The Blind Side--Blind Sided.

It is true that I hate American Football--gridiron to the rest o the world.  I find it to be a singularly brutal and pointless sport that is wrapped in a culture of heightened toughness and injury that does more to destroy the bodies of those who play than anything else.  It is also true that Sandra Bullock, by and large, drives me absolutely bonkers.  Typically, on screen, she is shallow and one dimensional and I try to avoid her movies like the plague.  I was never going to watch The Blind Side as it contains football and stars Bullock but my wife brought it home, I acquiesced, and this morning my mind is covered in the residue of the film and I can not shake the films impact.

The Blind Side (directed by John Lee Hancock) revolves around the story of Micheal Oher and the family that brought him into their home.  Micheal Oher is black and grew up the son of a drug addicted mother in the slums of Memphis Tennessee. He was separated from his family at the age of seven and had learned to cope with the hell he grew up in by closing his eyes and letting the past disappear. He was taken in by a privileged white family when he managed to obtain admission to a privileged white private school. This family loved him, provided for him, and believed in him. Eventually, just before he turned 18, adopting him and making him an official part of their family.



It could be that a film based heavily on a true story is, sub-consciously at least, more moving than fictional inspiration stories.  These based on life films about sports are quintessential tear jerkers that move me to want to be a more responsible, caring, engaged adult and parent.  I am a sucker for a success story and The Blind Side delivered a beautiful story based on the life, thus far, of Micheal Oher.  It is fair to say I had no idea who Oher was before we watched the movie, I have never seen him play football and if I had he would have been one more moron on the field.  But his story is truly inspiring and brings out the realization that children, no matter age or size, need a family who believes in them, is willing to sacrifice for them, is willing to protect them.

To be honest, for the most part on a strictly critical view it is an average film.  The script is just good enough and nothing about the directing makes it a special movie.  But Bullocks performance is singular in her career for the sincere depth, genuine belief, and pure focus she applied to the character of Leigh Anne Touhy.  Her performance reminds me, to some extent of John Waynes performance in True Grit, his Oscar winner.  One, standout, brilliant performance in a prolific career of mediocrity.

So, congratulations Sandra Bullock, you truly deserved your Oscar for The Blind Side.  Congratulations Micheal Oher, your story is inspiring and compelling and has changed, slightly, my perception of football players.  The Blind Side is not a movie that will trump all other inspirational movies but is heartfelt and genuine and worth a couple hours of your time.

Work vs. Work

Its strange being unemployed. Spending hours and days and weeks and finally months searching for work--editing resumes and cover letters, networking, bullshitting with people in your preferred industry or profession--and when work finally formalizes there is still the subtle dread of spending a day at work.

I believe that, as humans, we are created to work. To enter into co-creation with our creator to, erm, create something new. This is the base nature of work. Most jobs, in their purest sense, revolve around a new creation being set in motion to enter into society. It is a stretch for some of the products to fit this bill, but basically, work is a process of creation--it is doing something we are meant to be doing. I understand, believe, and pursue this goal. However it doesn't change the fact that going to work, irregardless of how long i have or have not been employed, still triggers a negative cognitive response. And, really, it is more the hanging feeling of disappointment or something very near it as I drive to a job after a long lay-off.

Now, the irony is that I want to work. I spend a lot of time and energy doing the job search thing and being unemployed has been extremely challenging so as work does come available it is a strange mental place I myself in. Confused and frustrated, it is hard to produce the best work available in this state. Not all work is like this for me, some projects come my way that are interesting and challenging and engaging in a unique way like building storm window frames or remodeling a garage that is on the verge of collapse. Fun, unique projects that stretch my imagination and broaden my skill sets. Others, like installing vents or finishing small framing projects are tedious and boring and no matter how much I need the work every fiber of my mind cries out to be finished.

When I work for the sake of working, take whatever job comes my way irregardless of the nature of the project, it is like a cancer in my conscience that darkness my mood quickly and dramatically. When I work at something that engages me creatively and draws on skills and abilities to learn new skills and abilities and uses unique applications of my experience and talents work becomes what it was meant to be all along: co-creation with the creator.

Unemployment: Reflections on Old Jobs.

It was July. School had been out long enough that the empty days stretched out like a hot vision in the desert, just out of reach and we sat around the coolest place we could find--the river, a basement, a park in the shade--waiting for summer jobs to come our way. Mostly, we waited for harvest, the lurid days behind the wheel of the little wheat trucks or the water truck didn't pay particularly high but after all the hours that got put in it paid well. But harvest was a ways away from the last day of school, so we waited, patiently, letting the boredom well up.

I don't remember how, exactly, Zach and I got the connection, but a mutual friend had a girlfriend whose mom's boyfriend had a couple of hay fields and he needed someone to buck bails for a couple of days. Our mutual friend couldn't help, football camp, or injury, or other commitments, I don't remember, but he would have been ankle high in the hay stubble if he could have been, I am sure of that.

Pendleton finds itself in a complicated setting. The Umatilla Indian Reservation stretches away to the east and the town itself is surrounded by wheat fields. Between Pendleton and Mission (the reservation town) is an awkward stretch of small farms and trailer parks littered in a wide, flat valley. It is sort of a purgatory between the Rez and Pendleton with a retirement home, views of the trees that grow thick around the river, a ready mix, train tracks, and acres upon acres of hay fields and pastures. Zach and I where in the middle of this no-man's land working for a guy named Todd with two old timers who were his hired hands: a tall Native American roper who road a tall buckskin horse and a drunk tractor driver who didn't do anything as far as I could tell at the time.

