La La Land

I usually write about t.v. and movies on my other blog, moviejingo.blogspot.com (shameless self-promotion), but I've been neglecting this blog ever since my last post, where I tried to warn America about "Mr. Orange". Since then, I've mostly been alternating between reading Lemony Snicket books, working with my kids, and trying to write my next script.

And I voted for president. In June and November. The Empire won, so now I've Star Wars-edly joined the resistance. Not much of a resistance, though. It consists mostly of gawking incredulously at endlessly ghastly news articles and spending twenty to thirty minutes at a time starting at Twitter, trying to think of a good comeback to anger Pepe the Frog.

This usually leads to me calmly closing my laptop and walking away. Usually.

Today was different. I stayed home after learning my new buddy, sore throat, was here to stay at least all day. But rather than staying home, I went to see La La Land, one of the best decisions I've ever made.

The movie is solid gold. Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone are perfect together. And Director Damien Chazelle made it feel like a modern film from the 1950's. So while it is nostalgic, it's also unique enough to be its own thang (yes, "thang"). They set the bar high for every movie we'll ever see from here on out.

I'm not exaggerating. It's like the show Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, the movie The Artist, and Chazelle's Whiplash all rolled in one. But here's the twist-- La La Land contrasts the romanticized idea of "Hollywood" with the drab reality of Hollywood.

You will love them.

Funny enough, I saw the movie in the heart of Hollywood, and I felt very close to the film, which made it feel more and less spectacular. For example, I recognized the Warner Brothers lot in the movie from my time working there, which is always fun. But when I recognize where a movie was filmed, it feels less mysterious. Nothing wrong with the movie. Something wrong with me.

On my drive home, I listened to the radio and kept thinking about La La Land, the chemistry between Gosling and Stone. I thought about the romances I've had, my old friendships that could have been something more, and the beautiful women I've met whom I was too diffident to admit I adored (say that ten times fast).

The song I was talking to myself over ended and the DJ mentioned today's electoral college results, and the fact that the one person who should never be president now legally has to be inaugurated.

I went from flying through the clouds to trudging through the swamp.

On the plus side, I got to see this movie and I hope you do, too.

I will warn you that there are some loud moments in the film. And I mean LOUD. A fire alarm goes off in a scene where Gosling and Stone are having dinner and some of us were left wondering if it was the theater's alarm. Then Ryan Gosling went to the stove and we were all relieved because we didn't have to die.

Weeds

I was driving to work yesterday and saw a guy trimming weeds on the sidewalk with a brush cutter. They were growing out of the concrete in a circle, which probably had a plant in the center at some point, but maybe the plant got cancer and had to make meth to pay for its medical bills and died fighting the police.

Or maybe I watch too much t.v.

The point is that when I saw the weeds being trimmed, I wondered why the guy wasn't pulling the weeds out from their roots. And then I remembered my time in elementary school, when my class and I were out on the yard, picking weeds during designated class time because our neurotic teacher told us we had to "help the principal with something." The principal was a tough-looking Japanese man with glasses and an eyepatch. He was out there with us, overseeing our work with a casual stroll. He was alright, as far as I knew, but only because my elementary school experience felt like Saved by the Bell. I performed comedy in the school's annual talent shows and had casual conversations with this principal when it came to preparation. He even offered to lend me some high-end magic rings for my joint magic/comedy act.

Sometime in the past few years, I told a friend about how my school tricked us into doing their groundskeeping work. He told me that's very illegal.

The way I see it, the idea of a bunch of 5th graders toiling in the afternoon sun while their stoic principal from Pirates of the Caribbean 3 makes sure none of them escapes might make for a horrifying, yet entertaining dystopian novel. All it's missing are some zeppelins in the sky and an Indiana Jones-type hero to come save those children from the tyranny of pulling out weeds, which is unpleasant, but there are worse things in the world.

There You Are!

I miss this blog. Been meaning to come back to it for about half a year. Got kind of obsessed with my new job that I got back in August and couldn't figure out how to nudge my thoughts back in here the "right way", but I figure it's now or never.

So, expect more of my current wild shenanigans and quasi-ancient anecdotes in the near future.

I was hit with nostalgia today when seeing a friend's FaceBook video of her and family having fun on a Disneyland ride, one that I used to work on. And I realized how much of a punk I was when working as a ride operator. With constant pressure from leaders and management to load what they'd refer to as "as many people as possible", there were times when my primary thoughts during eight hour shifts at Disneyland would be "break the record-- don't fall behind-- break the record-- don't fall behind!" I didn't know if I was going to get fired if I didn't load fast enough, but higher-ups were often ominous when talking about the importance of reaching what we'd call "counts", which were the company's ideal amount of Disneyland guests that got through every ride per hour. This is why dark rides are programmed to automatically shutdown if a car is not sent into the ride for a certain amount of seconds. Obviously, ride operating procedures aren't meant to come off as oppressive for the employee or the fun-havers (for lack of a better word), but it seemed pretty contradictory-- don't let park guests have too much fun or they'll take longer to get on and off the ride, which will annoy the other guests, who were waiting like they once were. Load them on fast, and get them off as quick as you can. Do this over and over again until the park closes.

