Sticks and Stones May Break Bones, But Words Really !@#$ing Hurt [Hyperbolic Tendancies]...

Today, I made someone cry. I didn’t hit them or shove them down the stairs. I wasn’t screaming at them, brandishing a weapon, or kidnapping their child. I made them cry without any desire or plan to reduce them to weeping in public. I did it simply with words. A vast majority of my life is spent in the company of words. Whether searching for the right synonym, stringing a few together to create irony or a laugh, or toiling over just the right adjective, words to me are what butter, cream and salt are to the chef – the basic ingredients of pretty much everything. Words are also the things in which I take comfort and solace, like my old friends, because in many ways that’s what they are. I’m comfortable with words the way a fireman is running into a burning building to save someone. Which is why I was stunned into silence as the kind, sane and intelligent person sitting across from me in a meeting that was really and truly about nothing important, began to well up and then whispered, “I feel like I’m being attacked” as tears spilled. And in that moment, my insides violently turned themselves inside out. My face burnt with the fire of embarrassment and the bile rose so quickly from my gut I didn’t even feel the sting in my throat, just the sour taste rolling across my tongue. I excused myself, went to the bathroom and vomited. I rinsed my mouth and washed my face with cold water and caught my own eye in the mirror, feeling the deep, abiding, and consuming shame that makes us human. I hadn’t felt it since I was trying to pray the gay away in long sessions, prostrate...

Now Playing: Contraception! [Hyperbolic Tendencies]

From fifty-foot posters of dead fetuses to buckets of real, human blood dumped on patrons of health clinics, the anti-abortion movement lustily embraced the fantastical and spectacular elements of Grand Guignol storytelling. And while the Great Anti-Abortion Movement sadly devolved into Splatter Cinema (killing innocent doctors and patients), its generally agreed that it provided some of the most compelling theatre in our country’s history. Indeed, it set a high bar that’s tough to follow. But in today’s brave new world, things are more complex. More nuanced. This is a world in which a cluster of four cells and corporations are people with rights. In which the majority is now being oppressed and Marriage is on the brink of extinction! We need a new way to tell these more sophisticated stories. Enter, Stage Right: New Theatre of the Grotesque (NTG) NTG is storytelling in which assumedly rational adults are seemingly in charge of their own decisions in a society where purportedly everyone is equal. Except… NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS! <cue creepy organ music> Bwah-ha-ha! Grotesque’s latest release is Contraception! Based on an innocuous, unmemorable line items from the critically-acclaimed source material Obamacare: Because if You Haven’t Got Your Health, What the Fuck Else Matters?, it was infused with “found footage” and then – stealing a page right out of movie studio marketing campaigns – re-released as the sweeping historical epic, Freedom of Religion: The Last Gasp! The new supercharged version of Contraception!, financed by overbearing executive producers like Sheldon Adelson, Foster Friess, and the Koch brothers (all of whom make Michael Eisner look positively hands off) and spectacularly marketed by current presidential hopefuls (talk about free advertising!) has taken the nation by storm. Everyone’s tuning in to watch to America’s Downton Abbey! But let us...

Online, You Don’t Look Like a Middle-Aged White Guy [Hyperbolic Tendencies]...

It’s always fascinating when technology seeps into real life. When I drop a dish, I find myself immediately trying to “Control+Z”. I’m constantly trying to rewind what I’m watching in a movie theater, but alas, there’s no DVR. These are mere “mechanical” examples of technology’s tendrils woven into our daily lives. What really fascinates me is technology’s affect on the Meta level: how it impacts our perception of one another and how we make decisions. Last week, I pitched a television show idea about a group of high school girls, all smart (gasp), total science and math geeks (gasp) and sick to the death of the vacuous veneer that passes as “culture” at suburban high (gasp). Long story short, the young women gain some notoriety at science fair and after a series of fun but totally believable events, wind up being hired by local and state agencies to help solve a wide variety of science, ecological and environmental problems/mysteries in their hometown. I think it’s a great idea and I’d watch the show. But that’s not the point. After discussing the idea with the 24 year-old studio executive, she informed me that she’d researched my online presence and suggested I “focus my personal brand.” After my initial impulse to poke her in the eye had passed, I took a deep mental breath and said – ME: That’s interesting. Tell me more. YOUNG EXEC: Well, you’re this kind of older guy, no offense. ME: I don’t believe one grows old. I think that what happens early on in life is that at a certain age one stands still and stagnates. YOUNG EXEC: What? ME: It’s T.S. Eliot. YOUNG EXEC: The singer? ME: Exactly. You had a suggestion about my personal brand? YOUNG EXEC: Oh yeah....

