Of Ideas, Ideation, and Inspiration

The weather is warm. New York is alive again. I am in my windowless room in front of my laptop. Something doesn't quite add up here.

Robert Downey Jr. pretty much summed it up last night at the Oscars when he described screenwriters as "sickly little mole people." What other person would forgo the sun's victorious reemergence, to sit in a dark and hot room recording imaginary events onto his MacBook Pro? Think about it.

Since I am a natural born procrastinator, I of course am not actually writing what I should be writing right now. Instead, I am writing a blog about how I should be writing, but am not. Kind of meta in a way. (Not really). It's just that I've spent the greater part of the last two weeks developing this feature script idea - of which I have to hand in two scenes tomorrow - and now it just seems more interesting and entertaining to reflect on the idea as opposed to...you know...actually writing it. Fitting. (Not really).

When your life is such that your realm of immediate experience grants you a sublime level of inspiration, what choice do you have but to draw from it? When a film has so affected your consciousness of late, what choice do you have but to glean idea after idea from it (I'm referring specifically to The Science of Sleep)? What I'm saying is that the best ideas seem to always somehow gravitate to you. One never has to reach for the inspiration behind their best work, they just find it around them.

I created a character way back in 2006 whose experiences I used as a vessel to express everything that I was in some way thinking, feeling, or experiencing at the time. His name was Will Stewart. I haven't made a film as personal to me since then. With half of grad school almost in the bag, this crazy city beginning to have more and more of an influence on me, and my interactions and friendships in this absurd place taking my mind in places that it's never been, I think I have enough fodder to make another personal film.

Inspired by Woody Allen's meta-odes to New York City "Annie Hall" and "Manhattan" as well as Michel Gondry's masterpiece, I am putting on my meta-narrative hat again for the first time in 4 years, resurrecting Will Stewart, and putting him smack dab in the middle of this mad metropolis where he will embark upon his own journey for happiness and spiritual and emotional fulfillment. If you saw that old film of mine and wondered whatever happened to Mr. Stewart after that fateful day, you'll soon find out. There'll be romance, music, jokes, and somebody will die in the end (not really).

Two scenes in. It's nice to meet this guy again...

Ryan the Sound Guy

Tofu Pups

It has just occurred to me that the key to success in my flirtation with vegetarianism this lent lies almost solely in my ability to make Tofu Pups (a brand of tofu hot dogs) edible. The fact that they are three of my favorite things (1. Cheap, 2. Easy to make, and 3. filling) leads me to really want to forgive how awful they taste. And, after days like today where I'm at school from 9:30 in the morning until 10:30 at night (yes, you read that correctly), it's raining outside, and I'm too tired to make something throwing these intolerable things into boiling water for 2 minutes sounds incredible. Forget 40 days without a burger, I will be more proud of myself if I can force myself to actually appreciate tofu pups.

That's all. Now, I pass out.

Ryan the Sound Guy

On the name of this blog.

this dude ruined everything

If you weren't able to glean it from the long hiatus, this blog has been undergoing an identity crisis of sorts. Since relinquishing my sound guy credentials about a month ago, I've thought long and hard about what this blog was to become. No longer a sound guy, I wondered if even the title of this blog was no longer true to what my blogger voice would become. How could I write a blog with such a blatant and obvious misnomer? How do my ridiculous musings about delicious business deals and John Mayer's idiocy have anything to do with the experience of a sound guy. Not to mention the fact that my recent signing off as simply "Ryan" seemed only to sorely remind me of the glory days of this blog past. It appeared that this blog was in an existential pickle of sorts.

Just as I began to consider new and more truthful titles for this blog ("Leaves of Grass" was the front-runner until I heard that it was already taken a 150 years ago or so by some dude named Walt), I decided to first breakdown all of the elements of the current title to find which were problematic and attempt to tackle it from there.

I saw that all of these incoherent postings still sort of qualified as notes so "Notes" wasn't the problem. They had to come from somewhere so "From" wasn't what was hanging me up. "A" was just a harmless article and I saw no reason to come down on it for that, even if it was of the indefinite variety. Wasn't its fault that "the" gets all the glory in the article world. I'm just glad that I could give it a chance. Last time I checked I was still a "guy" (is it weird that I put that in quotes?), so there was no question there. After my extensive investigation it became clear that the problem was with "sound."

