Life Imitates Kubrick

Asia Times Online, October 31:

US Army snipers from the "painted demons" platoon of the 1st Battalion, 501st Infantry Regiment, 25th Infantry Division allegedly took part in "a classified program of 'baiting' their targets" to lure insurgents within their sniper scopes.

"Basically, we would put an item [like a spool of wire or ammunition] out there and watch it," said Captain Matthew P Didier, the leader of the elite sniper platoon in a sworn statement. "If someone found the item, picked it up and attempted to leave with the item, we would engage the individual as I saw this as a sign they would use the item against US forces."

Full Metal Jacket, 1987:

A Marine Corps helicopter flies across the Vietnamese countryside while a machine-gunner in its open door sprays bullets at everyone he sees below.

Door Gunner: Anyone that runs is a VC. Anyone that stands still is a well-disciplined VC! . . .

Joker: How can you shoot women or children?

Door Gunner: Easy -- ya just don't lead 'em so much! Ain't war hell?

Inspiration (Interlude)*

Friends and neighbors, it actually happened. This isn't some urban legend, where you hear a story about what someone's brother's friend did. No, this happened to me:

I found the girl of my dreams on an Internet dating site.

That isn't to say that she found me. This isn't a happily-ever-after story, or even a wild-and-crazy-roll-in-the-hay story. This is a story about inspiration. The sort of inspiration I mentioned in my previous fitness post, which I had already found, but which I now have in abundance.

Some years ago, I had a coworker. Actually, I had (and I have) a great many of them, as there are probably close to 1,000 employees at my office, but that's not important. What's important for my purpose is that this particular coworker was very, very special. She was pretty, of course, but then there are lots of pretty women around. She was smart, graceful and stylish. She had a silvery, musical laugh, a warm, friendly smile and all the other qualities that commend a young woman (to me, at least), and more.

I can't entirely put my finger on it. There was something about the way that she carried herself -- nothing as simple as good posture, it was more of a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, combined with a habit of looking slyly sideways at things that gave her a vaguely subversive air. I was (and I am) reading far too much into these and other clues, but the net effect is that I was convinced that she really was the girl of my dreams, in every possible way. Without even knowing it, she snagged my imagination and held it firmly. We never really spoke beyond the occasional "hello" in the hallways, but every time I saw her (and it could be weeks at a time between sightings) I was hooked all over again.

Time passed like that, and eventually she left that job for another one. Though I never saw her, I also never entirely forgot her. I might go months or years without thinking of her. I dated other women, with varying degrees of success, and eventually took a sabbatical from that whole scene. Distracted by any number of personal and professional circumstances, I let myself go and grew fat and sedentary (not for the first time, I'm afraid). But back in April, I'd had enough of that. One morning, I spontaneously got up off my butt and got back into an exercise routine. I stuck with it. A few weeks ago, I came upon some more inspiration (as I intend to discuss in a later post), and took things to another level. The results have been extremely encouraging, and I made plans for another increase in intensity, as soon as I've built up the basic fitness to support it.

And then, yesterday, it happened.

Yesterday, I found the girl of my dreams on an internet dating site.

There's no doubt that it's her. She's just as I remember her: the wonderful smile, the stylish good looks and especially those deep, sparkling, magical eyes. I had only seen her in a business context, but online she showed a side of herself I'd only imagined: dressed for a date, she's even sexier and more alluring than I'd expected. And the text of her profile, while otherwise entirely consistent with my idealized imagination of her, showed me explicitly what I'd always understood about her: fitness and exercise is vitally important to her. She wants someone as fit and as active as she is.

And if you've been reading this far, you'll realize that around that point, my already strong level of inspiration jumped up another few orders of magnitude.

Mind you, I'm not going to contact her or ask her out, not even once I'm in the best shape of my life. The cruel fact is that I'm just too old for her, and she's probably too young for me as well. OK, so I'm only one year above the range of ages her profile says she's looking for -- I was actually in her range until my recent birthday -- but even so, I just can't imagine that it would work.

I'll never touch her, never hold her, never speak with her. Most likely, I'll never even see her again in person. I'm fine with that. There's no bargaining with time, and there was just too much time between my birth and hers. But while we'll continue going our separate ways, it won't be because I'm out of shape.

I'm damned well going to be in the sort of shape that she'd go for, if only our ages matched up. There are plenty of wonderful women out there whose ages do match up with mine, and I expect (and I hope) that I'll find happiness with one of them. And if I don't, it won't be because I've obsessed about the girl I used to daydream about at the office.

But I'll always remember how finding the girl of my dreams gave me another jolt of inspiration.

-------

* Note: This post isn't the previously-promised Inspiration Part II. That post is still in progress, and will eventually be posted in accordance with my regular (glacial) pace. I'd apologize for the delay in posting the second piece, but then again no one reads this blog anyway. I'd feel bad about the fact that no one reads it, except that it's not written to be read, it's written for the sake of the act of writing, and satisfying (at least to some extent) my need for expression. The fact that this entire footnote is just so much navel gazing and talking to myself is perfectly in keeping with the spirit of the exercise.

Believing

How do I know that last night's Sopranos finale was good? The exhilaration I felt when the credits rolled last night stayed with me all day long.

