my obligatory hunger games post

I’d heard that Suzanne Collins was watching TV, flipping back and forth between some reality TV show and coverage of the war in Afghanistan or Iraq or wherever we’re waging war these days. Maybe it was one night. Maybe it was over several days or weeks or months. In any case, she eventually realized that she couldn’t really tell the difference, and she started to ask, “What if they were the same? What if war was reality television?” Answer: The Hunger Games.

I enjoyed the first book. I read it in two nights, but only because I started it too late the first night. (I’m 38, which explains why I couldn’t stay up too late, and it’s also relevant to this story later.)  Based on what I understood about Collins’ motivation, I actually considered the book important. Then I read Catching Fire, which I thought was okay, but not great. And based on what I experienced of the first book, I thought the second was unnecessary. Still, I read it in three nights.

My second favorite professor in college taught me that I didn’t have to finish a book I didn’t like. (Allison, Alex, and Tom - if by some miracle he’s reading this – will back me up on this.) Presumably this advice applies to trilogies, but still I read Mockingjay. Pretty sure I read it in four nights. Meh.

All that to say: I think The Hunger Games is an interesting, and maybe even important, text. It raises (not poses) a lot of interesting questions about the nature of entertainment, voyeurism, war, adolescence, objectification, etc…but lots of books do that. The Hunger Games has managed to become something other than important. It has become a cultural phenomenon. 

The Hunger Games opened three weeks ago. It immediately became the number one movie in the country and hasn’t let up, having grossed over $315 million in just 21 days. That’s a lot of money in a hurry. For the first few days, Facebook was littered with status updates (including my own) offering some sort of commentary on the film. Jennifer Lawrence was all over the internets. The film itself was praised and panned by whoever decided to have an opinion about it, which was everybody.

I saw The Hunger Games with my 11 year-old fake-niece the night it opened.  We got there an hour before midnight and were lucky to get a decent seat. She had a crisp $20 bill so we decided to see how much junk food and soda we could acquire. We made fun of the dummies in Team Peeta t-shirts. (Everyone knows Team Cinna is the way to go.) And we debated whether the movie would be better than the book. The lights went down and we sat patiently through 20 minutes of previews. Finally the movie. Three hours later, I was tired. (I’m 38.)

What did I think about the movie? I thought it was a movie made for teenagers based on a book written for teenagers. Was it good? Sure. Was it great? No. My fake-niece loved it. I loved that she loved it. We talked about it the whole way home. Well, she talked about it. Non-stop. At 3:00 in the morning.

To be honest, I’m not sure I have a fully formed opinion about the book or the movie. (Though I’m deliberately avoiding the word “film”.) Even if I could write some stuff, I’m not sure I would. There’s nothing I could write that hasn’t been written already. And in any case, you’re probably already committed to your opinion, whether you’ve read the book or seen the movie, or not.

You’ve probably already decided that it’s too violent. Or that it’s poorly written. Or that it’s the greatest thing since To Kill A Mockingbird. You may have declared that Katniss is great example of a post-feminist hero. Or that she’s a narcissistic sociopath.  In either case, you probably think Jennifer Lawrence is a little to old too play the part and that they should have cast someone with olive skin. You might be on Team Peeta or Team Gale. You might be fundamentally opposed to literature that features children killing children. (But you still read Lord of the Flies.) Anyway, you probably already know what you think. I’m not going to change that.

I will say this. You’re almost certainly a grown-up. And the book wasn’t written for you. The movie isn’t for you either. It’s for my fake-niece. She’s read the trilogy 3-4 times. Can we agree for just a moment that the most important part of that last sentence is the verb? An 11 year-old read a book. Multiple times. Can we celebrate that for a moment?

No matter what you think The Hunger Games is about, you’re probably wrong. And it wouldn’t matter if you were right. What matters is what my fake-niece thinks and whether or not she has a safe place to think those things out loud. Whether her fake-uncle or real-mom or teacher or librarian can help her think critically about whatever the book or the movie stirs up in her. Because this particular cultural phenomenon is going to come and go. Another one will replace it, and what’s most important is that our children have the courage and the permission to engage them thoughtfully.

As grown-ups, I think we should care a lot less about The Hunger Games and a lot more about the kids for whom this is an important piece of their world. And I think we need a little bit of a gut check about how invested we are in a story that just happens to be about kids killing kids.

What if we turned our attention and our resources to the places in our world where kids are actually killing other kids? What could $315 million do then?

a: attachment & addiction

Attachment. Addiction. Maybe not the first two words you associate with marriage.

