Past Lives Re-visited Through An E-mail Inbox.

"I can't make you walk away. I can't wash you off my skin. Outside the frame is what we're leaving out. You won't remember anyway."
- Queens of the Stone Age, "Go With the Flow"

I was recently scrolling through my Hotmail Inbox and came across quite a few blasts from the Internet past. Old e-mails from old friends, relatively pointless forwards from distant relatives. It’s amazing to think that in one year’s time, the people who you centered your life around can be seamlessly pushed to the outskirts. Relationships change; that’s no big revelation. But I can't help but think that those people who drift in and out of our lives can often have a much greater impact on who we become than we might realize.

“Hey, it's good to hear from you! College is going really well. I love it! I don't like having roommates at all, though. It sucks. My one roommate never talks to me, the other sleeps around with everyone, and the other one makes me want to rip my fingernails off. But I guess I gotta deal with it. How are things going with you?...”

The first girlfriend. The one who broke your heart before you really even believed that you had one to break. She taught you that there’s a big difference between love and lust; between a crush and a soul mate. You thought she was perfect. As it turns out, it took breaking up with her to see the imperfections you were too love-drunk to see while you were with her. She opened the door for other love to filter through and is part of the reason you were able to find your true companion.

“I read 10 words into this e-mail only to discover that the author had attempted to use the word 'hepatitis' as an adjective. Then it hits me...only one man could be so bold. What's up man? Long time no talk. I'm transferring to University of Iowa in the fall. Apparently intelligence, effort, and the ability to read at a fourth grade level don't factor into their admissions process... Don't be a stranger..."

The grade school pal. You and him were inseparable during your formative youth and were one surgery away from being joined at the hip. You both had the same sense of humor, but you were polar opposites in almost every other facet. You grew up in different types of families, you listened to different types of music, and you applied yourself to different subjects in the classroom. You stayed in contact off and on throughout high school, but once college hit, you realized that most of the reason you stayed friends for as long as you did is because you spent most of your time in the same building. He kept your sense of humor fresh and you wouldn’t have made the long-term friends you’ve made today if it weren’t for him.

“Your latest draft shows a strong progression in the story's narrative. You obviously know how to get into your characters' heads and it shows in the dialogue. Though I can't come up with many suggestions, one thing you may want to keep in mind is that sometimes simpler is better. Not always...but sometimes. Keep pounding away and this will be fantastic.”

Teachers. They may not be at the top of anyone’s list for open influences, but like it or not, they probably molded you more than anyone else did in your teenage years. For me, it was a Senior Year duo: the Video Productions teacher and the English Composition teacher. Since I was 5, all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life is write, but I never knew what the outlet should be. Children’s stories? Poetry? Together, they helped me realize that I should “go big or go home.” Without them, I doubt I would’ve ended up drafting my first screenplay.

"You are in violation of the Brothers Act of 2001. After reviewing your case file, I have found that you have not contacted your brother in over a month!"

Siblings. You don’t always like them. In fact, sometimes you’d go so far as to say that you downright hate them. But like it or not, they’re always there and they’re always family. They can be totally immature, completely incompetent, or incredibly bighearted—sometimes all at once. They give advice, they give grief, they give headaches, and they might even give you a good interest rate when they cosign for your student loan. All in all, they might be part of the biggest life lessons you ever learn.

And then there are those little acquaintances that are scattered all throughout your life. They’re so forgettable but can turn out to have such an impact. No person plays too small a role not to make some sort of difference in where you turn out to be.

Who knew that Hotmail could be such a time capsule? I look forward to cleaning out my e-mails again next year.

This Entry In Song:
The Zutons - "Remember Me"
The Bronx - "Past Lives"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #2

My urine smells like turkey after I drink too much coffee. Try the sniff test on yourself after your next Starbucks run.

Working Part-Time, Hating Work Full-Time.

"Work sucks, I know."
- Blink 182, "All the Small Things"

I’m going to sound like just another sky-collared (that’s a mix of blue and white collar, by the way) jackass plaintiff here for just a moment, so please humor me.

