MonkeyFight

Cracking Chat Roulette

A short film by the Neistat Brothers’ inspired me to explore Chat Roulette a few nights ago. For those of you who don’t know: Chat Roulette is a site that allows you to video chat with random people all over the world. With the click of a button a person appears on your computer screen. You can either chat with the person or move to the next person with the click of your mouse; this is called ‘nexting’ someone. Chat Roulette is largely populated by lonely guys hoping to glimpse a woman and/or expose their johnsons.  So there is a lot of nexting going on.

 I went on the site and watched a few faces appear and disappear as if my screen was an eye that conjured someone new with each blink. The experience was perfectly dehumanizing and potentially depressing.  There’s also something about the aesthetics of communicating with single anonymous guys via webcam that makes you assume a johnson is just around the corner. 

On a whim, I wrote an opening line - ‘I REFUSE TO NEXT ANYONE! ANYONE!!’ - to paste into the text box before I could be nexted.  It felt like a defiant gesture - some sort of dare.

 I watched the first guy read the sentence.  It seemed he was translating the words in his head. He could be anywhere in the world after all. Then he laughed and gave two thumbs up. Turns out he was Argentinean, sitting in his living room in Buenos Aires.  He told me he was new to Roulette and was glad to meet good people.  When we were done chatting he flashed me...the peace sign. Then I chatted for a while with a 16 year old kid in China who told me his English was not strong. I told him I once taught English to Chinese students in Brooklyn and then referred him to some ESOL sites. He told me I was an excellent teacher. I love Chinese students.  Next I chatted with a guy in Maryland who loved my opening line so much he vowed to spread it across Chat Roulette. I encouraged the idea but asked for a footnote.

I was a bit uncomfortable about it, but in the name of science I even put The Boy on camera at one point. Onscreen were a few 20-something guys who had the sort of amped energy that went with chugging beers and beating nerds but not necessarily in that order. Score one for humanity: when they saw The Boy they cheered and said he was cute. I like to think The Boy saved a nerd that day.

I still got nexted a lot but mostly by people who disappeared so quickly I couldn’t even send my message. And I had less success with a pink stuffed animal and a guy who was dangling from a noose above an upturned chair.  But for the most part people responded well.

The funniest encounter happened when the screen went completely black and these words appeared on my screen: get naked.

I responded in kind: I REFUSE TO NEXT ANYONE! ANYONE!!

The conversation continued as follows copied verbatim from my screen. My responses are in CAPS:

get naked

I WON’T NEXT ANYONE!

Get Naked

DONT BE A COWARD. BESIDES I AM NAKED. MY SKIN LOOKS LIKE FLANNEL [ed. I was wearing a flannel]

Get naked

YOU ARE BLACK AS NIGHT - NO OFFENSE

let me see your dick

I LOST IT - WHERE ARE YOU?

next me - my mouse doesnt work

I REFUSE. I TOLD YOU I REFUSE TO NEXT PEOPLE. BESIDES I THINK WE'RE GETTING ALONG WELL.

next me

FOR CRYING OUT LOUD - YOU SHOW UP TO CHAT ROULETTE

next me

WITH NO CAMERA & NO MOUSE
AND YOU ASK FOR DICK?!
SORRY CHARLIE, YOU'RE GONNA HAVE TO REBOOT YOUR COMPUTER. WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER
im on on my ipod

THEN IT'S A STARING CONTEST. WHERE ARE YOU?
in new mexico. cmon next me

OK I'LL CUT YOU A BREAK BUT YOU HAVE TO SAY PLEASE
Please

NEXT

My adventure with Chat Roulette was exhilarating. I felt like I’d made an inroad into the dynamics of the site and it ultimately reinforced my love of the humans. By telling people I wouldn’t next them I was essentially inviting them to take pause. I was letting them know I would give them a chance. Stay awhile. I was also poking fun at the compulsive nexting everyone was doing. People seemed to appreciate that too.

Unfortunately, women can’t really expect to go on Chat Roulette without being aggressively harassed.  If a woman were to attempt this same experiment she would get a glimpse into a perverted corner of the male psyche that would either boggle her mind or confirm her worst fears.  Someone should figure out how to do a Women’s Only Chat Roulette.  Just footnote me on it. 

chat roulette from Casey Neistat on Vimeo.

