch of the TNT people with whom I had trained had already completed their Nations Triathlon on Sept. 13 in Washington D.C. The weather in D.C. on Sept. 13 was gorgeous. Sunny. Not too hot nor cold. Not humid. And they had a flat course. Sure, I had two extra weeks to train and a weather forecast telling me to go fuck myself.

Rain? I mean really? Wasn’t four months of training enough? Dozens of cumulative miles in the pool? Hundreds of miles on my bike? Over 120 miles logged in my running shoes? Swimming 1500 meters, biking 40 kilometers and running 10 kilometers? Back-to-back-to-back? The same morning? Having to wake up at 4 AM and be swimming shortly after 7 AM? Really? None of that was challenging enough? The powers that be had to make it RAIN ON ME!!!!!

I mean seriously. What. The. Fuck?

The next several days – which were quite lovely and sunny, by the way – I was obsessed with checking the forecast. And not just one forecast: which was better? Weather.com or Accuweather.com? (Generally, it’s the latter? Although in this case the latter was more optimistic … and more wrong.)

On Friday evening Sept. 25, we had to drop-off our bikes on the Upper East Side for transport to Westchester. From that moment on, the rest of the weekend was this oxymoronic slow-moving blur. All triathlon, all the time.

Pardon the Interruption: We shall return to normal (regular, even?) programming shortly

When we last visited our intrepid hero, he was about to complete his summer-long journey of endurance athleticism. Against larger-than-anticipated odds (SPOILER ALERT), he survived – even thrived – in completing said journey (more on that later). He was riding a high. He was very proud. Justifiably, even.

His summer project over, his 38th birthday behind him, and a new/recently revised, thoroughly optimistic outlook for how to proceed pushing him forward, he was ready for the pending growing flurry of the work ahead, both the kind that paid him a regular salary and the other personal and professional projects to which he looked forward.

And then … for some reason … he started describing himself in the third person. And not just on Facebook where it was actually grammatically correct.

Let’s put an end to that for this post, at least.

On Oct. 2, like nearly a million of my fellow New York City inhabitants, I found myself a member of that club to which I really didn’t want to belong. (And I say that lacking all Groucho-style irony.) After eight years of involvement, working my way up from a volunteer to seasonal staff to permanent year-round employee, from audience usher to logistical and operational director, from pre-screener to programmer and panels producer, my association with Tribeca came to an end.

Aaron's Summer Vacation Part 2: What the hell was I thinking?

Let's get something clear up front: when I decided to do the AIDSRide 10 years ago, I was more than happy to raise money for a worthy cause, but it was not my primary reason for doing the event. Not that much had changed in May: I did not set-out to do charity and then decide to do it through endurance athletic training. However, I did have more of a personal connection this time around as my Grandfather Harold passed away 14 years ago after a long battle with Leukemia, so raising money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society certainly carried some meaning.

I was required to raise $3,000. I had hoped to raise $4,000, but I didn't really work that hard at doing so. However, if I contacted you and you haven't donated but would still like to, you still can. My fundraising page will be live for another couple months, and all you have to do is follow this link. (There's a brief pitch/explanation of why I did this on that page as well.)

But fundraising was never my big concern. I knew enough people -- family and otherwise -- who I was pretty certain would happily donate to this cause (and I was pleasantly surprised by many not-close acquaintances who chipped in $10 or $25 or whatever they kid, many of whom I still owe official thank you emails). What obviously made me nervous was the idea that in four months time, I was going to have to run into open water, swim nearly a mile, bike 25 miles and run 6.2 miles.

Point of clarification #2: In May, I was nowhere close to being able to do any of this. After buying a new pair of running shoes, I went to the gym and couldn't really make it through a full mile on a treadmill. I've always hated running. It hurt my back and my shins and my calves; it exhausted me nearly instantly; and frankly, I found it fairly boring. The first time I tried running outside (maybe a week later), I couldn't even finish one mile. I was utterly incapable.