...Bosses are the worst, aren’t they? Especially the ones who never really let you know where you stand with them or the company that they are such a detestable cog in. The bank I work at (which shall remain without a name, at least while I’m still employed under them) recently gave me the big thumbs-up on a promotion that had routinely been hinted at “unofficially.” Well, it wasn’t so much a promotion as an advancement in hours–moving from part-time to full-time. It was great! Not only could I enroll in all the sweet benefits that a full-time employee was allowed to roll around in but I would also get a bigger paycheck every couple of weeks.

Ever since I moved to California, I’ve been hoping for a position where I could work 30 hour weeks. 30 hours. Such a perfect amount of time. 20 hours left me with too much time on my hands (which made me a lazy lump) and not enough bread in my pantry (which left me hungry for entertainment). But 40 hours would be too much. I would have almost no time on my hands and all the bread I could handle–but not enough time to enjoy it. It’s a Goldilocks “too hot” or “too cold” porridge situation. So when I landed the 30 hour workweek prime time spot, I was amply excited.

A bit of the back story: a fellow employee was downgraded and eventually terminated due to a few insubordination issues. This left a vacancy on the schedule and her hours up for grabs. The boss told me to grab them.

Then, as if by magic, the same woman who was fired the previous week suddenly showed up at work the very next Monday to go about her usual day of not knowing how to do things. No one said a word about it. Now, I may not be a rocket scientist (or even a rocket enthusiast), but I feel right in assuming that when someone is fired, they generally stay away from the place they are fired from. And don’t...ya know...continue to work there. Maybe I’m being too old-fashioned, I haven’t decided yet. What I have decided, however, is that bosses who don’t live up to their promises need a good, solid whollopin’.

The rest of the story: I received a copy of the schedule this week which has the fired/rehired woman’s name on it, and a baffling “20" featured beside my name and under the column labeled “Standard Hours.”

I’m still waiting for an explanation. It’s my hope that by this time tomorrow, I’ll have something to report back regarding the phenomenon that is my changing work hours.


This Entry In Song:
Ben Folds - "Fired"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

Fast Fact #1

The myth that all black men are hung like horses was debunked today after I saw a black man jogging in ridiculously short shorts. Unfortunately, he and his red 'dukes ran directly into my eyeline while I sat drinking coffee outside of Starbucks. It appeared to extend not more than the length of a bottle cap. I'm fairly confident that the girl he was running with had a bigger penis. And that's just unfortunate.

Why Is the Last One So Good?

"Because we do not know when we will die, we get to think of life as an
inexhaustible well. And yet, everything happens only a certain number of times. And a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood? An afternoon that is so deeply a part of your being that you cannot conceive of your life without it? Perhaps 4...5 times more? Perhaps not even that. How many times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless."
- Brandon Lee, interviewed on the set of The Crow

The last performance. It’s something that I’m sure every entertainer nearing the end of the road thinks about. “When is it going to be the last one?” The last film. The last album. The last time that they will be able to stamp their work into the collective notebook of artistic culture. It isn’t difficult to imagine an eighty-something performer hovering over a script, prying apart every syllable of his dialogue, making sure that every word he speaks on screen will translate into a career-defining film; probably his last. When you know it’s your last, how could you not want it to be perfect?

But what about the people that don’t know it’s their last?

How come the last performance before an actor passes on always seems to be their best? Perhaps it’s just the natural progression of things. After all, most actors should only get better with each film because they are evolving and growing in their craft. Still, I can think of a great many names that peaked early in their career and started slowly dropping off from there. Maybe they knew subconsciously that it was going to be the last one; the whispers of death came long before the rattle. Whatever the case, there’s no shortage of phenomenal last performances. In fact, a lot of “last ones” are also the “best ones”—not just of their particular career, but in the history of the medium as a whole.

Of course, the name that should already be on the minds of those of you reading this is Heath Ledger. His final performance as the disturbingly sinister/psychotic Joker in The Dark Knight will no doubt become one of the most revered performances of all time. A lot of critics have said that it’s hard to take your eyes off of Heath while he’s on screen. No, it’s impossible, actually. The one thought that swept through the canals of my brain during my first viewing of The Dark Knight: “This is the same guy that was singing ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ to Julia Styles on a set of bleachers while simultaneously Three Stooge-ing his way through a police officer foot chase in 10 Things I Hate About You?” How does one transform oneself from the simple, Australian heartthrob of romantic comedies to an unsettling, stringy-haired menace that has haunted every nightmare since the film’s release?