  

 

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The Typo Project

Step away from your blog for a few weeks and Egypt falls to the revolution. I should go on vacation more often.

I just noticed two typos in the first paragraph of an article by Jeopardy genius Ken Jennings on Slate. In the article, Jennings describes what it was like to compete against a computer by the name of Watson.  I refuse to link to it because, as previously stated, there are two typos in the first paragraph. I stopped reading at that point so I may never know what Ken has to say about going head to head with a machine.  

Slate is one of the more respected online sites for whatever it is they do so I was particularly distressed to come across such amateurism. It yanked my ire especially hard because I’ve been re-reading Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style this week - last night even - and I’ve been charmed and inspired by ‘the little book’ about writing. E.B. White’s essay An Approach to Style is particularly inspiring when describing the experience of  writing: 

Writing is, for most, laborious and slow. The mind travels faster than the pen; consequently, writing becomes a question of learning to make occasional wing shots, bringing down the bird of thought as it flashes by.  A writer is a gunner, sometimes waiting in the blind for something to come in, sometimes roaming the countryside hoping to scare something up. Like other gunners, the writer must cultivate patience, working many covers to bring down one partridge. 

I found this to be an evocative and accurate description of my experience as a writer since I never sit down to write without my 20 Gauge Browning Pump Shotgun.  Like Watson the supercomputer it is a legendary workhorse, but unlike Watson it's crafted from forged steel and fine walnut.

The errors in Slate are hardly rare; I see more typos than ever across major sites like The New York Times and Wired and Girls Who Went Wild Going Wild Again. I assume this is in part because of the speed with which content has to be produced and posted in the digital age. Even these blog entries leave me with an uncomfortable hurried feeling and I post about as fast as a carrier pigeon with a dial-up connection.

I simply can't raise my son in a world that accepts so many careless mistakes. Since The Boy's birth I've already started saying, 'I'm doing well' instead of 'I'm doing good'.  But the time has come for bolder action. I hereby propose The Typo Project, a global initiative in which readers alert media organizations of their typos.  The flood of phone calls, emails, letters, tweets, retweets, and pokes will let them know the People are watching, and organizations of good conscience will raise the bar accordingly. Organizations of bad conscience will rue the day! Somebody start a Facebook page already. The movement might not be as sexy as Tahir Square but it’s a start.

Regardless of The Typo Project's success and the money, fame, and power it brings me, this experience has proved that I should no longer sit in front of my computer reading Ken Jennings’ meditation on competing against a computer. Otherwise, the computers have already won.

***

Ed. Note: Those individuals concerned about the Slate proofreader who might be fired due to my outrage should be reassured:  I don’t care if the kid loses the job.  For Christ’s sake I want the job (as long as it’s high pay and low hours) (and I can make my own schedule) (actually, never mind I’ve got shit to do).

I Want to Live in an Obama Speech

I want to live in an Obama speech. He knocks 'em out of the park. Don't get me wrong - he’s terrible at baseball; his opening day pitch was only a little better than his attempt at bowling, but when it comes to orating, the guy hits home runs.  And he’s too skinny to be on ‘roids, so he’s got to be legit.

They say talk is cheap but with him it’s cheap and it’s good. True bang for your buck - even if you don’t like his politics (and if you don’t - come on, who would you rather put in the White House? I mean honestly, who would you rather have in the White House than Barack Obama? If you have no answer then I suggest you hunker down and help him dig us out of this freakin’ hole).

Needless to say, I thought his memorial address in Tuscon was impressive. Although, am I the only one who found the smiling and clapping a little creepy? I suppose people needed a certain amount of that, not to mention that when 14,000 people get together to listen to Barry string words together they're gonna clap, but still, I found it utterly surreal at one point when he said:

We are grateful for the men who tackled the gunman as he stopped to reload. We are grateful for a petite 61 year-old, Patricia Maisch, who wrestled away the killer's ammunition...

It sounded like a logline from TV Guide. And then everybody cheered and clapped and he smiled and clapped along as if someone had just scored a Bingo.