Attachment is usually associated with parenting, but lately it has creeped into the marriage vernacular. In both cases it boils down to a single question: “Do you love _____ more than me?”

Children ask it unconsciously for years and years, and years. I have a unique attachment experience with both of my daughters and I’m quite curious about the long term impact on those relationships; but for now, I’m writing about marriage because your spouse is also asking, “Do you love _____ more than me?”

Addiction. Whatever is in the _____ is the thing your spouse fears most. And it’s probably the thing you fear most. Whether it’s alcohol or pornography or shopping or shoplifting or exercise or work or church or the internet or another man or another woman or whatever, it’s something.

And something is keeping you from attaching. More importantly, it’s keeping you from love. Love of your spouse. Love of your kids. Love of your self.

Addiction is the opposite of attachment. At least it’s the opposite of healthy attachment. Heathy attachment is the byproduct of a relationship built on trust. Unhealthy attachment – addiction – is based on a lie. The lie is that _____ will be there for you in your hour of need.

It’ll be there, for sure. But not for you.
Your addiction doesn’t love you. It loves being loved by you.

The one who loves you…the one who will be there for you in your hour of need, is the one who is assured. Attached. They don’t ask “Do you love ____ more than me?”

Because they know – they really know – that the answer is “No”.

The work of a marriage is the work of saying “yes” to your spouse. Not the empty “yes” of a sit-com husband or a tragically submissive wife. Instead it’s the “Yes” that says, “I trust you.” It’s the yes that attaches one to another and says, “What’s good for you is good for both of us.” It’s the yes that says, “I love you more than _____”

the abc’s of marriage

When I committed to writing about marriage once a week for a year, I started with two basic truths:

1. I am not an expert.
2. I have at least 52 thoughts about the topic.

That said, it’s been difficult to find a rhythm with regard to how and what to write. But I think I’ve come up with a plan. I’m going to use the alphabet to help. It’s not super-original, but I think it’ll work. Check this out:

running & writing

Two days ago, on Sunday, spring pretended to arrive in Seattle and I decided it would be a good day to take up running again. I ran 2.89 miles in a little under 30 minutes. Not a very impressive pace, but further and faster than I’ve run in over 5 years. I used to run quite a bit and I actually enjoyed it.

A few days before Sunday, I remembered how much I enjoyed it, and without thinking about it too much, I declared that I would run another marathon before I turned 40. I like saying “another” because it lets all of you know that I’ve done it before. In fact I’ve done it twice before. But that guy wasn’t really me. It was mid-twenties me, on mid-twenties legs.

Today is Tuesday and my late-thirties legs hurt. There’s a spot on my right leg, just above my kneecap that doesn’t hurt, but other than that I’m in an embarrassing amount of pain. But I’m hoping I can run again on Thursday. I really want to. And I really want to finish another marathon. 40 year-old me wants to have run 3 marathons. I just need a little help. I need my legs to be kind. I need some wind at my back. I need my wife to stop rolling her eyes at me. And I need zombies. But mostly I just need to run.

I’ve used this space to write about running as a metaphor for marriage, but in this space in particular, it’s also a metaphor for my writing. I have a pretty ambitious plan for 2012. I wanted to write twice a week. And I promised that half my posts would be about marriage.

As it turns out, my writing muscles area about as atrophied as my running muscles. It’s not that I don’t want to write. Or even that I can’t. It’s just that, despite my best intentions, writing stuff hurts more than I thought it would. I can think stuff all day long. I’ve got a card catalog filled with ideas. I write entire posts in my head that never make it into this space.

Over the last few weeks, here are a few of the things I didn’t write about:

• Kony 2012: Too bad that story ended up being about something other than children being converted to soldiers.
• Hunger Games: I read the book, saw the movie, read a whole lot of commentary. I have some thoughts.
• New Girl: Zoe Deschanel made me cry. Actually, her show made me cry. Actually it was a guy on the show, Nick, that made me cry.
• Politics on Facebook: Had a pretty cool online “conversation” with a friend about how to engage civil discourse online.

(Here’s a mini-test to see if anyone is still reading: If you care what I think about any of the topics above, send me an email, or comment, or whatever and lemme know. I’m happy to send along some thoughts.)

In the meantime, my legs still hurt, and my writing muscles still need some exercise. But I’m committed to running and writing. I’ve actually laid out a plan for my next few marriage posts. It has to do with the alphabet, and I’m publishing that tomorrow. Also, I’m planning to run again on Thursday.