That’s Not a F*cking Word! [Hyperbolic Tendencies]

Like virtually every other aspect of American culture, our language has been corporatized; poisoned, convoluted, and robotized – all in the name of “efficiency”. Whoever first uttered the phrase “think outside the box” deserves a big bonus. However, the next person I hear use it will get my foot up their ass. While it’s initial appeal as a simple metaphor with a bit of a twist was undeniable, it’s been so overused that it’s now an “executive summary” of someone’s entire capability, tacitly implying the person in question hasn’t had an original idea in years. Even if the topic at hand has no need for an original idea. I mean, if you’re working at a McDonald’s, how far out of the box does your thinking need to be? Does the corporatization of our language really matter? You bet your ass it does. Language is the only way we truly know each other. Without it, we’d be just another species picking insects out of one another’s hair and feeding on them. Contrary to popular belief, this poisoned well is not a recent development. All the way back in 1916 Teddy Roosevelt declared that the “tendency to use what have been called ‘weasel words’ is one of the defects of our nation.” He clarified with this example, “You can have universal training or you can have voluntary training, but when you use the word ‘voluntary’ to qualify the word ‘universal,’ you are using a weasel word,” he said. “It has sucked all the meaning out of “universal”. Words that suck the meaning (and life) out. Yep, that’s what’s happened to our language. But with technology, it now happens at blinding speed and the idiotic linguistic offerings pile up like cars on a ice-covered freeway. As 2011 drew...

Wherein I Avoid Facing the Loss of My Childhood Hero [Hyperbolic Tendencies]...

This past May, Sixkill by Robert B. Parker arrived in bookstores. It’s the thirty-ninth book in Parker’s Spenser detective series and I’ve read each of the previous thirty-eight at least a half dozen times. The day it arrived I hauled my ass down to the local Barnes and Noble and bought a copy. Which was an odd experience since these days I buy books almost exclusively for my iPad, and before that it was my Kindle. Flash forward six months and that copy of Sixkill still sits pristine and unopened on my nightstand. Why? Because Parker, dubbed “The Dean of American Crime Fiction”, died last year and Sixkill is his last. Between 1973 and 2011, Parker published nearly 70 books and almost all of them were bestsellers. He’s most well known his Spenser series, featuring the wise-cracking, street-smart Boston private-eye, which earned him a devoted following and reams of critical acclaim. (It’s worth clarifying that these excellent mysteries were the inspiration for the dreadful and unwatchable show Spenser: For Hire which eschewed the gritty character and ambiguity of situation that make the books so compelling for the cloying tidiness network television demands.) I’ve been a mystery fan since I was given a set of Encyclopedia Brown books for my eighth birthday. A voracious reader, I quickly finished those, then burned through all of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew in no time at all. Since this was before there was a robust Young Adult market, I leapt into the grown up stuff, and quickly fell under the spell of mystery and noir. Carroll John Daly, Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane. I’d read them all by the time I became a teenager. And then, I found Spenser. I grew up in a safe middle class...

Wherein I’m Reminded of My Place in the World [Hyperbolic Tendencies]...

Without a doubt, my strongest (and one of the fondest) childhood memory is the multi-sensory experience of walking through the autumn woods, trees blazing with color, leaves crunching underfoot and the sweet, earthy smell of humus filling me up. (My second strongest memory is being handed over by parents to clowns at the circus, but that’s another column.) This week, the thermometer on our back porch topped out at 101F on Thursday. Everyone I talked with was divided between the opposing positions that we were either simply experiencing the usual late blooming “summer in Los Angeles” or it was “the catastrophic effects of global warming.” Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn WHY it was so hot. Just that it was. In mid-October. Somewhere buried deep within my mongrelized DNA, a simple, clear message was created and distributed to my brain – Something is Wrong. Yes, I understand much of the world exists without four distinct seasons. And since the age of fifteen, I’ve lived in every time zone in the United States, much of it out of the country’s regions that boast all four seasons. I’ve been gone long enough that it would be reasonable to expect this seasonal response to have faded. And yet, it’s stronger than ever. Why? Even at only eight or nine years old, autumn made clear to younger me I was connected to the earth’s – and life’s – major cycle of birth/death/renewal. While I certainly couldn’t articulate it back then, during the fall I knew I was part of something much bigger and more profound. A ha. Methinks there’s a clue here. Yes, I miss the season’s crisp air, the smell of leaves, and apple cider. But what’s missing during this time of year is that...

Wherein I Give You A Wedgie [Hyperbolic Tendencies]

Anyone else had enough of the relentlessly unending stream of “social issues” being shoved down our throats? With the 24/7/365 election cycle there’s just no rest for the weary. As you recall, this approach to politicking can be traced back to 1994 and Newt Gingrich’s “Contract With America” (or as it should be called Contract ON America) that led Republicans to a sweeping mid-term victory during President Clinton’s first term. Fast-forward almost twenty years and our political discourse has virtually no substance, certainly not enough to produce substantial action. Instead, we’ve become obsessed almost solely with “social issues,” those wildly personal characteristics and decisions that, frankly, ought not to matter to one another. In truth, the Right displays more of a mental disorder about this (having spawned the Teabaggers), but those on the far left certainly aren’t innocent. It is exhausting. Rather than rail against this – which is as effective as using a teaspoon to remove floodwaters of say, Hurricane Katrina – instead, I think we should, in a manner of speaking, lay back and think of England. I propose a third political party with a platform made up of only meaningless social issues and whose singular purpose is to create divisiveness and intolerance. By having this party exist, those so compelled can have a legitimate and codified outlet for their ignorance, hate and foolishness. Meanwhile, the Dems and Reps can stop pretending most of this shit actually matters, escape from their self-erected loony bin and get back to the business of doing good stuff like fixing infrastructure, creating jobs, and returning America to a country that made shit instead of acting like the massive glutton of rapacious consumption we’ve become. This new party shall be called The Wedgies. And here is their...