I then moved to thinking of other definitions for sound that didn't involve audio. After days and days of scouring the stacks of NYU's Bobst library to research the word, I stumbled upon the answer I had been looking for. A definition of sound that I could maybe apply to me and this blog:

sound adjective competent, reliable, or holding acceptable views

Eureka!

While I wouldn't be so presumptuous as to call myself either of the first two, I would deign to lay claim to the last. The views expressed in this blog are acceptable right? (Unless you're a die hard John Mayer fan.)

I like to think that you, my readers, are in good hands. Therefore I shall again reclaim the "Sound guy" moniker.

Existential anguish extinguished. I can breathe again.

Ryan the "Sound" Guy

Physical Therapy

I feel betrayed.

Running has betrayed me.

My body has betrayed me.

Everything that I once depended upon to get me through this life sanely is mutinying against me. Leaving me foundering in a foggy existence of strange days and lost ways. How will I emerge from this murky state?

I was pretty loyal to running. Even on days when I was really tired, when it was really cold out, or I had to get up super early in the morning to make time for it, I still did and I did it gladly. And look what it turned around and did to me. It went out of its way to make it so that I have to go virtually three weeks without being able to visit it. How could you, running?

And, my knee. Did you and running conspire to throw my life out of wack. Why, knee? I thought we had a silent agreement. OK, so maybe I was running a little too much and wearing you out a little, but all you had to do was speak up and I would have listened. I would have given you the ice and ibuprofen that you so needed and deserved. All you had to do was say something. But instead you decided to give up on me. You just gave up. Come on, man. In the words of Puff Daddy at the end of his timeless song, "Victory," "What imma do now, huh? What imma do now?"

Physical therapy, of which I just had my first session today. Hard to believe that this is my second round of physical therapy (I injured my shoulder five years ago, an injury which still hasn't totally healed). While therapy is really inconvenient, I have this hope that once my knee is healed it'll be like that movie Rookie of the Year (Daniel Stern's directorial opus) where the kid breaks his arm, it heals, and he ends up with a wicked fastball and pitches for the Cubs and gets the girl in the end. I'm setting my goals high after this folks. My plan is to win the NYC Marathon in November, rocket to rock star fame, and use the money from all the endorsements I get to write and produce a film about my experience (and then get Daniel Stern to direct it. I mean, what has he even done since the Home Alone movies?).

At least my therapist isn't that chatty. She's cool and all, I just have this thing about small talk. (I'm too shy and not good at it.) Even though a good conversation would be great during therapy to alleviate the self-consciousness of being the sad sight that one inevitably is in the therapy room. I just sometimes bring up some mindless stuff in conversation sometimes that puts people off a little. There is little separation between my written mind and my spoken mind so you can imagine, being that you are acquainted to the former at this point. While on a first date, I infamously once argued simply for the sake of arguing (and maybe because I was a little bored) that professional athletes perhaps deserved to be paid more than teachers. Needless to say, I didn't get a second date. My good friend Steph, once described me as exhausting, which I still find hilarious. Thanks, Steph.

On that note I'll stop while I'm ahead, so as not to exhaust.

Oh yea, if somebody has an in with Daniel Stern's agent please pass it along. I'm determined to get this genius working again.

Ryan

Ash Wednesday

I should begin with an apology to my parents. I did not go to church today to get ashes. In fact I can't even remember the last time that I stepped foot inside of a Catholic church actually. I haven't really been a good Catholic since 2003 (the year I graduated from an all-boys Jesuit high school and went on to form my heathen Christo-Buddhist hybrid at the haven of heathens also known as the University of Michigan) and I know that you've struggled to understand the seemingly illogical paths that my mind has pulled me in from time to time. But, allow me to assure you that my next door neighbors here in New York are not the cult members from Rosemary's Baby and that I am consistently keeping Satan behind me.

Anyhow, I don't think this is the appropriate arena for me to discuss matters of my spirituality and I ask you all to look for my soon to be published memoir in which I expound upon my unique beliefs and my love of Italian food entitled, Mind Your Dharma, Son Please. And, Find the Parmesan Cheese (Random House, MSRP $79.95). All proceeds will go toward funding my first feature film.

