Net Fix

I'd originally intended this post as a hate letter to Blockbuster, but in the spirit of positive mental attitude decided on a tribute to Netflix instead. Now that's not to say I won't bother with a passing mention of my absolute detestation of the former. After all, that big blue and yellow box merrily swallowed binfuls of my money during my early 20s - a time when I considered spending $20 on a 99cent store shopping spree a treat. Miss one day and you'd be charged the price of the rental in the first place. Miss two or more days and you could have bought copies of the movies for you and a friend to hold and cherish at your leisure forever. Had you been so smart in the first place that is.

But my hatred for Blockbuster extends beyond the late fees. It's about all the times I desperately wanted to rent the already taken single copy of Citizen Kane while 47 copies of a New Release starring Jennifer Lopez cried out for me from the shelves (in a tortured and strained cat-like howl, no less). This coupled with the fact that every time I visited a store as a single person I had to endure all of the sickeningly happy couples, all comfy-cozy in their sweats, making wretchedly wet sounding noises as they kissed and touched each other inappropriately. I tell you it was almost enough to turn me off to rentals forever.

So forgive me if it gives me great pleasure to see so many strip malls reduced to ghost towns, the once-bustling Blockbuster stores now hollowed out, with fading yellow walls and spray-painted obscenities.

But I'm here to exhault Netflix, aren't I? Ahh...Netflix. The name even sounds poetic to me now, like the whispy sound of a butterfly easily escaping the swooping net of an obnoxious child.

Yes it's true, there are never, ever any late fees. And the once-a-month fee can be as low as you want it to be. You shop for movies anytime you want in the comfort of your own sweats at home, your little Cheeto-stained fingers sticking to the keyboard. You add to your queue with carefree abandon, clicking any movie you have ever wanted and could ever possibly want to watch. You can even continuously change the priority of your picks, depending on what mood you're in. And your movie takes about two days to arrive, just long enough to forget about it and be pleasantly surprised with the mail, but not long enough to piss you off.

And when you're finished you just pop it back in the mail, postage-included and excitedly await the next one on your list. In the meantime, you can rate the movie, check out what your decidedly intelligent Netflix friends have been watching, and even browse through the wonderfully recommended "Movies You'll Love" section. And later on, you can scroll through your History, laughing and cooing with fondest memories at all of the movies you'd forgotten you enjoyed.

It's pure genious, really.

And so Netflix has become my cure-all for many an emotional night and my love of renting movies has been restored. And best of all? They're always in stock with any movie you can imagine from foreign films to documentaries. So you never have to resort to a watching a "Blockbuster" movie again.

The Importance of Being

LA is one of those cities where there is always a friend of a friend who is displaying their art or playing at a local coffee house. You are sometimes forced to go depending on the level of obligation you feel, which is usually determined by the nth degree of separation between you and artist. I always try to go with an open mind, but more often than not find myself bored, baffled or on rare occasion, horrified.

In one weekend, I had two such obligations which ultimately lead to a great change in my perception and attitude to local creative sampling. The first was a musician playing folk songs with his guitar on a small latte-stained stage in West LA. The music was gentle, which to my hyperstimulated mind made it seem slow. I thought to myself, "no wonder he plays in a place where caffeine is available for immediate consumption." What's worse, he continuously apologized for his music saying things like, "I don't want to put you guys to sleep." Now I'm in the business of advertising, and in my mind this was no way to sell his music.

Still, there he was - in the raw. Proffering his creativity for my entertainment. And gradually I found myself relenting, moved by the music. For his last song, he truly let loose. His guitar became the devil's instrument, his fingers working up and down the strings with preternatural speed. His eyes rolled back, his boots beat wildly on the floor. And by the time he finished, I was the one who was breathless. But one thing struck me hard: had I not already opened my mind earlier, I would likely never have appreciated his work to the degree that it deserved.

The next night, I attended an art show. Ready to appreciate with newly opened eyes, I found one artist in particular who's work caught me. Fascinated by materials, he worked with wood, metal and stone. I loved them all...and was hungry to hear his thoughts, his inspirations behind each. But to my dismay, he could offer me nothing. For him, the inspiration came from within and was no result of a premeditated idea or statement. I was shocked! Didn't one need a muse? Doesn't art need a reason to exist? Ever the inquisitor, I asked him what I thought would be an easier question to answer: which material did he like to work with best? But still he could not answer. He simply shrugged and said that each has it's own beauty.

Disgruntled, I moved on to look at the work of other artists in the show. But eventually I worked my way back to one of sculpture in particular of his. I stood before it without demands. My eyes roamed the curves, embraced the imperfections and caressed light and shadows. Until I woke with halt. It wasn't about the meaning behind it or even what the artist might have intended its purpose to be. It was about me. My reation to it. The changes it stirred within me. All art wants is the freedom to be.

In the novel, The Golden Spruce, John Vaillant writes of storytelling, “each version of a story is highly dependent on a given teller’s memory, integrity, agenda, and intended audience...but it also depends on the current needs of the teller, the listeners, and the times.” Maybe the process of creativity does not end with a fit of passion. Maybe the process actually extends long after the artist has laid down their brush or clicked off their amp. It lives on in the impressions it inspires. Creativity is a continuous process that no one individual can own. Because as soon as it is told to a listener, it is now the property of that listener and thus vulnerable too his subjectification. He now has the right to use it as a paint or a note to create something new out of, even if only for himself.

I am no longer quick to roll my eyes before unestablished musicians or question an unknown sculpture's existence before it's begun to change me. Now, I simply breath in with patience...and wait for the beauty to overwhelm me in its own way.