I missed the memo about procrastination, pessimism, and inexplicably good results.

I’ve heard it said that if it weren’t for the last minute, nothing would ever get done.   I think it’s more a case of Parkinson’s Law operating to fill the available time with endless detours, tangents and misdirections along the path toward completing a task on time. 

I’m not sure what it is, but there’s just something weird and wonderful about completing a project under an extreme time crunch.  There’s a cycle of emotions that begins with denial which then segues to panic.  The negative thoughts descend…I’m gonna fail, I’m gonna get fired, I’m gonna make a complete ass out of myself.  Procrastination inspired pessimism is truly the dark night of the soul.

But sometimes a miracle occurs and the panic inspires a clarity of thought that propels the project forward.  My theory is that it takes considerable time and deliberation to come up with bullshit; simple, clear, and even brilliant ideas usually don’t take much time to formulate and articulate.  When we’re able to seize upon that bit of clarity at the 11th hour, it’s such a rush. 

There may be a lot of rationalizing and delirium going on at this point, but I think that’s a healthy little trick our brain plays on us to keep from going completely nuts while under pressure.  When there’s no time for second-guessing, we convince ourselves that our last-minute efforts are genius, and hey, sometimes, maybe even a lot of the time, they are.

Procrastination can also push us to lower our standards improvise creatively.  Perhaps if we had the luxury of time, we’d include professionally reproduced graphics in that big presentation, but instead, we do something freehand which lends the project some ironic, pre-schooler charm.  Again, when we’re hopped up on 5 hour energy drinks, we somehow convince ourselves that this is very, very clever, and the slap-happy enthusiasm for these wacky, last-minute improvisations is what sells them. 

I’m not saying I’m an advocate of procrastination in every instance, but I think there’s something good buried deep, deep down within the chaos that procrastination creates.  There’s self-trust and just a bit of faith…you know somehow it will all come together.  You take inventory of your resources and limitations, keep an eye on the clock, and then you just say a little prayer. 

Ever see the movie Shakespeare in Love?

There’s an adorable scene that talks about this very phenomenon. And it goes a little something like this…

Philip Henslowe: Mr. Fennyman, allow me to explain about the theatre business. The natural condition is one of insurmountable obstacles on the road to imminent disaster.
Hugh Fennyman: So what do we do?
Philip Henslowe: Nothing. Strangely enough, it all turns out well.
Hugh Fennyman: How?
Philip Henslowe: I don’t know. It’s a mystery.

A mystery, indeed.  And time to get crackin’ on that motion.  Memo received.

I missed the memo about anticipation, perspiration, and prostitution.

“Scorchers” is probably the best movie you’ve never seen.  I credit my friend Elizabeth, who delivered many memos, with introducing me to this movie.  “It’s about everything,” she said as she urged me to watch it.  And indeed it is.  But mostly, it’s about anticipation, perspiration, and prostitution. 

The action takes place during one night, and oh what a night it is. Splendid (awesome name, right?) and Dolan have just gotten married, and Splendid is having some stage fright about finally consummating their marriage.  Splendid’s not frigid, but there’s a sad secret in her past that makes sex scary for her.  Enter Jumper, Splendid’s hilariously Cajun and long-suffering father.  Oddly, but sweetly, it’s Jumper who helps the newlyweds on their big night.  (And it doesn’t end up in some sort of freaky Electra Complex threesome, so get your minds out of the gutter.)

All the while, a parallel drama plays out in the neighborhood bar.  This is where Thais, the hooker with a heart of gold, holds court with the loveable bar tender, Bear, and the tragic town drunk, Howler.  And still in her bridesmaid’s dress, Splendid’s best friend, Talbot, is there, too, drowning her sorrows and venting her sexual frustrations.  As they all talk, the dialog is both hilarious and heartbreaking. 

And throughout the movie, every one is sweating.  It’s a sticky night down in the bayou and somehow all the glistening just makes everything  more compelling. 

If I haven’t enticed you enough already, consider the cast of “Scorchers” as there is a ridiculous amount of talent in this movie:

The experience of watching “Scorchers” yielded a lot of memos for me:

1.   First, there is something kind of lovely about watching a movie you’ve never heard of before.  The only hype I’d heard about this movie came from a friend, so my head wasn’t full of movie marketing as a I sat down to watch it.  It made me more attentive and more open to everything about the movie.  Watch a random movie sometime and see what happens!

2.  Everything sounds wiser and wittier when said in a Cajun accent.  Little-known actor Leland Crooke played Jumper he pretty much steals the movie. 

3.  If you can watch a person eat, that’s how you know you’re in love with that person.  See No. 2, above.  This is just a tiny bit of “The Tao of Jumper” .  There is so much more.

So get thee to your Netflix queue and add “Scorchers” straight away.  And remember, anything you yourself done swum in, believe.   Memo received.