Wherein I Learn I Am Not A Person of Interest: Hyperbolic Tendencies [BEST OF FaN]...

This article was meaningful to me because it reminded me of just how unpredictable life can be, that sometimes, we can all be a real asshole and that every once in a while, the bad girl/guy gets what s/he deseves! Originally published 04/05/11 Several months ago, I decided to make a day job change, and began the usual process – talk to people I knew, investigate companies that interest me, begin sending in my resume. Interviews happened and several weeks ago I started the new job. Mission accomplished. Then last Friday I received an email from a studio Vice President for a development job I’d sent my resume to seven weeks earlier, but had never heard back (not unheard of). The email had a trail of a half dozen responses between the VP Monica and her assistant Peter, all about potential candidates for the job. Attached to the email was my (and three other’s) resume. Obviously, the email was supposed to go to Peter but Monica had sent it to me and the three other souls who thought we wanted to work for her: Peter, I googled and facebooked these. WTF?! None of them are people of interest. NONE. Get it together and send me some resumes of people I might actually want to work with and look at every day. Monica Sadly, this is normal behind-closed-doors talk, not just in the entertainment industry, but a hefty majority of corporate America. And more and more people are using Facebook and Twitter when it comes to making decisions like these. Let me first say that I love social media. Love. It. I adore sharing bits and pieces of my life with my family on Facebook, none of whom lives closer than 500 miles. I relish...

Wherein I Learn The Meaning of Grace [Hyperbolic Tendencies]

Generally speaking, I’m in awe of grace. It’s not a trait I possess, though one I deeply admire and have been on a 25-year quest to develop in myself. And when my life is touched by grace it’s almost always profound. It sticks with me, teaches me, and incrementally opens my heart, making just a bit more room for the grace I long for. Over the past twenty years, I’ve been a devout follower of singer/songwriter Rosanne Cash. And I, like anyone who’s been fortunate enough to have been steeped in her amazing talent, understand the meaning of grace. Last week, I finally got this print, signed by Cash, framed and hung up on my office wall. It makes me happier that nearly any material possession I’ve had in my lifetime; not just because of the quote’s sentiment, which is powerful and accurate beyond measure, but because it makes me feel just a bit closer to grace. As a little background, Rosanne Cash – daughter of the late icon Johnny Cash – was one of the most popular female country artists of the 1980’s, but walked away from a career trajectory so many people disgrace themselves to achieve, relinquishing what would have surely provided her a perennial slot on country radio. She did this in exchange for full creative freedom. That she recognized this at all is grace. Recently, she released The Essential Rosanne Cash – thirty years after her hit “Seven Year Ache” climbed to number one. This album is a stunning, career-spanning compilation featuring 36 songs hand-selected by Cash herself. The single “I Was Watching You” from her 2006 album Black Cadillac is one of the most exquisitely wrought songs in the modern canon. It creates one of those moments that inspires, enriches, and...

Wherein I Learn The Meaning of Forever [Hyperbolic Tendencies]

Forever. When you actually think about it, forever is a concept that’s tough to get your head around. Even if you believe in an afterlife, forever is still a bit of an abstraction. This came into startling clarity when, several weeks ago, I decided to officially break my ties with the church in which I was raised, a task that’s been cluttering my to do list for about 25 years. My decision to finally take action came after learning that I am counted as an “active” church member in statistics used by religious lobbyists in Washington. No, thank you. I called the church at which I was ceremoniously dunked in the water at the age of four months (and as I never let my father forget without my consent!). The priest insisted that only the bishop could judge if I genuinely intended to leave the Church, despite my assurances that my intentions were indeed such. He explained that single acts of apostasy, heresy or schism (which can be repented) do not necessarily involve a decision to leave the Church, and so “do not in themselves constitute a formal act of defection if they are not externally concretized and manifested to the ecclesiastical authority in the required manner.” I assured him that my heresy was indeed, a formal act of defection, which would not be repented. I then asked him to nutshell this for me. Loosely translated, he said, I needed to write a letter to the bishop and tell him why I wanted to defect. Then in a hushed voice (I could picture him checking to make sure he was alone) he told me that I should make sure my letter was a bit derisive of the church to ensure my intent was clear...

Wherein I Learn We are Bad Winners [Hyperbolic Tendencies]

Growing up, I was part of a highly competitive and very successful organization that was a perennial championship contender. My first year with the group, I, along with all of the other rookies, was told by the leader, “You are part of an organization that knows how to win,” he said. “We’ve won before but winning is not what’s most important, it’s how you get to the winner’s circle and how you acknowledge those over whom you’ve triumphed. So when you win, act like you’ve been there before.” When you win, act like you’ve been there before. These words stuck with me. Recently everyone learned that Osama bin Laden is dead and I think we can all agree that the world is a tad safer without his twisted brain fueling the fires of hate.  What I wasn’t prepared for, though, were the images of celebration from around our country. The massive groups gathered, waving America flags and chanting, USA! USA! USA! as if they were at the Olympics and not just having learned of someone’s death. True, this particular dead man has some serious shit to atone for, but it was still a death. Being celebrated. If the American flags had been on fire and I’d muted the television, my first guess would have been that I was watching archival footage of Middle Eastern zealots celebrating the fall of the twin towers on 9/11. Ghastly behavior. When you win, act like you’ve been there before. Watching my fellow citizens whipped into what has become the all too familiar fervor of jingoism, I realized that as a nation, we seem to have forgotten how to win with any sense of grace or dignity. This shouldn’t be a real surprise, since we haven’t really won anything...