Anyway, the address was terrific. He spoke of healing and humility and empathy, he quoted Scripture, he said "life partner" along with husband and wife - a little something for everybody. His words about death were poignant and familiar to my own experience. Whenever I’ve been close to death I marvel at how the world slows down, the same world that moments before seemed to be moving so impossibly fast. When someone dies, suddenly nothing else is very important.

After all, that's what most of us do when we lose somebody in our family - especially if the loss is unexpected. We're shaken out of our routines. We're forced to look inward. We reflect on the past: Did we spend enough time with an aging parent, we wonder. Did we express our gratitude for all the sacrifices that they made for us? Did we tell a spouse just how desperately we loved them, not just once in a while but every single day?

Barack would’ve been proud of me yesterday morning. I realized I was heading out the door in a foul mood so I turned around to spread some sugar around the apartment – to The Wife, both dogs, and The Boy –just in case I got killed by a snowplow before I could make it back home. I didn't exactly tell The Wife I desperately loved her, but it was an improvement on the grunt I'd given her moments earlier. 

Obama also spoke to The Big Idea as I like to call it, an idea that courses through every religion and every school yard; the idea that we should treat people well, treat people as we would want to be treated, an idea that I believe is embedded in our DNA despite all the contradictory evidence.

We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another, that's entirely up to us...We recognize our own mortality, and we are reminded that in the fleeting time we have on this Earth, what matters is not wealth, or status, or power, or fame - but rather, how well we have loved - and what small part we have played in making the lives of other people better.

 Maybe I'm biased but I like having a writer in the White House. I think words matter so I'm glad our president is articulate and capable of nuanced thought. And that is not a dig at our last president. It would be inappropriate to take a cheap shot like that while the country's rhetorical seas are changing for the better. Nor is it a dig at Sarah Palin, who I'm sure has been surprised by the amount of heat she's been catching for using the term 'blood libel'.  What people have to understand is that she uses that term more casually than most history books and dictionaries.  It's just a term she uses around the house like, "Jeez, Bristol, replace the batteries. Don't make a blood libel out of it." It's not her fault. I mean it. She makes words up. We can all stop listening to her.

I recommend reading the text of Obama's address. (And for that matter, have you read his race speech lately?!  It truly makes me feel both hopey and changey.)  With all the short form writing that occurs in blogs, tweets, and text messages, his speeches are an opportunity to read well-crafted, inspired pieces of writing that are longer than 140 characters.  I'll end with just six here, one for each of those slain in Arizona: R.I.P.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Shooting

In this country, we currently have murderous political rhetoric, paper thin gun control, weak mental health services, and a profit-driven media that chases ratings as hungrily as American Idol.  We also have some really good things, but I’m focused on the problems at the moment. There are so many angles on this totally unsurprising tragedy I don’t know where to begin.

I was on the NYTimes website when the shooting occurred so I first read that Giffords was dead only to watch as the facts gradually arrived.  Back in the old days journalism used to be a bit more cautious with their reporting, but now our fancy New Media gets scoops first and facts second.

Some people will brush this aside as the act of a lone lunatic. But when politicians use scare tactics they have an especially large impact on people who are already scared or unbalanced or insane or paranoid. People at the podium or pulpit have to take responsibility for their words by acknowledging that their audience includes unstable people who are prone to violence. If they use violent words and images, if they speak in apocalyptic language, a certain percentage of listeners will take it too far. As Sheriff Dupnick said, people with mental issues “are especially susceptible to vitriol”. There may be free speech, he said, but “it is not without consequences”. Perhaps the politicians will say this is the price for free speech.

Since we’ve had Senate Hearings about the effect rap music and death metal has on our precious, vulnerable youth how about we have some hearings to investigate the effect murderous political rhetoric has on our society. Maybe we’ll find that the most rabid Senators and pundits have been listening to rap music and it’s turned them violent. (On a side note: imagine if the Tea Party was an African American movement. Imagine the media and social response if huge crowds of black people were organized, armed, and screaming about changing the government. That's all - just imagine it.)

