Go Slow

Lately I’ve been looking for a way to slow things down. We are inundated by the world’s latest and greatest, but there is only so much one person can keep up with. This can be chalked up to commercialism, but it is also just the reality of life in our time. The internet has supplemented more traditional information avenues so that we have legitimate access to every video, song, or writing submitted for public review. Last week, Pischl’s article about the fleeting nature of fame, even if it is well-deserved fame, started a weeklong train of thought regarding how we can embrace the things we enjoy while they are readily available, or before we forget they ever existed.

The question continued to ferment after an interview with the founders of Dork Magazine, in which we discussed how great it is to go through old movies and music and find something personally resonant. Even greater is if that thing found its way to you without expectation, whether it be a rating from Rotten Tomatoes, lauding or loathing from a friend, or a general perception of what it represents (see Prince’s reputation as a Michael Jackson rip off or sexually deviant sideshow, more on that later). Taking photos on my walk to work has been one way I’ve been trying to grab some of these moments, but I am always looking for more. Thankfully, the same technology that makes the new available also makes the past revisit-able.

Yesterday, I had the sublime pleasure that is a work snow day, and when one is snowed in, there is no better way to spend it than watching movies. In the pre-Netflix days, this usually meant choosing from my fifteen-title library, only three or four of which I actually watch. Slightly more ambitious movie watching involved a trip to Blockbuster or TLA (a local and much preferred alternative), but I always manage to spend three hours looking for the perfect selection. Netflix has changed that, because the truth is that it doesn’t matter what I watch as long as it is something. (There are a few specific situations where this rule does not hold, but Netflix doesn’t really carry “adult movies” anyway.) Not to sound like I’m shilling for them, but did I mention they have 70,000 titles? They are also piloting a program that allows members a certain allotment of online movie watching per month to eliminate those occasions where one finds themselves without anything to watch.

Some might say that the lag between ordering and watching is a major negative, but that is particularly why it fills my recent need for slower living. So by the time The Godfather II and Leaving Las Vegas showed up, I had completely forgotten they were even in my queue. By eliminating all that indecision at the rental store, I was able to watch two great movies that I had never seen before without the buildup. Also, it allows for more subtle timing. Watching Nicholas Cage try to drink himself to death was a twisted yet genius Valentine’s Day choice that I never could have pulled off intentionally. I feel like I can repeat this same scenario for the rest of the winter. I’ve got sixty movies already lined up, and I am free to add more on a whim. It’s a beautiful thing.

Another random and fantastic blast from the past came during half time of the catatonic and misnamed Super Bowl XLI. I didn’t grow up in a Prince-loving household; in fact, the general rule was that pop music was guilty until proved innocent. I certainly knew of him, but my only real exposure was from 1999 being played at every school dance ever held. Seeing how little I really knew or cared about the man or his music, I passively adopted the general perception he was the pop culture enigma that gained a strange cult following based on his own general strangeness. I was vaguely aware that “The Artist” was a seriously influential musician, but generally shared most people’s ambivalence towards his upcoming performance on the largest stage in television (my expectations for scheduled entertainment are so low that as long as Michael McDonald is not involved, I’m happy). The performance has been rehashed ad nauseum because of the sexual overtones, but I’m still wowed by how much the entire package affected me. I got it; the showmanship is just part of a much larger package. The man is a master musician. Throw in some rain and an obvious yet perfect song selection, and you have something great. Give or take five years, and I might not have cared, but Prince will always define this particular Super Bowl Sunday for me. For a few minutes, stadium rock didn't seem like such an archaic concept, and something old was something new for me.

This morning, I woke up to read that one of the NBA players that Pischl wished to bring back to prominence, Tim Hardaway, had already gone to work on his reemergence. It reminded me that some people and things are better left in the past. I agree with the emerging notion that Hardaway’s comments may do more to progress the issue of sexuality in sports than even John Ameche’s existence and that the general media coddling doesn’t really change attitudes; however, the words still sting the ears of anyone who thinks we can and should be doing better as a society. Differing opinions should be embraced, but a blind seething hate is something that I wish time would have forgotten.

It is unfortunate that things only seem to slow down so that we can hash out the ugly things we can’t seem to shake. So many good and interesting things go flying by into internet archives and old shoe boxes, but it’s comforting to think that they might just be waiting for the right time to reappear.