Summer is Kind of a Bitch

After probably six months of the best of intentions to see (500) Days of Summer and never getting around to it, Jon movie-ambushed me the other night after I got home from work. It was close to midnight and I was certain that I wouldn't be able to stay awake for more than 20 minutes, but I was wrong. I somehow managed to keep my eyes open and my attention focused for the entire 90 minutes. I believe the reason for that acute surge of energy was how emotionally invested I got in the story and especially the characters. It was not even a little bit the standard mindless "ro-co" (romantic comedy) that would have probably put me out faster than an Ambien. The characters were so charming and so realistic that, at times, I almost forgot I was watching scripted actors. (500) Days of Summer also got me to do something that no Katherine Heigl/Gerard Butler/Kate Hudson/Matthew McConaughey P.O.S. movie has ever achieved- it got me thinking...


Spoiler alert! It turns out that Zooey Deschanel's character, Summer, is a self-involved narcissistic bi-otch. She spends the better part of a year jerking this guy Tom around who is completely and unapologetically crazy about her.
Side note: who knew that kid from 3rd Rock was so charming?

Anyway, Summer leads Tom on for months and then decides one day that she just doesn't feel like being with him anymore. Then she flashes her big Disney eyes and wants to be his friend. Then after he manages to get over her enough to go back to being a functioning adult, she drags him back in to screw with him some more. And after all is said and done she ends up married to another guy, then out come the innocent eyes and poor Tom is just supposed to be happy for her.

Beware of Disney eyes!

The spooky thing is that a scenario not at all unlike this one happened to Jon some time ago. I won't share details out of respect for his privacy, but suffice it to say, this girl did a number on my baby brother. After the storm had passed and everyone involved was seeing clearly again, Jon was left with one simple truth about girls: the pretty ones think they can do whatever they want and it's OK because they're pretty. No dice, ladies. It's infuriating when a girl believes her appearance grants her empathy-exempt status. Beauty is praised to such an extent that these girls end up brainwashed into thinking their own feelings, impulses, musings, what-have-you are the only things that matter. They end up at the center of their own melodramatic universe. It's sad, it's annoying, but it's true.

You'd be mean to these girls too

So Jon adopted a technique for dealing with said selfish females: he's mean to them. He figures that no one's ever been mean to them a day in their life, being that they're so adorable, so they don't quite know how to react. He says some act like a deer in the headlights, some try in vain to throw it back at him, and some just don't get it at all. Now, I'm not advocating this strategy, but given what Jon went through I understand it and I wouldn't say I'm completely against it. I don't think anyone should be mean simply for the sake of being mean and I don't want to give the impression that my brother hates women. He just has developed a no-bullshit policy for pretty girls who think they can get away with anything. And honestly, I do believe there a more than a few chicks out there that could probably benefit from being taken down a peg or two.

But at least the movie was good.

"We live to dance another day, it's just now we have to dance for one more of us..."

It has been quite an intense week. Last Friday our close group of friends was rocked by the news that one of our own had taken his life. Jason "Old Boy" Kuzniarski had hung himself in his house. Words could not explain the shock, confusion, and utter sadness that collectively settled over the group that night. After each of us received the phone call from somewhere along the chain of friends we all gathered at our favorite bar- the bar where Old Boy had worked- to begin to try to make sense of the situation.

What occurred that evening, in the face of such unspeakable tragedy, was nothing short of inspiring. Both the bar and the sidewalk outside the bar were scattered with the people affected by Old Boy's death. It was clear that the usual atmosphere of laughter and general shenanigans had been replaced by an almost visible cloud of shock and sorrow. The amazing thing, however, was how every single person, through there own sadness, found a way to support every other person in the group. No one tried to find the magic words that would take the pain away, because we knew they didn't exist. No one tried to compete over who was the most sad over Jason's passing, because we knew that didn't matter. We were all simply there for each other in any way we could be. Some people needed to cry, so someone was there to hug them. Some people needed to tell jokes to alleviate the tension, so someone was there to laugh. Some people needed to sit silently by themselves, so we left them alone but stood close by in case they changed their mind. It was natural, it was beautiful, it was devastating.

In the days that followed each person mourned and honored Jason's memory in their own way. After his standing-room-only funeral (if that) the group that was now more family to each other than friends gathered once again at the bar where Jason worked and spent the entire day drinking beer and telling stories about the insane memories we had of Old Boy. Even his parents and sisters showed up to join in the reminiscing and by the end of the night they were our family too. It was exactly the way he would have wanted it.