Wherein I Get Schooled By the Radical Republicans [Hyperbolic Tendencies]...

Once upon a time, there was a group working tirelessly to ensure equal opportunity and justice for all through landmark legislation like the 14th and 15th Amendments and Civil Rights Acts of 1866 and 1875. This radical group of idealists called themselves Republicans. Battling against the Republican’s holistic (nee, federal) approach was another group fighting just as fiercely to guarantee each state would determine its own destiny. The Democrats. Back in the 19th century, Republicans understood a really basic concept: Behavior is dictated by the “system” in which someone exists. To use a simplistic example, a child growing up in an overly strict home is more likely to rebel than one who is allowed to develop their own sense of choice and responsibility. After the Civil War, they basically called shenanigans on the whole socio-political machine that wanted to keep the system rigged. Sadly, their efforts didn’t work and here we are today, still inching toward equality. Nevertheless, those radical Republicans have inspired me. After the last month of nonsensical ravings from lunatic minds about budgets and taxes, their lies (budget cuts will create jobs!) and garbage excuses (why are we not cutting the defense budget by 15%?), someone needs to call bullshit. So in that spirit, let’s call bullshit on some important stuff: BASIC BULLSHIT If any citizen is denied a right afforded to another, it is unconstitutional. Just because something is widely believed doesn’t make it right. There is no longer a single independent, major news outlet in the U.S. How we deal with our least fortunate reveals our true character. RELIGIOUS BULLSHIT You don’t need to believe in a god to care about other people or behave well. Stop insisting separation of church and state doesn’t exist by claiming the country...

Wherein I Learn The Road to Heaven Is Paved With Coffee [Hyperbolic Tendencies]...

As happens when any society loses its homogeneity, the schism between those who act on Faith and those who Doubt gets thrown into high relief. Ultimately, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth said society winds up facing the one Final Question: Can people treat one another with compassion and kindness without “divine” order? A recent harrowing incident brought me face to face with the question: MONDAY, MARCH 7, 2011 6:06 am Wake with a start, realize I could be late for an 8:00 meeting. Work furiously for forty-five minutes on rewriting chapter 14 of my new novel. Shower, get dressed. 7:18 am Pull into Starbucks drive-through lane where I can pay through my phone, a monstrously cool app. (Another column, another day.) 7:19 am Order medium coffee, two pumps of classic syrup, soymilk. Join line of cars inching towards the cashier window. 7:20 am Notice a new Honda Insight in front of me. Lament passing of earlier, all electric version, killed by recently capitulated American auto industry. Review notes for 8:00 meeting. Check hair in rearview. Notice a nose hair. Repeatedly try to pull it out (ouch!). Get caught with finger up my nose by the woman driving the Honda Insight in her driver’s side mirror. She holds my gaze. I pretend to be invisible. 7:21 am Arrive at the window, hand the cashier my phone to pay. Cashier says, “No need. The woman in front of you bought your drink.” Huh? Drive to work, distressed to the point of distraction. I live in Los Angeles. People don’t do Random Acts of Kindness. We honk. We pollute. We deride. We use more than our fair share of water. We do not go out of our way to be nice. What does this coffee...

From the Notebook of R.B. Ripley: Wherein I Learn I’ve Deeply Undervalued the Toilet Paper Decision...

Like the coat of fur we shed while still in the womb or our useless pinky toe, my (roughly) bi-annual trip to Costco is a vestigal response from early-life inculcation into Consumerism whose commandments include such hits as More for Less Is Always Better and My Actions Don’t Affect Others. Fortunately, I’ve managed to eradicate much of this destructive teaching over the years, but alas, there are still times when the logic switch in my brain short-circuits. And when I find myself in the bacchanalian carnival of rapacious consumption known as Costco, the war that rages in my mind is all-consuming: ME 1: Yes, I know someone was paid only seventy-six cents an hour working in indescribably bad conditions to make this thing I’m buying that will wind up in a landfill within 60 days. ME 2: But it’s SUCH A GOOD DEAL! You can smell the stench of self-loathing, guilt, and contradiction rising from my clammy skin. A smell you’d have gagged on if you were standing next to me today in Costco as I struggled to choose a 36-pack of toilet paper. I was jolted out of my mental paralysis by a middle-aged couple that had stopped next to me. The husband turned to his wife and said, I kid you not: HUSBAND: They have Quilted Northern, which I love. It’s so soft and feels great. I really, really love it. ME (in my head): This man is talking in emotional terms about a product on which he will WIPE THE FECES FROM HIS ASS. Rather than succumb to the overwhelming desire to suffocate him with a roll of his beloved Quilted Northern, I instead challenged myself to set judgment aside and consider that perhaps my own criteria for toilet paper selection...

From the Notebook of R.B. Ripley: Wherein I Learn Fractals Cure Existential Angst...

