Sure as the sun rises, I inaugurated the first true spring weekend with very little sunlight at all, tucked safely away from fresh air and clear skies at a 10 AM showing of Watchmen in a darkened theater. It seemed like a fun idea, when I decided on the showtime earlier in the week with the Cat, but it turned officially lame the day of, en route to a morning movie–based on a graphic novel, no less–when the weather was certifiably gorgeous. The nerdsweat was almost palpable. But the tickets were already bought.
In case you were considering spending hard-earned dough on the flick, don’t. Although the movie itself isn’t the main focus tonight, I’d be remiss if I didn’t warn you. My $7.50 would’ve died in vain, understand. I’ve heard it’s slavishly faithful to its source material, suggesting the printed work was a bloated patchwork of non sequiturs free from the constraints of editing or intelligible flow. It’s, like, opening scene, present day. Cut to fight. Suddenly it’s the 70s, with Vietnamese people exploding. Back to present day: prison riot. Shot of blue radioactive cock. Then it’s off to Mars, then back to a bar in Nam–in the past, of course–and then to Antarctica. More computer-generated blue wang. Because, obviously. Repeat for three hours, after which you’re left wondering what in fresh hell just happened.
It wasn’t about the movie, however, so much as the community attending the movie. What the Cat expressed mainly through pointing and snickering, let me describe to you with words: imagine all the denizens of your local comic book store. Now imagine them in your theater, drawn to one flick specifically. It was a clarion call to my social plan, a firm reminder to kick it into high gear, lest I find myself at a 9:30 AM showing of the sequel, alone this time, stained head to toe in Cheetos precipitate.
At the same time, I realized these people were likely more content than I was, at least during those two hours and forty-five minutes, based on the peals of communal laughter. They were part of a society, a confederacy based on unabashed geekery. Now, this particular group isn’t for me. Pretending to be a wizard in Dungeons and Dragons–on Second Life, naturally–is more my thing. But I’m beginning to see the value of community. Currently I’m inclined to disengage in situations. I’m trying to replace this with a need to belong, plant a stake in the ground, and claim my place.
A solid plan, according to yours truly, takes a critical look at reality, embraces it tightly, and then anticipates a few possible outcomes. Rocket science this is not, clearly, and so my social plan came to be, starting with a frank assessment of venue. The workplace, for instance, was quickly dismissed, because it’s basically what I’ve been doing for the past two years and eight months. I need to diversify here. Orchestra? Way too much effort. And clubs? Let’s just say if I ever return to Suite, it will be as a ghost, my remains mixed into the glow stick fluid, restless spirit bent on haunting the nightclub with disdain every night. Church crossed my mind, but I’m not in the market for nice people, whether genuine or manufactured.
The alumni association, then, is where I’ll begin. I figure the shared frame of reference is substantial enough. Values are probably similar. My $30 down payment on sociability went toward tickets for the first event of the year, an evening uptown at a tribute concert to the Rolling Stones. Preparations are in motion, as you can well imagine. “Jumping Jack Flash” is pumping through the speakers, with a few other fan favorites queued up. History’s been skimmed. Origins of the band. Early musical styling. American influences. Drug abuse: LSD, Benzedrine, puffing the magic dragon. 90% of which will be useless trivia, but this is how I tick.
Route to the theater, check. Estimated length of the concert is two hours, reception to follow. Business casual, so going to need to fire up the iron. The parking garage will take American Express, though I’ll hit up the ATM anyway. What if I bump into my boss there? That’s right, Boss G, you’ve got your very own scenario. About the only thing that will remain unplanned is the conversation. Everything else is fair game. You may wonder where spontaneity has gone, and I assure you–I’ve scheduled it for sometime next month. See? Says “Spontaneity” right there, penciled onto the calendar.
Last year was devoted to the wholesale acquisition of skills, a kick I thought I had gotten over, but if I give ’09 a cold, hard look, I don’t think things are going to be too different. It’s the way I like to operate, I guess, with my mind settling on something–be it a skill or an idea–and marinating, turning the one thing over every which way, soaking in all the delicious angles until I get it and it’s mine. You may think it’s a little strange, then, that I’m currently working on the ability to stop thinking.
I was stuck behind a car packed with old people the other day, crawling along at five below the speed limit, when it struck me: how exactly do you end up oblivious in the left lane on your way to the supermarket, head full of white, your first stop likely being the produce section, where you’ll molest every apple in sight before letting one rip? Why do the elderly appear to just not give a shit? They certainly seem content when they’re sampling grapes from every bunch within reach. I don’t believe it’s apathy so much as an ability to unplug mentally and simply cruise. This may be one secret to longer life.
Practically this boils down to telling my brain to shut up whenever I start mulling over something that’s not mullworthy. Now, understand I don’t completely blank out thereafter. I’m not sure I’d want that, in fact. It’s more a matter of dismissing the fluff quickly and moving onto more important things. Something tells me this skill will come in handy, now that the social plan has been set in motion. I put $30 toward it on Monday, in what may be my first show of monetary commitment to “hanging out” with “people” since arriving here. Community looms nigh, its terrible calculus closer than ever.