I was never that terrified of the bike. Having trained for the AIDSRide in 2000, I knew that being able to ride 25 miles, even with a few hills, was utterly doable, but my first time getting into a pool, I became instantly concerned about the swim. I always loved the idea of swimming, but the actual process of swimming laps was another story. I hadn't even tried doing so in years, and my first attempt on my own (coached swim practices hadn't started yet) was unbearable. Getting through one length of a 60 yard pool took my breath away, and not in the wonderful, awe-inspiring, majestic way. I had to rest after each length of the pool, and that was only 60 yards. How was I ever going to complete 1600?

This is where participating in Team in Training really helped me as they provided us with weekly training plans and offered structured and scheduled practices with coaches each week -- eventually, we swam every Monday evening, ran every Wednesday evening and biked every Saturday morning. This proved especially valuable with the swim where I was taught an entirely new way of swimming freestyle in an efficient manner to carry me through the long hall, and while it was exceedingly difficult for weeks, eventually my capacity to distance swim got to the point where not only did I not need to stop for a rest after each 25 yards, 50 yards, 100 yards or 200 yards, but I was swimming a full mile (1760 yards) without stopping; in fact, during one solo swim session about a month ago, I swam more than a mile-and-a-half with only a couple brief breaks, and I could have done more, but I ran out of time.

Swimming easily became my favorite of the three events. I've always loved cycling, and I still do, but I became quite frustrated with my bike (a nearly 10 year old mountain bike which is incredibly heavy and slow). Plus, even though I was more confident and comfortable cycling than either swimming or running, and I had only had one bike accident my entire life and that was over 25 years ago when since I ran into a parked car and broke my tooth, the bike caused me some physical pain, and I have the scars to prove it.

Aaron’s Summer Vacation Part 1: Why not try a Tri(athlon)

Sometimes, my addled lump of grey matter gets so clogged up with random topics, it takes a while for me to clear it out, and in working towards turning my little corner of the web back into a regular stop for new and interesting (well, at the very least new) opinionated content, I stop myself before I get started. This is a common problem for many; in fact, if you’ve ever even heard about time management guru-to-many David Allen and his GTD system (standing for “Getting Things Done”), you’d know that it’s the primary problem. “Open loops,” as he calls them, that one works so hard to remember, they simply never get done. (I’m simplifying.)

And frankly, it’s just impossible for me to start talking about all the more blog-topical subjects — the new TV season, the New York Film Festival, the move from Broadway to off-Broadway of Avenue Q or even why nobody in New York should vote for the annoying and (dare-I-say hypocritical) Bill de Blasio in tomorrow’s run-off election for Public Advocate — without first discussing what I did this summer that led up to what I just did yesterday.

Some might term it classic middle-age crisis, others might just decide I suddenly became more adventurous, and plenty, I’m sure, likely think I’m crazy, but as I hit Summer 2008 which would end with the birthday propelling me into the period commonly known as “late-30s,” I got it into my head that I wanted to jump out of an airplane – and survive! So last year, eight days before I was to turn 37, two friends and I drove to eastern Long Island, took a plane up to 11,000 feet and then stepped outside.

That didn’t take much planning or preparation, but as this summer rolled around and I was decompressing from another festival, I got it into my head that I wanted to do a Triathlon. How? Why? My ADD-inspired need for variety probably played a part, but there was more to it than that.

In early 2009, I suddenly found myself fatter than ever. I’ve never been totally, svelte, but I also never considered that I would be eligible for participation on The Biggest Loser. I still didn’t come close to tipping the scales to that extreme, but when I did see the digits hit 228 one morning (I’m 5’10” and not an NFL fullback!), I was quite upset. Yet, like so many, fitness has always been one of the more difficult disciplines in my life, and when you combine that with my natural expertise at laziness, things weren’t looking good. But again, hitting my late 30s, with various ugly family histories involving heart disease, high cholesterol and blood pressure, diabetes, etc., that had to be a high number I left far in the past.