Ash Wednesday always seems to sneak up on me. I walk around and see folks with smudges on their foreheads and suddenly remember that I'm supposed to give up something that I love for the next 40 days. I feel as though such a sacrifice is something that requires extensive meditation and thought and I don't know if I'm exactly comfortable making a decision the day of. So what do I do?

I've been experiencing a lot of psychological and physical extremes thus far this year. From subliminal inspiration to temporarily crippling disillusionment. From top physical condition (or so I thought) to wincing in pain after walking only a block (currently attempting to recover from a knee injury). It seems only fitting that I use this year's Lent as a time for reflection on what this all ostensibly means and give up something that is as extreme as this young 2010 as been so far.

After having thought about this for a great deal of time (and by that I mean the last hour or two), I've decided to give up meat in its entirety this Lent. This could potentially serve to dampen my mood persistently into the nether extremes of the spectrum, but I feel as though I need a challenge right now to keep my mind balanced and focused. So if I seem like I'm always in a really bad mood for the next month or so, take that as a good sign. If I'm down one day and chipper the next, check my backpack for a hamburger.

Ryan

Things I Learned From NBA All Star Weekend and John Mayer

If there's one thing I love as much as film and literature it's sports and music (yes, you read that right). I think if I had it all to do again, as a kid I would have put the books down, stuck with the violin lessons that my dad made me take, and spent more time shooting hoops in the backyard. Or better yet, kept the books in hand WHILE shooting hoops in the backyard AND practicing my violin. All at the same time. You would have heard of me. Mr. Ryan James Carmichael to my friends, the Renaissance child from Southfield, Michigan to the world. It's a shame that didn't work out...

Anyhow, I digress.

My college counselor in high school thought it would have been a great idea for me to go on to study journalism. This was before I even dreamed of being a filmmaker so I humored the thought for a while. I think in some parallel universe I am actually a fledgling cub journalist whose ultimate ambition is to see his byline above the fold on the front page of the New York Times. Or, given my stated love of sports and music, with my own column in Sports Illustrated or Spin. Or, BOTH. I'm going to live in this universe momentarily, bear with me if you will.

This past weekend, there occurred in the NBA what could arguably be called the most meaningless event in all of sports: the All Star Game. Let's watch a bunch of guys who already get paid too much get paid even more to play a game that has no bearing on anything but itself. Well, will they play their hardest? Of course not, why risk injury. Does the winner get a parade or something? Nope, they all take a day off after the game and the season starts again. So, what's the point? Exactly.

Worse than the game (which was pretty entertaining, but I shall maintain this air of cynicism to prove whatever point I'm trying to make here), were the pre, during, and post-game interviews. I've NEVER understood these. They get asked the most obvious questions and give the most obvious answers. Absolutely nothing is gained from these things. Examples:

Courtside Correspondent: What are your thoughts going into the game?
Player: You know, I'm just focused on playing hard and winning the game.

Courtside Correspondent: What are your thoughts going into halftime?
Player: You know, I came out hard, wanting to play well and I think the main thing, you know, is to keep up the intensity in the second half and try to get the win.

Courtside Correspondent: How do you feel having won the game?
Player: You know, it's like, you know, when you come out and play hard and you know, your teammates come to play too, it's like you get the win, you know. It's all hard work. We played a good game and good things happened. You know.

Thanks.

I exaggerate a little. BUT, only a little.

I guess athletes aren't paid for their amazing oratory skills so I shouldn't be so harsh. But this is all the more reason for us to axe these execrably inane interviews. THIS is why I love Lloyd Carr (you'll want to watch :35 and 1:30 for the gem). God bless you, Lloyd.

Before you tire of my rant I have to comment on the other thing that's been on my mind recently and that's stupid John Mayer. I recognize the failed attempt at irony in his "racist" statements and I'm not the one to throw that label around haphazardly unless it's deserved (Rush Limbaugh comes to mind), so I'll reluctantly give him a pass this time. But, come on John, I read the interview and how tactless can you be? Do you kiss your mom with that mouth? You're a talented dude, but that doesn't necessarily make it OK be an unabashed tool. Where's you sense of decency?

If anybody from Sports Illustrated or SPIN is reading this blog, I have no commitments at the time and will be awaiting a call from you.

Ryan

Postscript: My grumpiness is probably due to the fact that I was in class until 10 tonight and this is the second year in a row that Fat Tuesday has passed without my eating a paczki. Not ok.