But Heath Ledger isn’t the only shining star to be ripped from the sky just after lighting a whole new path for itself. A father and son became a part of this unfortunate blueprint not all that long ago. Bruce and Brandon Lee, martial arts superstars, passed away during the filming of two separate-but-equally groundbreaking movies. Enter the Dragon singlehandedly brought the fast-paced kicks and punches of Hong Kong to American cinemas. The Crow paved a path for the darker, dirtier type of superhero franchise and may have quite possibly allowed Heath Ledger the opportunity to be the type of character that The Joker became. Both careers were jumping out of obscurity and into a major spotlight.

*

It’s not just in film that “the last one” seems to overshadow everything that came before it. Louis Armstrong’s last recorded song was “What a Wonderful World,” a quintessential ballad of optimism that detailed the simple and pure things in life as well as the bright future beyond the horizon. He passed on less than 3 years later. Kurt Cobain released his most artistically-praised album with Nirvana in 1993, less than a year before his death. Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix each made some of their most memorable music just prior to packing their bags and heading for the clouds. Johnny Cash’s final album, American V: A Hundred Highways, ranked #1 on the Billboard Charts, the only time since 1971.

*

So what is it? Is there some rule that God has stating that a man cannot live through his own legacy? It’s all probably a little idealistic. To hope that everyone gets such a great send-off into the afterlife. To think that “the last one” is always the best one. But perfection speaks for itself and, in some cases, performers are lucky enough to have their final work become what they’re best known for. It’s just a shame that they didn’t get the chance to see how much impact they had.

This Entry In Song:
3 Doors Down - "It's Not My Time"
Louis Armstrong - "What a Wonderful World"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

* Individual images obtained from Creative Commons search via Google Images.

Spotting the Semi-Famous: Part 1.

"Who are you? Are you famous? Important?"
- Finger Eleven, "Famous"

If you recall the list I posted a few weeks back--the one that makes people say "okay, sure"--you know that I have had almost zero celebrity sightings. The ones that I do see aren't always considered "A-listers." But, in honor of "those" people, I'm going to clear some space for a regular section here at From IA to LA. Anytime I see someone that is mildly, mediocrely, somewhat, almost, modestly, or possibly famous, I'll make a note of them. Because who knows, maybe some day they'll be wedged somewhere between Hugh Jackman and Steve Buscemi on the Walk-of-Fame.

Today, I'll start the list by cheating a little bit. This man isn't famous, but his brother is:

• Keith Hefner, sibling of Playboy creator and cradle-robber Hugh "motherf-ing" Hefner.

To get an image of this man, picture Hugh wearing a trucker hat and sporting a very gentle mustache. Granted, he probably smells less like a blonde girl's vagina than his brother, but you get the idea. I saw him at my bank. And it was good.

Think I can score an invite to The Mansion?

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake

A New Year. A New Face.

"Get 'em up, put 'em up. Get your dukes up now."
- Modest Mouse, "Dukes Up"

It’s story time, readers. So make sure you’re sitting in a comfy chair and have plenty of fluids on hand. You're about to hear how this blogger's face became the target of hillbilly hatred on New Year's Eve.

After returning to the grand state of Iowa for Christmas after having been a few hundred miles away for about 3 months, I realized why I only keep in contact with family and a few select friends. This realization struck me like a fist to the face. Why? Because I realized it after I had received a fist to the face. Allow me to set up the scenario.

Balltown, Iowa. You might say that it’s the epicenter of drunken hillbillies and warm beer. (And you’d be correct.) This is not exactly the type of place you would want to be on New Year’s Eve, when the warm Busch Light is flowing like tap water and every walking heap of cow dung is trying their hardest to start a brawl. I know this now. The intent was to stop in and say a few quick hellos to a few distant-but-not-forgotten friends. A short, 30-minute detour. Well, 45 minutes later I was walking to the car with a wad of tissue paper stuffed up my nose to stop the bleeding while my glasses lay helpless somewhere on the moonlit gravel.