In 1999, I had a similar drive to lose a chunk of weight, and in an effort to kick myself in the ass, I registered to do the Boston-New York AIDSRide: 3 days, 275 miles, all on a bike. I knew that if I was part of a group with scheduled and structured training sessions and if I raised a bunch of money and had that guilt complex as motivator, no way would I then flake and have a bunch of people say, “Uh, Aaron, I donated $100 because of you. What do you mean you can’t do the ride?” And it worked. My training for the AIDSRide was a success. I was ready. I lost around 20 pounds, and was under 190 for the first time since high school. The ride was a big letdown, though. Hurricane Floyd passed off the coast that weekend, and the organizers for the first time in AIDSRide history (at that point) canceled part of the ride. Most of the first two days worth, in fact. They stuck us on a bus and transported us all the way to New Haven, where we spent the night on the harder-than-hard concrete floor of the New Haven Coliseum. All the Connecticut hills for which I had trained … we passed them by. The second day, we rode about 30 miles; it took under two hours. The third day, we rode into New York, finished on 7th Ave in front of Madison Square Garden, and then I went home, went to sleep, and didn’t get back on my bike for nearly two years.

And so, in early 2009, I was looking for something similar: another way to find structure in training; a huge, seemingly-ridiculous endurance event to use as a goal; an organization that would help coach me and structure my workouts; and a fundraising component so that after hitting up friends, family and acquaintances, there was no way I could even consider not training hard enough to be able to follow-through.

The first decision was the event. I had no interest in doing a marathon or even a half-marathon. It wasn’t because I didn’t think either would be difficult enough. Quite the opposite. I hate running. I hated running even more when I was making this decision in May. The idea of running 26+ miles in one day still seems utterly ludicrous to me. I remember when deciding to do the AIDSRide, I thought to myself that spending four hours or so running 26+ miles seemed far less appealing than spending three days riding nearly 300 miles on a bike.

So still feeling that way, a marathon was out. I then thought about doing a Century Ride – one day, 100 miles on a bike. There are lots of those rides, several every year right here in New York. But having trained for the AIDSRide and knowing that I could do that (even though I was ten years younger when I trained), there was something less appealing to me about it. I wanted to really challenge myself. I wanted to try to do something that seemed doable but I couldn’t fathom actually doing.

I also had some knowledge of Team in Training, and was considering using them as my cause (for a couple reasons), and they worked with marathons, century rides and triathlons. I did some reading about Triathlons and learned that they come in a variety of distances. The shortest is called a “Sprint”: between 1/3-1/2 mile swim followed by 12-15 miles on a bike and a three-to-four mile run. Next is the official “Olympic” distance: 1.5 km (0.9 mile) swim, 40 km (approx 25 miles) run and 10 km (6.2 miles) run. After that you get the half-Ironman and Ironman distances. The latter is a nearly-three mile swim, followed by 112 mile bike ride, and to cap-off things for fun, you run a full marathon. (For the record, I did not nor will I ever complete one of those.)

Most of the books I looked at talked about how one should complete a “sprint” distance first, and yet, the two triathlons with which TNT worked were both “Olympic” distances. One was the Nations Triathlon in Washington D.C. on 9/13/09; the other was the Westchester Triathlon in Rye, NY on 9/27/09. I was nervous about doing the longer distances, but a few people assured me that I had plenty of time to train. Two things encouraged me to choose Westchester: first, it meant two extra weeks to train; and second, the minimum fundraising requirement was $3,000 instead of $4,000 for Nations.

And so, I went to a TNT information session in mid-May knowing that unless they said something to truly terrify me, I was going to register and do this thing. And that began a four month journey that … will get a post of its own tomorrow ……

The Sixth Annual Birthday Post: Time for a reset

In five months, this blog will be seven years old, but at precisely 2:56 AM Pacific Time, I turned 38. I'd love to have a convention of Sept. 21 birthdays one of these years, especially if it could somehow include those who have passed away. H.G. Wells? He'd be 143 today. The imaginative and influential Chuck Jones? 97. The hysterical Henry Gibson? He sadly passed away one week ago, just before turning 64.