I still think my take on the show's final scene was right, but from doing a fair amount of reading on the episode today, I see that there's another view of the scene that's at least as valid. Several people have argued that the sudden cut to black represents Tony getting killed. They back it up with quotes from the same conversations with Bobby that I referenced in last night's post. "You never know it's coming", said Bobby (quoting from memory again, I can't find an authoritative source for quotes from this episode), and Tony, asked what happens when you die, says "nothing, it all goes black and that's it" (ditto). There were other cues for this interpretation -- for a show that loves its symmetries (on its own terms, mind you), there's the fact that Phil Leotardo was killed in front of his family.

I find this reading plausible, but not persuasive. The extra layer of ambiguity it adds to the final scene only makes me love the finale more. I can't wait to watch it again.

Don't Stop

Sopranos viewers will be furious from coast to coast, but I thought the final episode of the show ended on exactly the right note.

For years, this show has been about confounding audience expectations. So much so, that when last week's episode, "The Blue Comet", delivered a fairly standard mafia war, it seemed fresh, almost shocking.

But despite that history, people across the country expected some genuine closure from tonight's episode. I can't imagine why. What we got instead was one of the best looks yet inside Tony's head. The last scene at the diner is set up to be as ominous as possible. We get repeated shots of extras we've never seen before. One guy at the counter keeps looking over in Tony's direction. A young couple seem strangely artificial. Meadow has trouble with her parking.

It's a veritable TV playbook of tricks that directors have used before The Big Moment arrives. We're set up to expect any number of things. The guy at the counter could be a fed. The two black guys walking in to the diner could have been sent by the New York family to get revenge for Phil Leotardo. Meadow could have been hit by a truck.

All of that would be infuriating if it was just a game played at the audience's expense. But that's not what was going on. As the series ends, Tony Soprano is left wondering when the end will come for him, and in what form. Every time someone walks into the diner, he's asking himself: is that one an FBI agent, here to arrest me for the RICO charges that have been building up for years? Is that one going to kill me, on the orders of some other mafia group?

As his conversation with Paulie showed, Tony's aware of all of this and keeps up a good front of bravely soldiering on. But behind the facade, he knows he's at the end of the line. He's perpetually flinching, just waiting for the blow to land.

As the last week went by, I wondered where things could possibly end. Tony's death seemed likely, but that would have been a little too pat for this show; too "on the nose" for a show that's all about subtext. Victory in the mob war seemed possible but unlikely -- I was fairly certain that we hadn't followed Tony's repeated failures at redemption to see him wind up standing triumphant over the bodies of his enemies.

We got, instead, ambivalence. Tony's triumph over Phil is hollow. As he said to Bobby earlier in this final half-season (or did Bobby say it to him?), there's really only two ways he can end up: shot by the mob or locked up for life by the Feds. Life goes on for the Sopranos, but Tony's already in prison.

Inspiration

One of the reasons I haven't posted much is that I've finally been getting some regular exercise in the mornings. I've started slowly, by necessity: I'm a 40-something who's been pretty much completely sedentary for more than a year, and have the body to show for it.

Earlier this year, by fits and starts, I managed to get into the gym now and then. It was better than nothing, but it wasn't the consistent effort that I need to get healthy and fit. Six weeks ago, I'd had enough of that. I simply made the decision that I was going to get started working out seriously, and do it without any further delay. Since then, I've used the elliptical machine four times a week. The machine has a heart rate sensor, and with the right settings it automatically adjusts the resistance level so that I'm exercizing at the right level of intensity. It's great -- I don't have to worry about "am I ready to move from level 4 to level 5" or anything like that, I just climb on, keep a steady pace, and by the time I'm done, 45 minutes later, I'll be dripping with sweat, almost (but not quite) gasping with the effort, and feeling the warm glow that comes from a good solid workout.

When I first started out, it didn't take much work at all to give me that effect. My year or more of laziness was showing. But consistent effort over time has already shown some results, and it's been heartening to see that it now takes a good bit more resistance to get my heart rate elevated than it used to.

But all of that is prologue. While my clothes are a little looser and my energy level is a little higher, I've barely even started on the road to fitness. I thought of what I'd done up to yesterday as something like laying a foundation -- I've got a solid place to build now, but I still haven't actually built anything. And with that thought in mind, I set out across the Internets to see what I should do next.

More on that later.

Smiles

I've watched the video for Feist's 1, 2, 3, 4 too many times now, but it still leaves me unreasonably happy each time I see it.


One of the commenters in the YouTube thread had this to say about it:

Damn! When did Bjork get so skinny? Or is it Cat Power so happy? Or is it Charlotte Gainsbourg in sequins? who knows, they're all alike . . .

I can't agree that they're all alike, but there does seem to be some sort of connection there. A happier and more energetic Cat Power would probably bear more than a bit of a resemblance to Feist. Even so, this video for "Cross Bones Style" leaves me in something like the same mood:


Another connection between the two is that many, if not most of the comment threads on both videos consist of variations on "I'm so in love with her".

Feist shows another side in video for One Evening. Time to go buy the CD.

Crime Zero

A great deal has been written about the recent controversy over a particular number and efforts to remove it from the Web. I liked this contribution, from John Marcotte at Badmouth:

[W]e have made a flag, a symbol to show support for personal freedoms. Spread it as far and wide as you can. We give this flag away freely, and also give away the rights for people to make similar, derivative works. the colors of the flag are (in hex code format):

#09F911 #029D74 #E35BD8 #4156C5 #635688

The letters “C0" are added to signify that simply publishing a number is “Crime Zero.”

I'll fly the flag myself once I can find a moment to figure out how -- long may it wave.