My inability to sense an oncoming existential crisis must, on whatever scale is used to measure such things, pioneer a new boundaries of quantification. Surely, I rival the poor sap who answered the door, found an inexplicably giant, wooden horse and without batting an eye, jumped up and down, clapped his hands together and squealed, “Oh, what fun!” Yes, I’m well aware this qualifies me for the job of Village Idiot. Not just because I don’t see these existential crises coming, but also because when in the midst of one, my powers of denial expand to Epic Status. Not only do I open the door, I grab the rope and drag that giant wooden horse inside. If I were a character in a movie (which I guess it could be argued that I am, though that’s an entirely different existential conversation) this well-developed inability to sense and ignore an existential crisis would be my flaw, that personal attribute which keeps me from being the best version of myself. In a well-penned script, I would, once and for all, come face to face with this flaw on page 56 and then after retreating from the world for twelve or so pages during which I’d do some serious soul-searching (to a soundtrack from a hip, current pop band), I’d subsequently be re-inspired by an unexpected revelation, I’d launch a bold and daring third-act plan to solve the problem while simultaneously stopping an outbreak of the bubonic plague on a locked-down Manhattan island, get the handsome guy, and live the rest of my days in bliss watching each existential crises approach from the horizon and effortlessly solving them. Sadly, my life is not a movie. It’s a hot mess, with extra butter and cheese sauce. To wit:...

From the Notebook of R.B. Ripley: Wherein I Learn I’m a Supporter of Genocide...

Last week, after poring through legislation penned by House Republicans and discovering it would not allow abortion, even in the case of rape and incest, I dashed off a short Tweet declaring my horrified view of this topic, which appeared my Facebook wall: RR: Note to GOP House of Representatives: We’ve got mire [sic] pressing issues than your freakish abortion views. What I thought to be a fairly innocuous, passing gas bubble of a comment quickly erupted as a full-blown fart on my Facebook page when one of FB friends angrily responded: FRIEND: I could just imagine the GOP people last year really wishing the Dems would have thought about more than their freakish views on healthcare. Clearly, I’d touched a nerve. Though admittedly mystified at how ensuring all Americans had health care was similarly freakish to denying a woman who’d been impregnated by rape or incest the right to an abortion, I genuinely welcomed the opportunity to thoughtfully engage with someone who thinks very differently than me. After all, one of life’s great joys is learning to think, reason and logically validate beliefs and have shenanigans called on my own silliness. So I responded: RR: This is not about last year’s health reform debate, it is about the legislation that refuses to allow for rape and incest to be considered legitimate reasons for a woman be allowed the option of abortion. If the Democrats were proposing this unquestionably reprehensible and short-sighted legislation, my tweet would have said “GOP and Dems”. The discussion would unspool, as you’ll soon see, touching on myriad topics including the decline of America, The Greatest Generation, genocide, and individual rights to name a few, though none of these were truly about abortion or a compelling case that would alter...

From the Notebook of R.B. Ripley: Severing the Umbilical Cord or: How I Learned to Love Pittsburgh Without The Guilt of Having Left...

I know writing about dreams is hackneyed. But most of my life, I’ve had an odd relationship with dreams, which have served one of two functions for me. The first function being that dreams help me understand that a situation or decision over which I am stressed is going to be just fine. I won’t go into details because it involves déjà vu and I know lots of people think that’s hocus pocus. The second function my dreams serve is problem solving. Not mundane questions, like what should I serve at my next dinner party, but the really big ones I face – should I quit my job and move sight unseen to a city I’ve never even visited?  You get the idea. Last night I had a dream that finally revealed the answer to my oldest and most complex problem, one which has haunted me for 27 years: Can I say goodbye to my hometown of Pittsburgh once and for all? So, here’s what went down… I’m in a room with about thirty people. We’re sitting in a circle. The leader stands. “Welcome to this week’s meeting of the Pittsburgh Diaspora support group,” says a sixty-ish woman who reveals herself as a Pittsburgher herself when the tone of her voice statement rises at the end of the statement like a question. “Today, we’re welcoming a new member, Rob Ripley who’s currently living in Los Angeles and has been recovering from Pittsburgh since a 1983 departure. She gestures to me and I wave a little uncertainly. “Um. Hi, my name is Rob… and I’m from Pittsburgh.” “Hi Rob!” says the roomful of folks all wearing the familiar look of embarrassment mixed with hope. “Tell us a little about your journey from Pittsburgh to today,” says the...

From The Notebook of R.B. Ripley: Why College Football Has Become Unwatchable — The Uniforms...

I sit here during college football’s annual bacchanalian carnival known as “Bowl Week” feeling nostalgic. As a kid, I lived for the bowl games. The game, the band, the fans, school colors. But here in 2011, I’m paying only minimal attention as I clean the house, take down the pine garland, and write my mystery novel. Why am I not watching? Is it the über-commercialization of college football? No, though honestly, I can’t get excited about the Kraft Fight Hunger Bowl. Perhaps my enjoyment has waned because of the 35 games, 25 involve teams that lost as many games as they won. I’d like to apply that standard to everything I do: “Yeah, well, I know I’ve only turned in half of my work, but I should still be paid millions of dollars.” Please. But that’s not why I can’t watch. I can’t watch games because today’s uniforms are so unbearably ugly. College football has become a visual despoliation, not unlike homemade 1970’s porn. Exacerbating its ugliness is the sport’s philosophy of changing uniforms more often than Charlie Sheen changes his story.  To wit the University of Oregon has 1,280 possible uniform combinations. The Imelda Marcos of sports. The adoption of increasingly ugly uniforms and frequent changes have destroyed many schools’ identities; the core essence that made them instantly identifiable. Anyone remember The Gap’s branding fiasco last year? Same thing. I urge all collegiate players to rally together and refuse to wear the ill-fitting pajamas festooned with bizarre striping and unnecessary blobs of color. You don’t have to be Heidi Klum or a gay man to have fashion dignity. A great example – University of Pittsburgh, whose colors were once royal blue and baby-shit yellow. But in 2005 they jumped on the “update bandwagon”...