I could still have a phenomenal party with just those still alive. Leonard Cohen: Happy 64th. I wish I had half your lyrical talent. Stephen King: Would that I had your writing discipline and prolificacy. Enjoy your 62nd! Ethan Coen: I hope by the time I'm 52 like you I finally have at least a decade's worth of movies under my belt. Bill Murray: I strive for such a quick wit, but maybe there's only so much to go around for people born on our day.

Caleb Deschanel, Ricki Lake, Jerry Bruckheimer, Liam Gallagher, Larry Hagman, Faith Hill, Nicole Richie: Happy Birthday to us all. Luke Wilson and Alfonso Ribeiro both joined the human race on this day along with me. If we were triplets, I wonder who'd be oldest?

And hot off the presses, apparently, the latest member of the 9/21 club, the newborn baby of internet royalty Jason Kotkke and Meg Hourihan. Mazel Tov to you both.

The date has seen lots of other non-person births, some quite interesting to my media sensibilities. Three of the longest rated and (at times) most popular and influential series in TV history premiered on Sept. 21. In 1948, "Texaco Star Theater" came on the air hosted by Milton Berle. Berle became Mr. Television and hosted the show for 19 years, sometimes claiming as much as 75-80% of the viewing audience (of course, the total viewing audience then was less than many network shows still manage to achieve now, but that was because of lack of television sets, not popularity).

Perry Mason premiered in 1957, becoming the all-time iconic TV lawyer and helping to set the stage for courtroom dramas that has lasted more than half-a-century. The year before I was born, ABC took a major risk and in the process changed the face of sports on television premiering Monday Night Football. And apparently, J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit" was first published on Sept. 21, 1937.

For me, 2009 has been a year of striving for new beginnings. Like most, I had my New Year's resolutions/goals/what-have-you that were going to start on Jan. 1. And then, realizing that with my work schedule, it's impossible to create new habits before at least mid-May, I decided to create Aaron's Fiscal Year, starting June 1, and then I went on to dedicate my summer to becoming ready for a Triathlon, but still not achieving anything close to the balance in all things personal & professional to which I strive.

Well, "all things" is an overstatement for sure, but putting all my faith in the cliche regarding "third time" and all its charms, we're going to start one last reset now. Why not? It's my birthday, and the beginning of my 39th year. It's also Rosh Hashanah and the beginning of the visually numerical pleasing while still slightly asymmetrical 5770. And, as of next Sunday, I will (hopefully) have completed that hard-trained summer goal of my first real (and long) triathlon.

Kurt Andersen's latest book is called "Reset," and I figure I'm in for one too. Third reset of the year; first one that takes? Let's hope. But I figure what better place to start than right here, in my own little corner of the internet where I can get all that crap out of my head that's been clogging it all this time. No promises; no grand statements of intent; not even 100% sure what it will be exactly (although I intend to refocus on film, TV, theater, media with maybe a dash of politics and sports but less of the personal), but the most important thing is for it to be at all. For me. And right now, I think that's the best birthday gift I can give myself.

So Happy Birthday to me and all my birthday mates. Here's hoping regardless of how good or bad the past year has been for any of us, the next 365 take us all uphill with downhill effort.

A Moth That Still Can't Find Its Light: Root Beer Drinking & Driving

Last night, I went to the Moth StorySlam and made my third attempt at telling a story. Preparing for and attending most of the NYC Moths was one of my New Year's goals, mostly in an attempt to force me to do a bit more thematic free writing on a regular basis. The performing is kind of fun, but not my primary impetus. Rather, I wanted/want to use it as a writing exercise. But this topic should be relegated to a later time, if ever.

I'm now one-for-three. Before last night, I was one-for-two. In January, the first StorySlam after New Year's had the theme "Deadlines." I went to Union Hall and wanted to tell a story that started with the line, "I am an anal procrastinator,". In retrospect, that theme and story are more ironic than ever. Anyway, The Moth had gotten super-popular by that point, and I didn't even get in the building.