It seems as though when someone dies the people left behind tell only the best qualities of the one who has passed on. It always seems a little exaggerated too. "She was always smiling." or "he was the greatest guy I've ever known". Nobody wants to admit that she was kind of a bitch sometimes or he was an angry drunk. That is not at all the case with Jason.

Jason was like that song that comes on the radio that instantly makes you perk up and sing at the top of your lungs. It was impossible to be in a bad mood when Old Boy was around. He wouldn't have it. He'd grin as wide as he could, his eyes would sparkle, and he would say just the thing you needed to hear to laugh like crazy and forget whatever the hell you were upset about. Even when he was drinking too much and doing something wildly inappropriate you couldn't help but laugh because only Old Boy could pull that off. The guy simply radiated joy and animation and he made everyone he met feel like they were the most important person in the world. And for the record: I believe I can speak for everyone when I say that we would all say exactly that about him if he was still with us and it was just another Friday night at the Wharf Rat.

One such night about three weeks ago my brother, Jon, was sitting at the Rat among the usual group of friends watching the Oriole game. Jon was giving Kevin a hard time about refusing to give him a piece of cake at a party they had been to earlier in the week. After a few minutes of light-hearted bantering between the two of them Old Boy, overhearing the conversation, disappeared for about ten minutes or so. He returned with a huge slice of cake that he placed in front of Kevin. This cake was not intended for Kevin, but for Kevin to redeem himself by giving it to Jon. No one knows where he got the cake from. He just wanted to put a smile on Jon's face. Jon told me later that it was one of the best night's of his life, sitting at a bar with all his friends, watching the Orioles, and being the only one in the bar eating a giant piece of cake.

Old Boy is not one that will soon be forgotten and I truly pray that he has found the peace that he was seeking. I like to think that he's happy now to see how close all his friends and family have become through this. However, I know we all wish it was under less tragic circumstances.
We'll miss you, buddy.

Jason "Old Boy" Kuzniarski

August 12, 1981 - July 16, 2010

"Long Live the King"

Sit Down, James Cameron

I can never enjoy another movie again. This was the collective reaction of Brandon, Jon, and myself as we walked out of the movie theater at 2:40am on Friday. We had been anticipating the premiere of Inception for weeks and had already prepared ourselves for it to be the best movie ever made- this is no exaggeration. The bar of our expectations had been set impossibly high... or so we thought. As it turned out, it was better.

Inception more closely resembled a roller coaster ride than a movie. I don't think any of us took a breath or blinked for the entire two and a half hours. I could go on for days about the phenomenal performances by the actors (who knew Joseph Gordon Levitt had it in him?) and the twisted visual effects but that's not what stood out to me. Plain and simple: this is what movie making should be. The story was bold and beyond compelling; plus, it was just complicated enough so you felt challenged but at the same time you weren't exhausted trying to keep up. The intensity of the situation was alleviated briefly by exactly the right amount and type of comic relief and gratuitous violence was clearly deemed unnecessary to plot development (what a concept). When the two and a half hours flew by and the story was winding down the final scene evoked a collective gasp from the audience followed by resounding applause.

All those in the business should stop rolling all over your money pile for a second and pay attention. This is what it's about, folks. Stop overpaying coked-out assholes to write dick and fart jokes and take a risk! Give us something we've never seen before; try some actual artistic creativity for a change. Creativity. Look it up. No, put down the script for Saw 8 go get a dictionary and find out why Christopher Nolan is so much better than you.

I'm sorry, but spending 10 years on creating seven foot tall blue cheetahs and tacking on some garbage script with about as much originality as a teenager in a Team Edward tee shirt may make you truck-loads of money but, in my book, it just makes you a cheap cinematic prostitute. 

Now, as for the phenomenon that is Inception; I really can't enjoy another movie again. Jon remarked, as we made our way to the car still in a haze over what we had just witnessed, "If Christopher Nolan had just applied himself to curing cancer or something... I'm a little mad that he didn't."
Well, we may not have a cure for cancer, but at least my faith was renewed in the future of movies. At least as long as Christopher Nolan is involved. Bring on the next Batman movie!