One More Thing Before We Go: Set Your Tivo…

Great news! Imbalance, a short film (which R.B. Ripley chronicled the pre-production of here on FaN in a series of blogumns called “The Indie Chronicles”) is now playing on your local cable channel in a block of short films called “Heritage”. Hope you’ll tune in. Click on the pic for more...

The Indie Chronicles: 50 Things You Should Know And/Or Do Before You Make Any Kind of Film...

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley Nine months ago I made a decision to direct a short film. Yesterday, I gave final approval on the finished project. Like any protracted process, the end always feels a little anti-climactic and, as I learned, filmmaking seems to be no exception. It was just me and the post production manager in a dark theater. We watched. I handed over a check, took the receipt and the external hard drive on which the short film resides and left the studio. No fanfares, no sweeping music. No applause. I got into my car, leaned my head against the steering wheel and smiled like the ridiculously happy son of a bitch I am: I made a movie. Now, I’m not going to go so far as to say the decision to direct this itty-bitty short film has irrevocably changed my life, because really, that can’t be accurately assessed for some time. But the decision did change my own personal context just the slightest bit, the tiniest fraction. And already, less than a year later, I can tell that there is a difference – not just in terms of this project – but in how I approach things in general. Rather than prattle on endlessly about how I FEEL regarding this whole process (which really, is irrelevant to anyone else and only midly entertaining if you’ve had enough to drink), I thought I’d share a list of 50 Very Important Things I learned during this project after the jump: 1. Never forget that the audience is the reason for storytelling. 2. Don’t spoon feed the audience; remember they want to be engaged in the story, not entertained. 3. Plan well. 4. Plan more. 5. Plan even more. 6. If you think you’re...

The Indie Chronicles: Dealing With Delays Like an Adult Instead of the Whiny Adolescent I Want to Be...

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley Photo Credit: Benjamin Ellis As you may recall, I’ve been muscling a short film into production since August. Everyone around this town always says that getting the money is the hardest part of producing any film. Well, I got the money (well, about 88% of what we need) and that was EASY compared to scheduling. And permits. And catering. And hiring keys… and… and… We were so close… How close? The bus stop bench and sign for the first day of shooting are sitting in the back of my Prius, taunting me. That’s how close. But again, logistics reared their ugly head and not all of the moving parts lined up. I feel a little like the take in an Indiana Jones movie that got left on the cutting room floor. The one where Indy races to get out of a dark, dank, airless, vermin-filled room before the stone door that’s rushing down from the ceiling traps him. He races across the room and slides through barely making it out. Except his hat has come off and sits just on the other side of the doorway and the stone is about a foot from hitting the floor, so Indy reaches through and… THWHUMP! The door closes on his arm, trapping him forever where he’ll soon wither and die a hideous, painful death due to dehydration and being eaten alive by a rare, jungle-born virus. Yeah, that scene… By nature I am not a patient man. But this project has actually helped me acquire some of that good stuff. Which I will now exercise to the best of my ability as we regroup and try to get 20+ schedules lined up for our 5 days of production. On the...

The Indie Chronicles: Eisenstein Einstein

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley As you may recall, I’ve been working on muscling a short film into production for the past three months. Everyone around this town always says that getting the money is the hardest part of producing any film. Well, I got the money (well, about 88% of what we need) and that was EASY compared to scheduling. And permits. And catering. And hiring keys… and… and… Don’t get me wrong, deciding to direct this short film has been an amazing experience. I tell everyone who will listen that the best thing I ever did as a writer was finally screw up the courage to direct something for the screen. EVERY writer should have to do this with a 1-page scene before they’re allowed to write anything longer than one page. In all the books I’ve read, all the time I spent in class earning that MFA, all the articles I’ve read and other writer’s I’ve heard speak – none of these, or even the combination of these have proved nearly as valuable as having to sit down with a script and simultaneously look at it through the eyes of producer, director, costume designer, sound designer, editor, production designer, hair and makeup artist and actor. THAT is how this writer learned to really see the elements of a script really work (or don’t work!) together. But alas, schedules conflicted and we’ve rescheduled the shoot for three weeks hence. And this has given me time to reflect on the project in the larger context of what I’ve learned and am learning about storytelling in general and more specifically, storytelling for the screen. What I’ve been preoccupied with over the course of the past two years is WHY people engage in certain...

The Indie Chronicles: The Really Hard Part — Making Your Film Budget...