In the aftermath of the shooting, I heard a lot of people say that we need to pray. Politicians, family and friends of the victims, witnesses to the crime - it seemed like everyone spoke of the need to pray. Prayer's all right by me. It calms the mind, helps a person gather their strength, conjures their faith - all helpful stuff especially at a time of tragedy. But I've yet to hear anyone talk about anything tangible and substantive in response to the attack.  In 1997 after a school shooting in Scotland that left 16 kids and 1 adult dead, the U.K. almost completely banned handguns. I'm not suggesting anything remotely as extreme as that.  I'm not suggesting anything at the moment really.  But I am saying that if any of this is going to change we're going to have to do a hell of a lot more than pray.

 

THE IGNORANT BLISS

It looks like Jamie Stewart, the guy who did Man in a Blizzard, is having his day and then some.  His story's a good reminder to artists to stay active and do the work despite the challenging speculative nature of it all.  Here's a guy who went out with his camera in the middle of the blizzard when nobody was telling him to or paying him to do it and it's proving to be his big break.

When I wrote of Stewart's film I mentioned that both my recent walk in the blizzard and his film made me feel all warm and human inside. So I thought I'd use this opportunity to post the short film I made with John Hyams which premiered at Palm Springs International Shortfest this year. It's called The Ignorant Bliss of Sun and Moon.  For me, it's always been a film about the human experience - or less pretentiously said - all the ups and downs and confusion of it all. The title refers to the occasional moments of bliss that catch us off guard and stir us in one way or another, make us feel small but in a good way - or make us feel small and big at the same time.

As a new parent, I occasionally wonder how I might talk to The Boy about topics such as these - topics revolving around inspiration and consciousness and his place in the universe.  Maybe I'll start by getting some life-sized toys in the house so he doesn't think he towers over elephants and lions. I mean, is he going to forever think he can put a hippopotmus in his mouth?  Isn't this preceisely why there are so many deadly hippo attacks in the wild?  Babies who play with tiny toy hippos must grow up to be clueless tourists in Africa who attempt to hug the adorable and murderous animals.

In any case, The Ignorant Bliss of Sun and Moon is in some ways about a guy struggling with his place in the universe.  Like a lot of people (i.e. me) he's a bit confused and overwhelmed by it all so he cycles between bouts of self-destruction and momentary bliss.  So if you've got six minutes to spare...

 

 

Man in a Blizzard

I took a walk in Prospect Park by myself during last week's blizzard. It was one of those blissful experiences I try to hold onto and duplicate as often as possible. 

Sometimes when you find yourself alone you're in trouble. Particularly when that moment occurs in a bar between the hours of 3-4am and you can smell gin when you cough or sneeze. But sometimes when you find yourself alone you're doing something very right. That night in the blizzard was one of those nights. I walked for 30 minutes through blinding wind and snow headed toward the tree where my brothers and I spread my father's ashes a year and a half ago (unless that's illegal in which case I've embellished the story for dramatic purposes).  My dad was born and raised in Brooklyn, a few blocks from the park.  I currently live 1.1 miles from the building in which he was raised by his Italian immigrant parents. When I was growing up, he would occasionally declare, "I grew up in Prospect Park!" He would say it with pride even though my brothers and I had no idea what Prospect Park was.  I know what Prospect Park is now.

The night of the blizzard, the park was completely empty, and in a densely populated place like Brooklyn that felt real good.  When I got to his tree I looked up at its branches, skeletal in the light of the park's old lamp posts.  I imagined my dad chuckling, shaking his head, and then telling me to get inside to warm up. So I headed home.

Tonight I watched this short video "Man in a Blizzard" (aka "Idiot with a Tripod") that was shot the very same night. It puts images to what I was feeling in the park. According to The Hollywood Reporter, it was shot in the middle of the blizzard by Jamie Stewart, a "random New Yorker" (aren't we all random New Yorkers here?). It's getting some attention thanks to the resilient Mr. Roger Ebert, who thinks the film should win the Academy Award for Best Live Action Short. I don't know about all that, but I did find the simple beauty of the video captured what it's like to wander around on planet earth. Check it out below.

Oh - I'd forgotten until now that when I got home from the walk that night I did a naked jig on our roof deck as the inches (of snow) accumulated. Not even Google could locate a video that reflected that.  It was sort of like if Jerry Lewis did porn. My dance was a bit less graceful and poetic than my walk in the park but equally inspired. I just hope there weren't any "random New Yorkers" pointing their cameras in my direction.

 

Great Song or Greatest Song?