If you know me, you know I love to be sociable (in my weird, antisocial way). I love talking to people. I did this a lot at Storybook Land, especially when waiting on the dock for boats to arrive, and in the boats when there were guests that were eager to talk... granted, some of them were a little too eager, like the young adults who asked me to give them the "naughty" Storybook tour (which I declined).

In regards to loading guests on rides, there were times where I genuinely wanted to talk to people, and there were times where all I could think was "Oh, my God-- Could you hurry up and get off? Push the restraint UP! GAH! You're killing my counts!"

Some days I can't believe I was an attractions host, operating rides I was never trained to know the way that Disneyland's maintenance staff does, while still keeping thousands safe.

Not to mention communicating with people who speak all sorts of languages and come with all sorts of attitudes, from apprehensive to overly aggressive. It was fun, of course, but hats off to every attractions host who keeps doing what they do. The pay is enough to keep them in deep poverty, yet they still keep it together every day to provide thousands of strangers new sights and sounds they won't get anywhere else.

Next time you're at a theme park, make sure to thank an attractions host. They might not acknowledge your existence, but that might be because they're having the longest, craziest day of their lives.

Like Yourself

I recently exchanged phone numbers with some folks I met at school.

We hadn't talked much, but they were girls that I would say "hi" to every now and then, before and after class, and during class breaks.

Throughout the weeks, we spoke less and less. Near the end of the semester, I received a text from one of the girls. It was one of those loooong texts with a beginning, middle, and end. This "text" was six messages long, and I barely even had a chance to register the words into my mind before the next ones came pouring in.

Long story short, the girl wrote stuff along the lines of "do you like me?" and "I can't tell if you like me" and my personal favorite, "are you pretending to be nice?"

Pretending?

Let me say this: If you're so curious as to whether or not someone "likes" you (whatever that means)... first of all, it shouldn't matter. Why would you want everyone to like you? Not even the most kindhearted people in the world are "liked" by everyone. Some are even despised by cynics for being selfless (try wrapping your brain snakes around that lamp space).

Second of all, if I liked a person and they ask me whether or not I "liked" them... that is the moment I stop liking them. I'm a sympathetic person, and I understand if a person has anxieties and insecurities, but I'm not a fan of others projecting their insecurities onto the outside world.

When I lived in Anaheim, I had three really great roommates... and another guy that we had to live with. I liked him just fine for the first week. He was a little odd, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt.

One day, my odd roommate walked in the door and we greeted each other. Out of the blue, he asked "...are you mad at me?"

This is a concerning thing to hear, even for a person who isn't neurotic (like me). It defined him as a person. It determined how the upcoming four months of sharing an apartment was going to be.

"No", I said, "why would I be mad at you?"

Then I got mad. Mostly because I realized I was living with a person who was lost in himself.

The Universe Knowing Itself

My last post was very Descartes ("I think, therefore I am"). Today, I want to talk about space.

Hey van Gogh, paint this.

What fascinates me about the universe is that it's already so vast (and still growing), though it's totally possible that life on Earth is the only life around.

Wrap your head around that idea for a second. Earth could be the beginning (and hopefully not the end) of the only sentient beings to ever exist.

Why is that such a big deal? Astronomer David Kornreich (via Space.com) claims there could be as many as 10 trillion galaxies in the universe. There's an estimated 100 billion stars in our galaxy. Multiply the two and you get 100 octillion stars, which Blogger doesn't even think is a real word. 100 octillion looks like 100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000. Yeah.

Skyandtelescope.com uses a different estimation for the number of stars in our universe and decided on 70 billion trillion. Now, we can talk about the stars in the "observable" universe, meaning the 13.7 billion light-years we think is as far as we can see of an even bigger universe, or the fact that our universe could be part of a complex system of universes (a multiverse, as Space.com calls it), or the curve of space-time distorting our view of distant objects' distance from Earth, but let's just stick with numbers for now.

If the universe really does have 70 billion trillion stars in it, there must be planets out there with proper living conditions for other creatures? Well, the closest star to our sun is Proxima Centauri, which is 4.24 light-years away. That's pretty far. The chances of a space rock orbiting a star close enough to not burn or freeze its inhabitants is probably also very unlikely.

The reason I'm so nuts about this idea is that if we are the only conscious beings, that leaves the rest of the universe as very big... and very stupid. The nebulae, stars, and space objects that fascinate us have no idea what they are, can't perceive themselves or anything around them, even though they are moving fast. There's that BS question about whether or not a falling tree would make a "sound" if no one is there to hear it, but I think it would be a shame if the whole universe existed with no one there to appreciate it.