I was dressed in a snazzy pair of dark blue jeans, a black button-up shirt, and a pair of black leather shoes that might as well have said “come hump my leg.” In short, I was looking good. The rest of the basement-dwelling chug-a-lugs were outfitted in shit-kickers and old-pig smell. So, yes, I stood out from the pack. On the way up the stairs and out of the party, one rosey-faced intoxicant grabbed me by the collar (presumably to make me one of his own kind…a redneck) and insisted that I was looking for a fight. Now, being in the martial arts for nearly 10 years has taught me how to handle just about any situation that a guy could throw himself into. And it’s because of that decade of hand-to-hand combat training that I was able to freeze up and yelp that I was, in fact, not looking to engage in fisticuffs.

Not Pictured: An Opponent.

But, when that didn’t work, I reciprocated this kind man’s gesture and grabbed him by the throat. Knowing that there were several of this pit stain’s buddies within a few feet of our scuffle waiting to knock me into a hay bale somewhere, I didn’t throw a punch or lift a leg—partly because I was smart, and mostly because I was terrified.

When I was finally able to shove this scrawny tobacco spit of a human being away, I grabbed my girlfriend, Emily, and headed out the door. The problem was, a few of my more inebriated friends from inside had witnessed my scuffle and there was now a full-scale riot erupting in the garage from which I had emerged. But it was hard to thank them for their loyalty because I was too concerned about finding my best friend—and my ride—Tony, who was lost somewhere inside the mutiny.

If I had walked back to his car, right then and there, a beautiful face would have been salvaged that night. Instead…

By this time I was shouting for Tony at the top of my lungs in some twisted game of Marco Polo…a game he didn’t know we were playing. At this point, I stood more than 50 feet away from the Balltown Massacre taking place inside the garage and it would seem that I made it out of the scuffle unharmed. But wouldn’t you know it, another partygoer noticed this too and decided that just wouldn’t do.

WHAM!

I was sucker-punched by “some fat, pansy a--hole” (Emily’s description, not mine). When you’re punched in the face, not much goes through your head except a lot of question marks. That considered, I believe the first words out of my mouth were “what the f--k just happened!?” Tears came to my eyes but surprisingly, I was still on my feet. Since I saw no blurry figure standing in front of me, I assumed that the portly coward had run back to join the brawl. Perfect. Not even a chance for redemption?

The rush of adrenaline I felt at that moment is probably comparable to being shoved out of a plane or chugging a few pints of Red Bull. I wanted someone else’s blood on my knuckles. It was at this moment that my inner macho man took over and I turned from a lover to a fighter. Rational thought was fleeting at a rapid pace and if it hadn’t been for my wonderfully sensible woman pulling me away, my feet would have surely led me back into the hillbilly tussle because…let’s face it…men are stupid. We are crotch-grabbing cavemen with something to prove. When we get dethroned (a.k.a. face-punched) we want to forcibly take our crown back (a.k.a. kick the other guy right in the balls). Even me, a generally sensitive type of fellow, can fall victim to those super-masculine, my-dong’s-bigger-than-yours urges. And while I’m not necessarily ashamed of it, I’m not all that pleased with it, either.

Eventually, we found Tony (granted, a little later than one would hope) and we scurried off to his car and, later on, to a hospital. Tony felt bad because he was the one who suggested leaving an earlier party to pass through this one. Emily felt sick because she heard the crunch the fat guy’s knuckles made with my nose. I felt shaky because…well…I still wanted to kick some hillbilly ass.

Needless to say, that night didn’t end well for any of us.

The epilogue goes something like this: I visited a doctor who told me my nose wasn’t broken. For the next few days, I spent most of my time recounting that story for family and friends. I initially lied to my worry-wart of a mother about what happened to my face but eventually spilled the beans. I got a new pair of glasses. I had to catch a plane back to California a couple days later, where I chugged Sudafed and Ginger Ale to stop my sinuses from screaming at me. And now, I sit feeling the bridge of my nose and realizing the doctor I visited is probably incompetent and my nose is most likely broken.

What did I learn from this experience? Cowboys don’t like suave men. So next time I should dress down and bring several of my largest friends with me. Or perhaps just stay away from Balltown, Iowa.

New Year's Resolution: Don't get punched in the face again. It hurts.

This Entry In Song:
Reel Big Fish - "Beer"
Modest Mouse - "Dukes Up"
The Pixies - "Broken Face"

Be Back Soon,
Shaky Jake