Hay fields in July are hot. From about 9:30 am to dark. There is no shade except the that the tuck and trailer cast stingily about and there is little time for rest. The bales weigh anywhere from 60 to 100lbs. and each one is thrown onto a trailer, by a guy in the field, and stacked by a guy on the trailer. The truck doesn't stop moving but crawls along the rows of bales in a big circle. Zach and I trotting beside pitching bales while the roper and the drunk took shifts stacking on the trailer. Todd didn't help, I don't think. At the very least, I don't remember him working much at all.

I'll be perfectly honest at this point and say I was happy for the distraction and there wasn't really that much hay to take care of. We probably move three or four tons the first day. Enough hard, physical labor to get our backs and arms sore, for sure, and we were tired on the drive home. But each of us, I am positive, counted the wages of the day, assumed it to be eight bucks an hour (the standard high school farm pay) and we were happy in the days work for 80 bucks. Time spent outside, in the company of interesting strangers, makin' a bit of cash. Good times. We arrived the next morning, 7 am, ready for more of the same.

We waited in front of Todd's trailer for a half hour before we knocked. He answered the door in his underwear. Fat beer belly pressed against the screen door, he was putrid with body odor and beer and asked for a few moments to get dressed. The hired help showed up shortly, Todd gave us the day's instructions then disappeared down the road, and the four of us went to work stacking hay. Loading it from one pile, driving down the road, and stacking it in another. Remember the scene in Cool Hand Luke when Luke is forced to dig a whole, then fill it, then dig it, then fill it? That's what moving hay feels like. It's heavy, its hot, we were sore and tired from the day before and the drunk slept behind the wheel between stops and the roper rubbed his sore elbows and Zach and I bucked up and bucked bales and made relatively short work of the hay. Napping on the drive from one stack to another, sweating in the heat of the sun, the heat of the truck, the heat of hay, and looking forward to some hard earned cash.

As we finished moving the hay, Todd appeared with a sack full of cold drinks. Soda's for Zach and I (I learned full refreshing value of Squirt that day) beer for the old men. We sat on piles of hay and let the sun finish its damage on our skin, the heat seeping into us, restful in the knowledge of finality. We drove back to the trailer, the drunk and the roper walked to the horse pen and started getting ready for roping practice.

Todd gave us each a 50 dollar bill before he disappeared into the trailer. We looked at each other and silently left. Zach's bronco kicked up the dust as we drove slowly back to the paved road. We made three dollars thirty-three cents an hour.

We didn't talk about it and I never bucked bales again.

The World Cup Ends.

So, it is finished. The Dutch and the Spanish faced off in Johannesburg, South Africa, for the world cup final and after 117 minutes of intriguing soccer, the Spanish scored to win the game. I say intriguing in the sense that the game really hinged on tactical prowess. How were the Dutch going to stifle the open, possession game of the Spanish and how would the Spaniards, in turn, nullify the efficient Dutch attack. The Dutch kicked the Spanish off the field and the Spaniards did what they do: patiently pass the ball back and forth until the opening comes. It took a long time to find the opening but it appeared and with two touches--a sublime chipped pass from Fabregas and a cool finish from Iniesta--the Spaniards became world champions.

It is not a classic game. Barely a shadow of the final of 2006 (Zindane going mental, remember?) and that one was hardly the stuff highlights tapes are based upon. I missed the Dutch team that punished Brazil barely two weeks ago. As turns would have the petulance and disrespect exhibited by the Brazilians in their loss was contagious and the Dutch exhibited the same degree of ignorance and selfish complaining.

Referee Webb is not blameless, not at all. His officiating is poor at best and is almost a mirror of the English game. Is this the best the English can offer?

So, it is finished. The hours and hours of soccer have come to a halt. The readily availability of the worlds finest talent has been taken away and soon the worlds best soccer talent will be swept away to specialty channels and odd times and I will be following it all online, no more games at the local watering hole or shared with family friends. Soon the punditry will peter out and I will be left with the grim realization that all in the world is much the same as it was a month ago.

I had half expected a magnanimous change in response to the showcase of the world's game. To emerge, somehow, better and improved and in a place of ambition and promise. But, to be honest, nothing has changed. I polished the bar at the Copper Hog and held down a couple of tables at Coconut Kenny's and consumed mass amounts of other peoples thoughts and insights on the teams of the world. But tomorrow I face the same challenges and fears I had to face a month ago...a week ago...yesterday.

A fun distraction that has come to an end. It was fun while it lasted.

World Cup Final

The finalists for the world cup have been decided and on Sunday an eighth team will be added to the exclusive list of world cup winners. My heart is with the Dutch. Unspectacular and coldly efficient they have waltzed through this world cup undefeated and dangerous. Making the most of their players and strengths, the Ducth have nullified the teams they've faced, been backed by excellent goal keeping, and the unity and team work on the team is a rarity among the Dutch egos that usually find themselves named on the team. But Spain may be the safe bet.

The Spanish have controlled each game they've played even if they haven't looked exceptionally dangerous. The problem with beating the Spanish: teams have not been able to make the most of the rare mistakes the Spanish defense has made and the Spaniards have made the most of bits of genius from David Villa and company. Even with a unfit Torres acting as an unreliable liability the Spanish have contrived to win games with disciplined patience and a fluid passing game that is as much a keep away training exercise as it is game plan. It was sad to watch the Germans fall to the Spanish passing machine, the final team that had played a fast, flowing, direct attacking game that resulted in high scoring and passionate soccer.

I'm looking forward to the final on Sunday, after a month of waiting, the final two teams have been, across the board, the best.