I missed the memo about impractical independence.

Being self-sufficient is a beautiful thing, but carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders without any help, ever, is kinda dumb and turns out to be kinda inefficient, most of the time.  To illustrate this point, and with apologies to my husband, I’m going to tell a story that makes him feel like an asshole, but it’s a cautionary tale for us all.

A few years ago, my husband was scheduled to go on a business trip to France, lucky dog.  I was doing a fellowship with the court at the time and enjoying luxuriously long civil-servant lunch breaks.  I therefore offered to come home on the day of the trip and drive my husband to the airport shuttle stop, which was just a couple of miles from our place.   My husband repeatedly refused my repeated offers, as he didn’t want to inconvenience me.  (Seriously, I thought one of the reasons that people got married was so that they were always assured a ride to the airport, but I suppose my husband missed the memo about that.)

Cut to…the day of the trip, I’m sitting in the courthouse cafeteria when my husband calls me to let me know that he is on the airport shuttle bus.  I noted a hint of self-satisfaction in his voice for having successfully gotten to the shuttle stop all by himself.  We chatted for a moment and then I asked him, in jest really, “You’ve got your passport, right?”  There was a sickening silence on the line as it dawned on both of us that he was now hurtling down the 405 freeway, captive in the shuttle bus, while his passport lay forlornly on the kitchen counter in our apartment. 

With all due haste (i.e., driving like a crazy person, literally dodging a train, etc.) I went home and got my husband’s passport and then plotted the intercept course to meet him at the airport so he could make his flight.  I suppose it was kinda like being on “The Amazing Race” but without the awesome cash and prizes.  Luckily, the traffic gods smiled upon me and I made it to the airport, handed off  the passport, and said au revoir to my husband in time for him to catch the flight. 

Given my anal-retentive tendencies, I am pretty sure that had he permitted me to just meet him at home and give him a lift, I would have given him a thorough pat-down to ensure he had all the mission-critical stuff, including his passport.  So instead of making the short round trip between the courthouse and home, I instead made the much longer and circuitous journey of courthouse, home, airport, courthouse.   So much for not inconveniencing me.

The lessons from this mishap were many:

1.     First and most obviously, let your wife give you a ride.  It really is no trouble. 

2.    Second, when someone offers to do something for you, there’s usually something in it for them, so don’t feel bad.   It’s a form of enlightened self-interest, I think.  In this case, I wanted to give my husband a lift, because doing so would have made me feel like a good wife, and would have given me an opportunity to micro-manage the last moments before he left home, and I live for that shit. 

3.    Lastly, trying to be completely self-sufficient makes for a fair amount of misery and mayhem.  Conversely, opening up and letting other people help you sometimes not only lightens your load, but it can also make you more humble, more appreciative, and more connected.  Lucky, huh?  Just listen to  Babs, she knows everything and sings it all beautifully…

Memo received.

I missed the memo about Spring.

In my little suburban corner of Los Angeles, the mercury hit 92 degrees today.  It appears that Mother Nature didn’t get the memo that it’s only April.  With apologies to Joe Walsh, when it comes to weather in Los Angeles, I can’t complain, but sometimes I still do.  And my major complaint was captured in a catchy chorus…

After almost 10 years in L.A., I have recently convinced my self that I am just about cool enough to listen to the music programming on KCRW.    A week or two ago, I heard a track from The One AM Radio’s new album and I was blown away by the blasé melancholy…it was just soooo L.A.

A City Without Seasons

It’s hard to measure time in a city without seasons
The smog makes gorgeous light, but you can never let the breeze in
I’ve been waiting for so long that I forgot the reason
It’s hard to measure time in a city you don’t believe in

By virtue of my Navy brat pedigree, I am actually a native Californian, but with my formative years spent mostly in Virgina and Georgia, I’ll probably always have an east coast soul.  While I marvel at the convenience of having good weather so many days of the year, it is in fact very hard to measure time in a city without seasons.  Holidays sneak up on me now.  I forget birthdays.  Once, I even forgot how I old I was. In the land of perpetual summer, it’s easy to accept the delusion of perpetual youth. 

While most transplants don’t miss harsh winters, we almost all miss the seasons.   There is something disorienting about it being 80 degrees in January.  Maybe it offends a hard-wired sensibility about the natural order of things.   In the words of Pete Seeger (by way of Ecclesiastes and made famous by The Byrds):  To every thing (turn, turn, turn) there is a season…

Without traditional seasons, perhaps I’m a bit adrift.  We do have roughly four seasons in L.A.:

1.    Rainy and a bit chilly
2.    Nice
3.    Regular  Hot
4.   “Are f*%$ing kidding me?” Hot

I suppose I should quit my bitchin’ and just enjoy wearing flip-flops in February.  But I still miss Spring. Turn, turn, turn.   Memo received.