In August 2007, I went to my first Moth StorySlam. The theme that evening was "Money," and I had this story about a prank played on me by my best friend. I called it "$18 Million". It was my first time, and I got selected. I performed, it was fun. 'Nuff said.

Now that I've started Aaron's New (Personal) Year – running on the fiscal year model; more on that some other time (maybe) – I'm trying to get back into the StorySlam habit, and so last night, I trekked over to the Nuyorican Poets Café in the East Village for The Moth. The theme was "Wheels." This time, I got in the door, got my sign-up slip in the bag, but out of the 26 people who hoped to tell their stories, I was not one of the 10 selected.

However, a good story should never go to waste, and by the time I walked into the Nuyorican last night, I was pretty happy with it. Sure, I may still be able to use it for some other theme some time, and while this one was definitely meant to be performed more than read, why should I hide it for now. So, without further ado and for your reading pleasure, I invite you to enjoy The Root Beer Accident after the jump:

A Hole in the Night: The Dead Moth at the Deadline

One of my goals in the New Year has been to not flake on myself. Another goal is to create habits for myself, especially in terms of writing. One of the things I have planned to use as a tool in creating my habits are The Moth Storyslams. I first went to a Moth Storyslam in August 2007, and I was selected to tell a story that night. I have repeatedly intended to go to more, but I haven't. This year, however, with four per month, I plan to use the themes as a sort of weekly writing workshop: a bit of structure to force me to create some sort of story for each Storyslam. I may not actually always go, and I'm sure that even if I made it to each one, I wouldn't be picked to perform every time. But it's a habit I plan to create.

While I did my part Monday evening, sadly The Moth did not play along. The first Monday of each month includes a Storyslam at Union Hall in Park Slope. The theme for last night was "Deadlines," and I was struggling with how to approach it. On more than one occasion, I've had a great idea (I thought) for a story that I simply never got around to developing into something that I would be comfortable trying to perform, and so, I didn't go at all. (Even though you by no means have to have a story in order to attend.) But I was determined not to do that last night. I was going to prepare something, even if it wasn't perfect. I invited a bunch of different friends, not because I wanted people to see me if I got selected, but just because I knew if I had people planning to show up with me, I wouldn't flake on going.

So I spent some time earlier today putting everything that had coalesced inside my brain down onto paper. My process with writing a story for the Moth is to first, write it; second, edit it; third, copy it by hand from computer into a journal, writing at least a bit from memory; and fourth, determining from memory larger topic bullet points that I can use later to recall the broad strokes I don't want to forget for in the realm of storytelling, it's keeping those larger story points that is most important.

I did all this on Monday. I came up with a story with which I was reasonably satisfied. And I didn't get to tell it. But actually, that wasn't the problem with the evening because when it comes to going to a Moth Storyslam, there is never a guarantee that you'll get to tell your story. However, what was disappointing at Union Hall tonight was that it's obvious the organizers are still a) not used to Union Hall and/or b) don't monitor the line to get in at all.

The event was scheduled to have doors open at 7:30 and stories beginning at 8. When I arrived at 7:30, my friend Jess was already in line. She was outside Union Hall with maybe 30 people in front of her. As we waited without moving at all until close to 7:45, the line behind us kept getting longer, eventually (I believe) reaching the corner of 5th and Union. There had to be at least 100 people behind us.

At about 8:05, people suddenly started coming back upstairs and saying, "It's sold out." I'm glad The Moth is becoming so popular that they're selling out and have added two new regular shows in NYC per week, but if you're going to become that popular and work in really small comedy/music club-type rooms, you have to monitor your lines better. When they said sold out and nobody else would get in, there were still at least 30-40 people ahead of me and the aforementioned 100 behind. There is no reason I should have even been allowed to wait in line. There is no reason that at some point, some one from The Moth didn't come up to us and say, "I'm sorry, but we're never going to be able to get everyone in, and chances are, we'll have to cut it off before it gets to you." Even if that doesn't make me leave, it certainly would let me know that I was waiting at my own risk.