As part of my effort to create more kinetic earnings as a writer, I’m penning a little gem in the romantic comedy genre.  Or as people in the biz say - romedy-rom-comedy-rom genre.

So I’ve been watching some romantic comedies in order to grease my romantically comedic  comedically romantic  funny bone.  I watched Pillow Talk last night with Mr. Rock Hudson and Ms. Doris Day. It’s about a guy who gets laid all the time by beautiful women who then decides he’d like to bag the beautiful, smart, lonely woman upstairs (Doris Day’s character). So he tricks her into falling in love with him so he can try to get in her pants. 

I've never been good at pitching a story but that's the jist.

Anyway, I enjoyed it and it left me feeling like I don't watch enough of the classics. These iconic actors like Rock Hudson and Doris Day (or Douglas Kennedy and Marguerite Chapman) really do have the old school chemistry, the magic that Ben Affleck has finally given up on so he can go from being a hugely successful actor to a hugley successful director. AFFLECK! Your unbridled, shameless success haunts me still!!

Anyway, the absolute best part of Pillow Talk comes when Rock and Doris are hanging at a piano bar and the piano player starts playing the song Roly Poly.  Doris Day is delightful - there - I've said it.  And it’s the best song I’ve heard in a while so I thought I'd share it. I'm thinking it should probably be the global theme song for 2011. I've played it for The Boy a few times now and if I dance around and get in his face while the song is playing he starts cracking up like it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.  So that's two recommendations by my count.

The image quality here is sucky but check it out:

   

    

Two Thousand Ten

 

My 2010 deserves a wrap up.  It was a big one. 

I got married.

 

The Boy was born.

 

   

 

And then I turned 40 without yet being obese or bald

(the bald one is Enrico).

 
 

On the work front...

Two TV pilots I wrote, The War Show (a one hour drama) and The Suite Spot (a half hour comedy), have been shown around a little town called Hollywood and have gotten a good to great reaction depending who you ask. The Suite Spot (which I developed with my friend & collaborator Mac Montandon) will be sent to networks in January. A short film I wrote (The Ignorant Bliss of Sun and Moon) premiered at the Palm Springs International Shortfest and is being considered for other festivals now. My feature film script Brickhead (which I developed with friend & collaborator Matthew Bonifacio who will direct the film) is well on its way to production, anticipating a July shoot date in Detroit.  We're partnered with producer Jordan Horowitz. Then of course there's this blog which has been a fun addition to my life. 

By most measures it’s been a big year.  I'm going to take a deep breath and head into 2011 with renewed energy to enjoy my family and my friends and do work that matters to me.

On With The Monkey Fight...

 

Blizzard Gizzard

The City finally has the snow under control. A plow came down our street this morning, burying the cars that had been dug out over the past few days. And then there was the true measure that the hardships of the blizzard have come to an end: The Boy and I saw the first discarded chicken bone since the snow arrived.

It was perched in a snow bank just out of reach from Moose, my fifteen year old, handsome-as-ever dog. In his younger years (age 1 month-12 years) he would have lept the two feet to the top of the snowbank and been crunching bone before I could even tighten the leash. But this morning he just strained at the end of his leash, his snout longingly taking in the scent of greasey chicken flesh mixed with the crisp winter air.

I imagined he was remembering all the great food he's snatched off the sidewalks over the years. And there's been a lot: chicken bones, pizza crusts, half sandwiches, mysterious food wrapped in tin foil. For most of his life, I would fight with him to release the culinary treats he'd found. More than once I've grabbed the end of a pork chop bone that was clamped between his jaws as if it was a greasy door handle.  During those struggles, he must have been convinced that we were in direct competition for survival. After all, he was out scavenging for food and I was pulling it out of his mouth. And then, to his horror, I would throw the food back into the street. It's amazing he listens to anything I say after seeing that sort of behavior.

Chicken bones are the bane of urban dog owner's lives (except when pigeons are eating the meat off the bone which most people agree is grotesquely entertaining). They seem to be everywhere and it's often said they can be lethal since chicken bones can splinter and get caught in the dog's wind pipe. That said, Moose is 15 years old and he's eaten about 147 chicken bones over the years and he's never so much as had to clear his throat after eating one. So these days if I suddenly hear a satisfied crunching from Moose, I get less stressed about it. Instead I think, 'Well done, old man. You've still got it.' 