Stay tuned.

beware the ides of march

The 15th of March. Forever tethered to betrayal. It’s the unluckiest of days. Excepting perhaps Friday the 13th. Or Saturday the 14th, truly one of the most memorable movies from my childhood. Actually, I don’t remember much about the movie, but I remember that it was innovative and interesting and ironic. And that it healed the random, insignificant wound that Jason Voorhees represented.

But, I digress…

It’s March. And it’s the 15th. This year, it fell on a Thursday. On this particular Thursday, I have a swollen face. My left cheek is puffy and I have some kind of irritation on my forehead. My bride thinks I have cancer of the face. But I had lunch with a doctor friend today and he says I just have a inflamed salivary gland and maybe a staph infection or an ingrown hair on my forehead.  And that the two things are unrelated.  Phew.

I’m fortunate that I have gone through most of my life without experiencing the sting of betrayal. To be sure, I’ve done my fair share of betraying, but for the most part, I’ve been spared Brutus’ dagger. Until now.

Today, I am aware that I am Caesar. Betrayed by the man closest to me. Me.

I am Brutus, or at least my body is. My body is betraying me with a swollen face, chronically fragile hamstrings, and a score of extra pounds.

What do you do when you wield the dagger that wounds?

On March 15th, 2012, what do I do with the fact that, at 38, my body doesn’t work the same way it did at 18? What do I do with the fact that, at 38, I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up? What do I do with the fact that, at 38, I’m still afraid of Jason Voorhees, but I’m actually the guy behind the hockey mask?

I may start by putting Saturday the 14th on my Netflix queue.

there is a balm in gilead

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole
There is a balm in Gilead
To save the sin sick soul

Some times I feel discouraged
And I feel like I can’t go on
Oh but then the Holy Spirit
Revives my soul again

There is a balm in Gilead
To make the wounded whole
There is a balm in Gilead
To save the sin sick soul

expertise

When I first started writing about marriage a few weeks ago, I promised that I wasn’t an expert. Those of you that have been reading my stuff now know that my promises are true. You know that I like to wax poetic about the marital relationship and that I say lofty ambiguous things about the one and marital friendship and stuff. You know that if I’m an expert at anything, it’s missing deadlines.

But that’s not fair to you or to me. It’s not fair to you because you deserve more than nice-sounding concepts. It’s not fair to me because I actually do know some stuff. I’ve spent a lot of time studying what makes marriage work. My marriage in particular, but also marriage in general. I completed my graduate internship with the Relationship Research Institute (RRI), which is the non-profit research arm of The Gottman Relationship Institute.

John Gottman is a real expert. If you care about your marriage, or marriage in general, become familiar with Gottman’s work. This man who has studied relationships for over 30 years. When he says “this is what makes marriage work” it’s kind of like when your dad’s best friend, who is also a mechanic says, “this is how your car works”. So, in an effort to increase my credibility as a marriage-opinion-haver, here are some practical (i.e. not ambiguous or lofty) things you should consider.

1. 2/3 of your problems are “perpetual problems”, which is to say, they are unsolvable. This is an observable fact. Given that it’s a fact, you have a few options. You can (a) be overwhelmed and discouraged by the notion that your doomed to conflict or (b) focus on minimizing the pain of 2/3 of your issues and working hard on the rest.
2. Sometimes, it is literally impossible to not let the sun go down while you are still angry. When you’re angry. Really angry, you can get flooded. Biologically, that means your heart rate has reached 95-100 beats per minute. More simply, you’re really, really pissed off. At that point, what you really need is to call a time-out. Take a walk, a nap, a chill pill. Let the sun go down on your anger.
3. The best way to prevent the end of a marriage is keep running. Given the stuff I wrote about running, let me qualify: Sometimes running is truly incredible. As in, heavenly. Running can be an amazing gift to your body, mind and soul. But it takes discipline. But, rather than continue to wax poetic, let me offer this discipline from the expert, John Gottman. He cals it the Magic Five Hours:

• Parting: Before leaving for work, find out one thing planned in the other’s day, from a lunch with the boss, to a phone call to an old friend. (2 minutes a day, 5 days a week = 10 minutes)
• Reunion: Have some stress-reducing conversation about the happenings of the day. (20 minutes a day, 5 days a week = I hour 40 minutes)
• Admiration and Appreciation: Find some way every day to communicate appreciation toward your spouse. (5 minutes a day, 7 days a week = 35 minutes)
• Affection: Find some way to show affection to your spouse, through hug, touch, kiss, kind word, kind look, or kind smile. (5 minutes a day, 7 days a week = 35 minutes)
• Weekly date: Chatting is a relaxing, low pressure way to connect. Any topic is fine. (2 hours)

That’s it. Five hours a week can dramatically improve your marriage. That’s a fact. So, for those of you looking for practical advice. Commit yourself – practically – to the magic five hours.