This is no remarkably new idea. The Public Theater does it for Shakespeare in the Park every summer. We do it with our Rush lines at Tribeca as well. Sometimes people choose not to leave, just in case. But to know that you likely won't get in, at least then, it's your own fault.

Regardless, considering what my story wound up being about, it's a bit of Alanis-Morrisette-ironic (i.e., really, more of just a bummer) that I didn't even make it in, let alone have a chance to actually tell my story. In fact, my closing sentence might even qualify the evening for full-fledged irony. But along with all the rest of the new-for-2009 things I'm trying, I won't let this discourage me. Or something. I don't know.

Regardless, here's a written version of the story I would have told had I made it in and been selected. Hopefully, I'll get to the Nuyorican early enough next Tuesday.

When you don't get selected to tell your story, they usually call out your name at the end of the evening and ask you to yell out your first line. Mine is, "I am an anal procrastinator." The whole thing, after the jump.

Happy 2009 - Resolved to Be a Better Focus Puller

I had a pretty low-key New Year's. I was invited to a couple parties, but I realized that I simply wasn't that into going to any of them, which in its own way, made perfect sense in terms of how I felt about much of 2008.

I decided to stay home and get to work on a few of my resolutions early. I also decided to pop Singin' in the Rain into my DVD player. I needed to make sure it would be done before midnight (had to catch some Kathy/Anderson and/or Dick/Ryan action, of course) to fit in with one of my annual traditions/obsessive compulsions in which the first feature film I see in the new year must be my choice for top film of the previous year. Considering that means that some time this afternoon I'll be heading to the Sunshine to watch Synecdoche, New York, it seemed like a great idea to finish 2008 - a not particularly happy year for yours truly - on a high note. (I literally don't allow myself to watch any other films until I've started the year off right; last year I went to an early afternoon screening of There Will Be Blood and then the door was opened to watch anything else.)

Singin' in the Rain is one of my all-time favorite movies, and by saying that, I do mean I also think it is one of the all-time best films every made. It regularly sits in my top five pantheon, and as I watched it again last night (for probably the 40th or 50th time, but first in well over a year), I was reminded exactly why. The best decision I made in all of 2008 might have been simply choosing to wrap-up the year watching Singin' in the Rain, grinning virtually non-stop for 100 minutes, and singing along here-and-there with nobody to hear me. Watching that film is always an experience of pure joy mixed with that weird feeling of nostalgia I often have for times and places that I've never actually known myself.

Nostalgia is an odd thing, and more recently, I've been feeling the nostalgic pull of Out of Focus. It's been nearly five years since I started this blog, but more importantly, it's been over a year since I've treated it as a regular part of my life, and (give or take a few moments of hardcore attention), over two years since I've made this a place that anyone would truly want to check-out on a regular basis.

So why do I care now? Or do I? Part of me would like to say no.

OOF Year-in-Review 2008: Top 10 Films of the Year

Nothing like a non-self-imposed deadline to get those Top 10 lists agoing. Somehow, I never even wound-up publishing my list for 2007, and I figure, it’s a little late now, even for me. And while 2008 is not yet complete and there are a slew of films I still plan to see over the holidays (I’m currently trying to program my annual Christmas day and weekend movie marathon, but the online sites don’t yet have all the theater schedules updated), I’m fairly confident that the 10 films I’ll mention below (and more over the next several days) will remain my choices as the best of 2008.

The process of these lists and their importance is regularly discussed, debated and derided, year-in and year-out. Everyone who considers oneself a critic, reviewer, blogger, cinephile or all-of-the-above spends plenty of time dismissing the process before tossing his/her own choices into the morass of opinions. We all know that such lists are purely subjective, and we all wholeheartedly believe that our subjective ideas are objectively truer than anyone else’s. And we’re all happy that everyone else is simply wrong.