Anyway, we've got quite the cycle of life in the household between Moose's whopping fifteen years on the planet (that's 105 to you and me) and Enrico's measly four months. With New Year's Eve upon us it's like we've got our very own Father Time and Baby New Year in the house. 

I've learned a lot from Moose over the years - he's smart and strong, enthusiastic and resilient - all traits I'll encourage as a parent. But I'll still wrestle a dirty chicken bone from The Boy's mouth if he finds one on the sidewalk or playground.  I don't care what Moose says - that's nasty.

 

 

Fatherese

The Boy has definitely been smiling at The Wife more than me lately.  I denied it at first - thought it was a figment of my imagination.  But the more I paid attention, the more obvious it became – she was getting more grins.

I chalked it up to breastfeeding at first.  After all, those are clearly some blissful bonding moments. But suddenly this hardly seemed fair. Who knew how this would affect my relationship with The Boy? I started to worry I’d be chasing his elusive smile for the rest of my life.  Always accommodating him, always caving to his demands in hopes of seeing that smile that would make me feel important and relevant in his world. I’d be like the U.N. Security Council. I couldn’t give up without a fight.

I spent a day jerry rigging a harness that held a feeding bottle at the exact angle of The Wife’s breast. When I was done it seemed functional but looked like I was wearing some sort of fetish gear for people who want to be told they're naughty.  Regardless, when I finally tried it out on The Boy, a chest hair poked him in the eye and he started wailing.

I had to change tack. If The Wife was going to provide nutrition and comfort then, I decided, I could provide entertainment. At first I kept it to the basics. I walked up to him as if everything was perfectly normal, and then I pretended to be surprised. Like, “Oh, my God, what happened?” (which is pretty much how I feel as I go about my day).  That got him to raise his eyebrows but no smile. Then I pretended there was a fly buzzing around the room so I twisted my head around and around until I had to sit down to steady myself (also something I have to do quite frequently throughout the day). The fly routine got the dogs interested for a few minutes but The Boy was unimpressed.

To up the ante, I borrowed a few tricks from the timeless and mysterious art of pantomime.  I waited for The Wife to leave the apartment and then I got to work. I was hoping to paint my face white, but all we had in the house was the purple outdoor paint we used on our fence.  I hesitated until I saw we had turpentine.  And just to be extra careful I only used one coat.

Once the paint dried, I got into my black leotard that I don’t often talk about, and I headed for The Boy’s room. He couldn’t suckle my teat but I could put on a show!  I found him with his entire right hand in his mouth and his eyes locked on his feet. Tough crowd.  When he finally noticed me, I leapt into action.  I pulled on the invisible rope, I moved my hands along the invisible wall, I even ad-libbed by pretending to raise and lower the curtains. I got nothing.  Even if he knew how to clap the sound would have been deadened by that soggy right hand.

While I waited for my face to stop burning from the turpentine, I picked up a book I’d been ignoring for weeks:  Touchpoints by T. Berry Brazelton. It’s about the emotional and behavioral development of children from birth to three years old.  To my surprise the book fell open to a section on communication and ‘motherese’:  “the soft, gentle, high-pitched baby talk” which apparently lets your baby know he should pay attention to you.   Brazleton says that motherese helps the baby save precious energy by ignoring the other adults in the room (a skill we could all use especially around the holidays). “All right, Dr. Brazleton,” I thought. “Assuming that’s your real name...”

It was worth a shot.

I started talking to The Boy in a high-pitched voice that landed somewhere between The Nanny and a balloon being relieved of its helium.  I immediately got The Dog's attention again.  My 15 year-old mutt hobbled out of bed to find a quieter place to sleep. And he’s deaf. Anyway, within seconds, right on cue, The Boy, good ol' Enrico, gave me a big smile. Even a few squeaky laughs followed by more smiles as I kept talking to him in motherese fatherese.

What a relief. Now I figure I’m only a few months behind The Wife with regard to bonding with The Boy.  But I figure if I talk in that helium voice every waking moment for the next few months I should be able to catch up before he gets to daycare where all sorts of other high-pitched voices will vie for his attention.