Change of Pace

I thought my blog could use a bit of a makeover. I've noticed myself branching out to writing about topics other than marriage; and I'm not even quite sure I would be considered a "newlywed" anymore anyway. So I took the satisfying liberty of registering the domain name jennaclark.com and ditched the title Reflections of a Newlywed in favor of something more inspirational and dear to my heart. Across the Universe is not a nod to the less than stellar Beatles musical or a random title of a Beatles song I decided to rip off. While trying to decide on a new title for my blog I found the lyrics of this particular song really spoke to my heart as a writer. Lennon wrote this song as a response to something his wife was talking about that he wasn't really paying attention to (so I guess it somehow winds its way back to marriage in a way) but I find these brilliant words to represent the art of writing for me. So I'll leave you with them and also the intention of bringing more facets of my life to this blog in the future than just my marriage.

Image from: www.deviantart.com

This Is My Generation, Baby

As part of the research and reporting process I'm undergoing for my book I was instructed by my writing teacher to construct a timeline of my life. This involved contacting old friends (which was an epic disaster), interviewing family members, studying old photo albums, listening to music, and rummaging through the dusty dark attic of my memory in an effort to document as much of my nearly 26 years on this planet as possible. So I sat down and got to work with a yellow legal pad, a pencil, my photo albums, and You Tube; because none of my old CDs function anymore and who the hell still has a working cassette player? Since my high school years are essentially the focus of the book, I began there.

What a phenomenal mess that period of time was! Stuck in limbo somewhere between innocence and accountability lies what can only be called a teenage wasteland (chill, Pete Townshend, the check's in the mail). Miserably unaware of our own ignorance, we were convinced we had the whole world figured out. That ridiculousness of that idea should have been clear from our questionable fashion choices. We were so self-important, trying to rebel against the boundaries of middle class oppression. The following is a list of causes I felt entitled enough to battle my parents to near death over:

1. My right to listen to any music I wanted, after my father confiscated CDs by such timeless artists as DMX, Wu-Tang Clan, Bone Thugs -n- Harmony, and Eminem
2. The injustice that was my mother shredding a tee-shirt I had purchased with the Playboy bunny logo massively displayed in red glitter
3. How incredibly unfair it was of them to ground me and keep me from seeing my boyfriend after finding a homemade bong in the backyard
4. And this is one of my favorites... delaying me from getting my driver's licence for an entire year because, at 14, I snuck out my bedroom window in the middle of the night, walked 2 miles to my friend's house, stole her mom's car, picked up our friends, and went joyriding for 3 hours when none of us had a license.

This list could go on but I had to stop before I gave myself brain damage from rolling my eyes so much at my own idiocy. Since when does a group of kids who spend their weekends drinking Mad Dog and Popov and smoking cheap weed out of a hollowed out carrot have their lives figured out? Logic and reason were grand acts of futility and were often met by vacant stares or razor sharp insults fired with surprising accuracy. 

I am amazed to this day that I somehow got out of that period alive. My Wu-Tang CDs died a slow death in the back of a closet somewhere, my Reebok Classics and JNCO Jeans have long since been retired, and I like to think my English skills have improved since the days of using the words "wuz" and "fug". I'm just lucky there are people in my life that still wanted to talk to me after that.

It's all worth the effort if lessons can be learned. As embarrassed as I am that I used to be that person, I learned so much in the process of growing out of it. The most important lesson, I think, being that teenagers know essentially as much about life as a hamster knows about physics. That, and the fact that gangster rap is not appropriate or relevant for a middle class white girl in Towson.

The Dreaded Day Job

It was perhaps idealistic and a little naive to think that I could transition seamlessly into being a full time writer without encountering a few road blocks. I have unavoidably fallen into the curse of the aspiring writer- the day job. (Gasp!) Yes, it's true. There wasn't the miraculous appearance of a book deal or an awaiting literary agent dying to represent me the minute I devoted the majority of my days to my laptop. Now before you all start laughing at me I'll stop here to assure you that I never assumed this would happen. I hoped, sure, but realistically I was aware that my new career wouldn't be rocketing me to fame and fortune any time soon. So after a few months of focusing solely on my writing while Brandon dragged himself to work every day I had to face facts.