Carl Sagan once said "We're made of star stuff. We are a way for the cosmos to know itself." This is such a beautiful concept because if we are the only living things in the universe, we're also the only chance it has at understanding its secrets.

Let's go.

You are a Thinking Thing

I'm a misanthropic optimist.

What does that mean? Let me put it like this. If we met, I'd probably give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're a good person. And if you're not cynical like me, we'd get along fine.

Just don't expect me to enjoy mosh pits.

I haven't blogged in ages. And to all my reader(s) out there, I am sorry my good man (or woman... or Jenner's gender). I'd apologize for not writing for a while, but I was taught that sometimes the best excuse is no excuse.

This is some time we're living in.

Now that I'm back online, I want to talk about something exciting-- the chances of being born. I've been contemplating it and realized the chances of being born are closer to zero than anyone can imagine.

Matter of fact, I came across another blog by a guy who uses math to predict the chances of being born. Someone else summarized his thoughts into this amazing infographic (which you can right click, open in a new tab, and zoom in on if you're not already an eagle).

The point he makes is that the chances of being born as "you", meaning all of your ancestors procreated down the line until you came about, are pretty much impossible. It's a tricky concept to grasp because when you think of it, your life was inevitable. There couldn't have not been a "you"... right?

Think about all the millions of potential brothers and sisters you could have had, each born with slight variations. Some might be more prone to genetic disorders, or genetic advantages, they would each inherit physical, mental, and personality features of your mother or your father, the quirks of your grandparents, and so on.

Now forget about all of that and think of being born as someone else from a different family entirely.

Forget about that and think about being born as an animal or an insect.

What determines whose consciousness we start off with? You could have been born as one of your siblings just as easily as you could have been born as pop culture phenomenon Carrot Top, chef Gordon Ramsay, or the homeless veteran holding up a sign in front of your favorite supermarket.

In the end, we're all stuck in our own bodies. There's no Jimmy Neutron science experiment that will transfer your mind into another person's body (which Jimmy ended up doing with his crush, Cindy, via telephone lines). You're you. And even though most of modern human life is spent doing mundane tasks, returning e-mails, driving around, waiting in lines, and sleeping in hopes you'll wake up with enough energy this time, you have the gift of perception. You're literate, which allows you to put yourself in someone else's imagination. You've seen good things, bad things, and probably lots of Kermit the Frog. But in everything you've experienced, in every choice you'll ever make, there is a "You" and I encourage you to make the most of it.

Be well.

-Philip

Kiwi and Cocaine

Halfway into my Disneyland internship, somewhere around ten Brazilians moved into our Disney dorms and started working alongside the rest of us interns.

I took a liking to them them right away... didn't know them as well as I would have wanted, I'll admit. But they knew how to party.

I should note that I'm not much of a partier, but I love new company. And they were fun to be around.

Among the Brazilians was guy that I ended up spending the most time with. He'll remain unidentified for his own privacy, but let's call him "Hank", for simplicity's sake.

One night, Hank invited me downstairs from my 5th floor corner apartment to one of his boisterous Brazilian bashes.

There was something different about the way the Brazilians threw their parties. We all lived in one building, five floors tall, so it was hard to not know where and how everyone partied. The following are nicknames I'm giving them now: There were the "Kings" in room 400 with their castle made of beer cans. There were the "Saints" in 506 (literally the nicest people I've ever met) with their innocent, but euphorically fun board and video game nights. There was also a room that threw a party the first week with a view of Disneyland's fireworks.

Hank's party had none of these things. Hank's party didn't even have a window. But when you were at Hank's party, you felt like you were at a rave. At least, I did.

"You want a drink?" Hank asked me over the degrading American music.

"Yeah. What have you got?"

"I'll make you the special. You've never had this before. Trust me," which sounds suspicious.

Hank went behind the bar and mixed some stuff.

"Try this," he said as he handed me a grainy concoction of green slime in a shot glass, "It's a kiwi shot."

It looked like this minus the cuke.

We smiled, clinked our glasses, and I took the shot.

I have never felt so juiced in my life. The normal confident, drowsy, drunk feeling that comes with a heavy shot didn't affect me the way it should have. I wasn't tired. I didn't feel drunk. I was feeling something else that made me feel wired. More confident than a normal person should be, too. I felt invincible and quick, like a bolt of lightning. So I did what anyone in my position would have done-- I ran downstairs, out of the lobby, around the corner to Vons, and bought a jar of peanut butter.

Once I ran back to my apartment, I ecstatically crafted a sandwich, ate it voraciously, and made my way back to the party. I don't believe I was gone more than twenty minutes. Then again, I'm convinced I was on crack-time, and I don't know how that conversion normally works.

I don't have proof as to whether or not Hank laced my drink with something stronger than booze. I'm not even concerned. But the next day, I ran into one of our mutual friends-- a well known party animal-- and he mentioned something about a kiwi drink the night before.

"Did Hank make it for you?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, "I don't know what he put in that shit, but he must have put cocaine in it or something."