I couldn’t have been happier to be participate in this year’s indieWIRE Critics’ Poll. On the list are several opinions I wholeheartedly respect even as I may disagree with them. To me, like every year, 2008 was anything but a poor one for film. That’s not to say that there were more or less great films this year than previous ones; just that when I truly think about the year in cinema, it is still not difficult for me to identify plenty of titles that not only have stuck with me, but were also tremendous movie-watching experiences. Culling the number of exceptional titles down to a list of 10 was as difficult as ever, and there are plenty of films that didn’t make my list, yet the experiences of seeing each of them are ones I still treasure.

While I did add a comment to my indieWIRE poll ballot, every choice I made comes with a specific reason behind its inclusion, and it is in this space now that I would like to further explain. I'll write about the near misses and other categories on the ballot some other time, but for now, you can find detail on the top 10 after the jump; click below to go directly to any individual title:

Top 10 Films of 2008

1. Synecdoche, New York
   
2. A Christmas Tale
   
3. Wendy and Lucy
   
4. Hunger
   
5. WALL*E
   
6. My Father, My Lord
   
7. In the City of Sylvia
   
8. The Secret of the Grain
   
9. Waltz With Bashir
   
10. Happy-Go-Lucky

The Polls Have Closed

I had the opportunity to participate in indieWIRE's annual critics' poll this year, and just submitted my ballot about 20 minutes ago. I assume my choices will be posted over at indieWIRE some time today, and after they are, I'll post more detailed explanations for my list here. Nobody will be surprised by my ultimate worshipful love for Charlie Kaufman's Synecdoche, New York, but there's certainly more to say about everything else, and so ...

MORE TK!

How does Jeff Zucker keep failing upwards? NBC and the pending Leno debacle

That's right, kids. All it takes is a major multi-million dollar corporate executive to make one of the biggest bonehead moves in television history to at least momentarily get me out of this writing funk. Here's a question for you: let's say you somehow managed to executive produce the most profitable morning news show in television history, and that lands you a cushy little promotion to be the big cheese, in charge of all of one of the big three's entertainment programming. Funny thing though ... you have a surprise hit here and there, but for the most part, your ascendancy to that top entertainment chair (from the news division, mind you) helps your network begin and continue its slide from the #1 network overall right down to the bottom. So what happens next? Dammit ... you get promoted. And promoted again. And again. And I'm pretty sure one more time. At least four times, I believe. Welcome to the charmed life of Jeff Zucker, the President & CEO of NBC Universal.

Now comes the coup de grace: as everyone has heard by now, NBC has recently decided that since they promised Conan O'Brien The Tonight Show starting in mid-2009, and they didn't want to risk losing current late-night ratings leader Jay Leno to another network, they would make the next (il)logical choice - hand over the 10 PM (9 Central, dontcha forget) time slot every weeknight to Leno so that he may continue essentially his version of The Tonight Show under a different moniker.

You may not be reading it here first, but I'd be willing to place every single dollar I have (or these days, don't have) that this is potentially the worst move in television history. Yes, worse than CBS giving up the NFL to Fox with nary a fight. (Don't laugh ... that single move helped contribute to years of CBS in the desert and to Fox rising up high enough to make people say the "Big Four" rather than "Big Three.") Yes, significantly worse than Katie Couric to the CBS Evening News or Deborah Norville replacing Jane Pauley on Today. Far, far, FAR worse than giving the Geico cavemen a sitcom or even the disastrous (and costly) "Chevy Chase Show" on Fox.

There isn't just one reason why this is a terrible strategic move for NBC. And before anyone simply calls me a "Leno hater," the quality of Leno's show is probably the least important factor as to why by this time next year (if there's any justice) this colossal flop will lead to Zucker's demise. For the recent successes at NBC -- and there have been a few, most notably the revival of the Thursday night comedy line-up and the decision to give over Sunday night to football -- have truly been in spite of some downright stupid strategic decisions by Zucker, both in terms of his hiring of subordinate management and specific programming.