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley There are few things that strike fear into my heart as quickly and deeply as math. My childhood was one long, unending math-based humiliation. To this day, I still refuse to balance my checkbook. It’s irrational, I know, but there’s little I can do. I was first scarred in 4th grade by Mrs. Norma MacKenzie (a hateful old crone who, I am certain, spent her evenings gleefully pulling wings off of defenseless butterflies) when she made me do multiplication tables in front of the class every day for over three months until I got them correct. If that wasn’t bad enough, my 7th grade teacher (I’ve repressed his name – I only remember that his belly was the size of a VW bug and he had more hair growing out of his ears than I had on my entire 13 year-old body) made me stand in front of the class and explain why I’d failed the test on completing the federal income tax. Oh that @!#$ing Schedule C… And yes, I have an accountant do my taxes. So imagine my horror when I came to the realization that I was going to have to develop a budget for this short film project. There were two immediate problems. First was what I would create the actual physical budget with, and the second was figuring out what the hell numbers to plug in. If there’s one thing I’ve learned that’s the biggest problem with problems, its figuring out where to begin. So I started making some phone calls to people I know in the biz (who do balance their checkbooks). Now, the problem in this industry is that no one ever shares real financial information. If it’s not dictated by...

Hello Friday: The Fiercest Nerds on the Block – April 9 – April 16...

I think this week’s FNotB comments can best be described as gross, metaphorical, hypothetical helpful and informative. HELLO FRIDAY re: Procrastinate on This!, in which we directed you to a post about two sisters not only eating placenta, but converting into a panini placenta sandwich and a pasta sauce. Seriously, skip to “Philosophical Monday” if you don’t want to be completely grossed out. And definitely don’t read this while eating. slpc: i was *almost* convinced by the author of the placenta article (and the sisters who cooked and ate the placenta). i thought, maybe it’s a cool and healthy tradition, a once in a lifetime opportunity kinda-thing, and maybe not as disgusting as it first seems… until i read this part: “The ‘recipe’ was pretty simple, but preparation was very fun! First, I washed off any clots and snipped/tore away the membrane. Websites suggested this, and I imagine it’s because it’d be chewy. The umbilical cord required a pair of scissors to cut through and I had to marvel at how incredible tough that piece was!” haha. nope. not doing that. PHILOSOPHICAL MONDAY re: Single White Nerd: The Harshest Mistress, in which Michael Kass rekindles his love affair with theater, even though their relationship ended really badly the first time around. stubbie: Oh, sure, she’s lovely now. Alluring. Willing to overlook things – like you never put your dishes in the dishwasher, or you leave little dark hairs all over the bathroom, that you always read the paper first and leave it totally disorganized. None of that matters now. But let me tell you, as a guy who’s been there, it all goes to hell. 15 years into a loveless marriage, it’s all we can do to grunt at each other and resist the...

The Indie Chronicles: Casting About

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley I have spent a majority of the past four weeks dealing with numbers, filling out forms, preparing presentations, writing and returning hundreds of email, crafting solicitation letters – in a word, producing. Someone asked me if I was having fun? It made me pause and think. What is fun is knowing that I am creating my own opportunity. The rest is all just really good information to know. Last week, I realized I needed some human interaction in this project. Since I’d cast the male character so early, I decided to start working on casting the leading lady. Two weeks ago, I’d gotten the project cleared through SAG and became an official signatory, so I felt comfortable sending out word through official means and in Hollywood, that’s the Breakdowns. As a “producer,” I was able to create an account and list the project, a logline and a short character description. I had a very clear picture of what type of actor the scripts required and therefore spent some quality time crafting what I thought was a specific, concise and relatively clear description. Here’s what I submitted: FAITH (Lead) Female, early 30’s to early 40’s; Caucasian; Classic look; She’s privileged, sheltered, and well-heeled; A wife and mother of a 7-year old boy and is ultimately in way over her head; While there is no nudity, this character will appear in one scene wearing her underclothes. NOTES ON THIS ROLE 1.      We are interested only in actors who appear within the specified age range of early 30’s to early 40’s, and specifically not in those who appear younger. Please be sure that the photo submitted reflects this important characteristic. 2.      In support of Faith’s ‘classic look’, we will not consider...

Indie Chronicles: Seeing Red

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley “So, what format are you shooting on?” was the question casually posed to me. Format? I froze, then panicked, then had to work really hard to keep from crying in public. Yeah, that’s me, the writer. In a meeting at a boutique post-production house talking with people who KNOW WHAT THEY’RE TALKING ABOUT when it comes to making a film, who do this for a living and not in whatever time is left over after the day job, like some of us… This was three days ago and I was at Hollwood DI, talking with Neil Smith and Ben Epps, two of the most down to earth and nice people I’ve met in my time in this business. The meeting had been set up by James Peterson, a friend of mine and a talented film composer who works in the building next to HDI and occasionally with them. When James heard about my short film project, he had just finished composing a score for a film that had been shot on RED. I assumed he meant the color of the film and was lost in the litany of virtues he extolled about RED. I had no idea what he was talking about but I was thrilled to talk with someone who did and might be interested in helping me make “Imbalance.” I needed help. Even I understood that much. It had been Neil who asked me about the format. I shrugged non-committally and answered in my best Hollywood Ambiguous, “I haven’t really decided yet.” They could see right through me. I knew they could see right through me. They knew I knew they could see right through me. It was like being in a clever, 1940’s Cary Grant...