The first thing I realized after just a few days was that writing is hauntingly secluded work. I love my house but spending all day every day in one place will make anywhere start to feel like a prison cell. Brandon would come home from work and I would somewhat resemble a zombie. He would smile and ask me how my writing went that day and I would stare at him with little to no idea of how to respond. After about a month I had all but forgotten how to communicate with actual people. The second thing I realized after the a few more weeks was that if Brandon and I had any chance of achieving the financial goals we set for ourselves when we got married I would have to start bringing in some actual money- on a regular schedule. Bummer. As isolated as I was beginning to feel and as much as it sucked not making money for my work, I was really enjoying working when I wanted to and not working when I didn't want to. Yeah, there's that naive idealism again. 

So after throwing a minor internal temper tantrum about the nasty realities of being a functioning adult and an under-appreciated writer I begrudgingly re-entered the work force. I now bear the obligatory slash in my occupation that so many struggling artists have to endure. My name is Jenna and I'm a writer/bartender. At least I didn't have to take a job at McDonald's; but trust me, we were about 2 weeks away from that. The bartending thing is actually a pretty cool gig, which is I guess why so many actors, writers, painters, etc. do it. It gets me out of the house, I get to talk to some nice people, and I get to make a whole lot of money in a very short period of time. All in all, not a whole lot to complain about; aside from the truth that my career goals have literally nothing to do with working for tips. 

So, here's hoping that one day soon I get to drop to dreaded occupation slash and I get to be Jenna the Writer again. Because the fact remains that I flat out love to write. Even with all the solitude and the frustrations I just have to do it. I never had a choice.

Wanted: Marital Social Director

Ladies and Gentlemen: for your consideration, I present to you the classic marriage dilemma; or one of the classics as it were. Maybe some of you can help me out with this little conundrum. I swear, even after all the tricks, procedures, secrets, landmines, and loopholes I've  discovered in and about marriage (and believe me, they're none too few) I still can't for the life of me navigate this issue clearly. So someone please tell me; what the hell are the rules when it comes to your outside social life as a couple?

I feel as though this issue doesn't receive enough attention in the matrimonial "how-to" literature. Perhaps this is because no one in their right frame of mind would consider this particular problem a deal breaker. Regardless, I still find the whole scenario irritating. It's hard enough for me to figure out my own social politics without having to work my husband's in as well. Let me present an example of this dilemma that presented itself relatively recently in my house.

Author's note: Some details of the following story have been altered to protect the privacy and feelings of those involved.

Brandon and I had been invited to a party thrown by Alex, a mutual friend. The invitation arrived in the mail four or five weeks before the party was to take place and neither Brandon nor I made any sort of immediate commitment to attend or not. The invitation requested we RSVP regrets only therefore we were still within our boundaries of party etiquette. Three days before the date of the party Brandon and I both received a mass email from Alex requesting that we reply if we would not be attending the party. The conversation that occurred that morning over coffee went as follows:
Me: "Hey, Bran- are we going to Alex's party this weekend?"
Brandon: "No."
Me: "Why not?"
Brandon: "I want to go to the Oriole game."
Me: "OK, whatever, I'm fine either way. But can you let Alex know we won't be coming?"
Brandon: "Why do I have to do it? You tell Alex."
Me: "Uh, because you're the one who doesn't want to go."
Brandon: "Fine, then I guess we're going."
Me: "What? That's not what I meant. I'm fine with going to the O's game I just think since you're the one who doesn't want to go to the party you should be the one to tell Alex we're not coming."
Brandon: "I don't want to."
Me: "What makes you think I do?"

And so on, and so on... you get the idea.

Now, this was by no means a huge ordeal- minor banter really. But it was clear to me at that point in the conversation that we were at a stalemate. Neither one of us was going to back down any time soon, yet I was still unclear if we were going to a party or a baseball game that weekend. And I was fuming with frustration at the clear power play that was unfolding in my living room- not enough to back down though, of course. I thought I was making perfect sense and the situation was pretty straight forward:
- Brandon didn't want to go to the party
- Alex is a mutual friend that invited both of us, Mr. & Mrs.
- Brandon should be the one to make the uncomfortable phone call or write the uncomfortable email that explains why Mr. & Mrs. will not be attending
AM I RIGHT?

Eventually the point was moot because we attended Alex's wonderful party and had a great time. But I can't help musing about the vastly under-appreciated issue of who is the social director of the marriage and what the guidelines are that exist within that position. If you have managed to figure it out in your own relationship I tip my hat to you- congrats! I'm still working on this one.