And if you can’t find the time or energy, just keep running…and also buy (and read) this book. Especially if you’re in the market for some real expertise.

the myth of the one

Rebecca and I have spent a lot of time with a lot of couples. Pre-married. Married. Post-married. Inevitably we have to engage the issue of the one. Usually it comes out like this:

How can I be sure she’s the one?

or this:

I’m so glad I found the one.

or this:

He definitely wasn’t the one.

I’ve decided that the one is a myth. A lie.

Let’s just talk about the math. There are 7 billion people on the planet. 7 Billion. I’m pretty sure that number doesn’t mean anything to you. You have no context for what that number means. 7 billion doesn’t factor into your life in any meaningful way.

Can we agree on that? If so, then can we also agree that it’s a little ridiculous to think that, somehow, the one just happened to be in your 11th grade Chemistry class or your freshman dorm or the bar you went to that one random Thursday.

Can we agree that just because you go out for groceries on Christmas Eve and you happen to bump into an intriguing stranger. And she happens to also love, but can’t find, artichokes in December. And just because you slam your cart into her hip and she says something adorable…this doesn’t make her the one.

She’s simply one of the 3.5 billion partners that you have the opportunity to choose. You get to choose the one. Indeed, you’re required to choose the one. And the choosing is constant. You have to wake up every day and choose. And this choosing is hard work. Healthy marriages aren’t born out of magic or destiny or artichokes.

Healthy marriages are born out of choosing. Every day. Even if you think you’ve found the one, it’s not as simple as sticking it out. Any stubborn person can do that. Any one can stay married because their supposed to. But’s that not healthy. Can we agree on that too?

Healthy is proactive. Healthy is intentional. Healthy is recognizing that the one is a lie. Choosing is the truth.

In fact, if the one factors into it at all, it’s in the choice to be the one. Every day. That’s healthy.

And the math is a easier to manage.

on game of thrones

Like everyone else I know, I’m working my way through George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire. For the uninitiated or uninformed, this is generally understood as Game of Thrones, which is only the first book in a larger series. Game of Thrones is also the title of the HBO series that will probably last at least 3 but not more than 4 seasons.

pty: part deux

A couple of tangents before I get down to it:

1. Technically Wednesday is the beginning of a blogging week. So when I say I’m writing two posts a week, it should be from Wed to Tues.
2. Today is Wednesday, so it should be Post 1 of Week 3 (P1W3) but this is actually P2W2.
3. My “marriage” posts will typically be even numbers – 2 & 4 for the mathematically challenged.
4. Since nobody is actually reading this…I get to make up the rules as I go along.
5. My last post was about beer. The one before that was about marriage. This one is about both. Sort of.

Here goes:

Last weekend I went out of my way to drink Pliny the Younger. Today, I sort-of stumbled upon it. Long story short: I was meeting a colleague for lunch at my favorite brew-pub and it just so happened that they were serving PTY this afternoon.  The pub was distributing raffle tickets to the first 75 beer-lovers to show up. Because I’m kind-of a regular, my serverfriend gave me an extra ticket.  So, who do I call? A friend? A best friend? Who?

I called my wife.

Is your spouse your best friend? When your bucket list item comes up, do you think of your spouse before you think of your favorite drinking buddy? I hope so. For your sake, I hope so.

Marriage is ultimately about friendship. When you sign up for “til death do you part”, you sign up for something more than a drinking buddy. You sign up for someone who gets a permanent parking slot at “top of mind”.  It’s so easy to give something else that parking slot. Beer. March Madness. The NASDAQ. What might have been. What could be.

Please, give a permanent parking spot to “what is”: because “what might have been” and “what could be” are ghosts. “What is” is where your lover lives. It’s only here and only now. I urge you to be here now. And, I hope you were fortunate enough to marry your best friend and that you are brave enough to give her the best parking spot.

Because if you’re not, even the most coveted beer in the U.S. will taste a lot like water.

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