The Indie Chronicles: Teaching Yourself to Make a Storyboard

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley I have a new favorite thing… its called… a storyboard. Once again Ripley is the last to jump on the bandwagon of a good thing. I have several writer friends who are also comic / graphic novel hounds and I’ve always admired their ability to think cinematically. Of course I knew that graphic novels are, to a good degree, inherently cinematic… but I just didn’t… understand. You know the difference between learning something by rote and actually learning something? That’s kind of where I was with comic books. I just didn’t get them. So, about six weeks ago, I sat down with our short film project’s fabulous cinematographer and editor to talk through the script we’re going to be shooting. We quickly fell into a pattern: One of them would ask, “Why does this happen?” I would say… “Because ” and make a note in the script that something didn’t work. They would nod their heads and we’d continue. I walked away from the conversation with the clear impression I had no business directing traffic, let alone a film. As a writer, I’ve gotten pretty good at listening to other’s thoughts about what I’ve written. It’s never… comfortable, exactly, but I know the inherent value in it. Now, wearing a director’s hat, I was out of my element (way, way out) and their questions didn’t seem like the gentle probing they assuredly were. Instead I felt like I’d been through the inquisition. So I went home and ate my bodyweight in dark chocolate. Deep inside, I knew they had posed nothing but good, sound questions that should be answered if the film is to work. But I didn’t really know HOW to answer them since I’d recently collapsed...

The Indie Chronicles: Progress Through People

. a blogumn by Rob Ripley So after swallowing what I thought was my pride (but wound up only being my ego), I started calling people on the list I’d made the previous week, asking if they might be interested in working on a short film for a first-time director with a minimal budget that pays virtually nothing. Can you tell why I was lousy salesperson? As I’ve mentioned, I don’t do well asking for help or favors. I feel graceless and am racked with overwhelming thoughts of failure, both of which are not only ridiculous, but counter to my basic philosophy of relying on teamwork to make the most of resources. So I took a deep breath and started emailing and leaving voice mails, nervous as hell that I was surely ending some of the best relationships I have. But the positive response left me speechless. I actually cried twice after hanging up the phone with two friends. I won’t say who, though if you get a couple of beers in me I’d probably give up the names. Why was I so moved? Everyone I talked with wanted to be part of this little experiment and if they couldn’t, were so happy to refer me to a colleague they’d worked with and knew to be reliable and collaborative. The amount of support and well-wishes and excitement expressed by friends and colleagues was not only humbling, but also reminded me of the best part of working in this business and life in general – the people. After three days of these kinds of phone calls, I started to find a little perspective. Nothing, not a single thing I was attempting to do with this project hadn’t already been done by countless people. Knowing that...

The Indie Chronicles: From Writer to Director to… Who You Know

. a blogumn by R.B. Ripley You may recall last week’s column in which I shared the tragic tale of the breakdown I had this past fall; The resulting crisis of not being able to translate story ideas in my head onto the page. So I set out to find a way of looking at cinematic storytelling from a fresh perspective and to do so, decided to direct. Finally, a story was selected for this short film project. Naturally, it’s one of mine that started as a ten-minute play. Everything I write seems to start as a short play… IMBALANCE is a two-character, contemporary noir, psychological mystery set in Los Angeles: In the course of a day, a man and a woman’s mysterious past is revealed as one tries to blackmail the other. Approximate running time will be 12 minutes. This project will operate under the SAG Low Budget/Short Film Agreement. The shoot was scheduled for the Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday after Thanksgiving (November 28 – December 2). Hooray! Now, what the hell do I do? Once the initial glow of having put a stake in the ground and publicly declaring my intention had faded, I was faced with what everyone who sets out to make a truly independent film faces – how the hell do you actually make a film? And so before I was able to start directing and (hopefully!) discover a new well filled to the brim with fresh writing perspective, it suddenly dawned on me that I would have to create the opportunity for myself to direct this script. In effect, produce the damned thing. Producing? What the… I have no production department to rely on, no stable of production crew, no money. Suddenly, I felt like I’d taken...

The Indie Chronicles: Mind the @#$%ING Gap

. a new blogumn by R.B. Ripley There’s a gap between the movies rattling around in my head and what actually winds up in one of my scripts. In my mind, I laugh, cheer, weep, and scream with anger at my stories – all the responses a good film should elicit. But on the page? Meh. Not so much. I’ve been aware of The Gap for years and managed to successfully pretend it didn’t exist, mostly through booze and often through hours and hours of debate with other writers about any number of pointless theories of stage, writing, film, politics… you know what I’m talking about. During the past eighteen months though, The Gap has grown uncontrollably to become for me a vast, unbridgeable chasm filled with a massive, writhing, angry and tangled clot of intellectual abstractions made up of structure, character, transitions, reversals, arcs, milestones, genre, and the particularly frustrating, generalized “commercial appeal”. To put it simply, my brain is SO in the way of my story telling. In September, this all came to a head as I was re-reading Arthur Miller’s All My Sons and actually had the thought, “He’s not that great of a writer.” The dam shattered. Three minutes later, I was weeping like a character in an old Joan Crawford movie, frantically paging through tomes of Greek tragedy looking for a storyline, a scrap of dialogue… anything to help me to translate one of the eighteen thousand stories from my head to the page. At that moment, I was Medea without the kids or crappy husband. But just like that crazy gal, the only thing I found at the end of the rainbow was more frustration. Rather than kill everyone and myself, I dove into a tub of mint...