By Bob Hill

December 16, 2012 – One year to the day since I quit drinking. And so the question that now greets me, perhaps more often than any other: Do I regret cutting alcohol out of my life entirely?

Well, the answer is: Sometimes, sure. Particularly now, as we enter the stretch run that carries straight through until New Years. Once a week, I’ll wander past a corner bar late at night and imagine how nice it might be to just saunter in and nonchalantly ease my way into the groove. But it’s the romanticism – not the reality – of those moments that always seems to get me. And yet, it’s that very same romanticism that always seems to dissipate once I get another block or two removed. The night is forever young. And even on those rare occasions when it isn’t, the following morning I know I’ll wake up with fresh eyes and a clear skull.

Is it more difficult to meet people these days? Why, yes, it certainly is more difficult to meet people these days. But I have given up trying to force it. I’ve been there. I’ve done that … several times, in fact. With every conceivable return. When and if I have an opportunity to start dating again, I want it to be for all the right reasons. In the meantime, I can assure you I’m not banging down anybody’s door, in much the same way I can assure you there’s nobody banging down mine.

Social events, well, now, they’re a mixed bag. The first half of any outing is usually the more uncomfortable, what with everybody mingling and drinking and inquiring why it is that I am so obviously not. But once the event settles in, whatever awkward feelings I might’ve harbored just kind of vanish right into the air. At some point it’ll dawn on me the event is almost over, and rather than head home and drink myself straight through until the morning, I’ll more than likely go back and read a book, watch a movie, maybe even order a pizza. Who knows?

What it all boils down to is this: Life is a little bit different now. Not necessarily better or worse. Just different. And yet, on balance, I can tell you that I kind of prefer it this way. Nowadays, I am doing a much better job of closing the considerable distance between the asshole I once was and the semi-admirable person that I might still have an opportunity to become.

In that spirit, here now is a quick list of some of the extreme highs and lows that came to pass, lo, these past several months:

High Points:

• Scaling the southeast face of the Beehive in Acadia National Park
• Running 26.2 miles (unofficially, and on my own)
• This website (particularly the Moving On section of it)
• Taking my first (working) vacation in six years
• Putting my court-ordered community service behind me
• Curbing my general level of anxiety
• Finally getting to see the Barnes Collection in Philadelphia

Low Points:

• Losing my full-time job of 11 years
• Being selected for an IRS audit
• Paying nearly $6,000 in court costs, legal fees, travel expenses, and fines related to my 2011 arrest for public drunkenness
• Being placed on probation, and
• Eating a pair of tickets for the Broadway show Once (due to illness).

Recurring Dream: On at least a dozen occasions during the past year, I have dreamt that I am drunk. This is usually the result of either forgetting my pledge not to drink (in the dream), or having someone spike a dream drink without my dream knowledge. In either case, the dream episode generally throws me into a state of dream anger, or dream sadness, or dream both.

What might be cool in the year ahead: Mountain climbing. Hiking. Traveling. Learning more about photography. Having my work appear in a new publication. Pursuing an opportunity to do some public readings. Entering a contest. Winning an award. Increasing my web traffic. Visiting more museums/exhibits. Improving my chess game. Studying poker. Strumming my guitar. Meeting a girl. Getting better at pool. Getting better at poker. Writing something that either connects with people or has a social impact. Doing charitable work. Learning more about meditation. Seeing half a dozen new bands/artists. Investing in something. Mining the work of great writers. Body surfing. Studying some form of Martial Arts. Visiting Cambridge. Improving my diet. Learning to cook a new dish. Decreasing my student loan debt.

The final analysis: Onward. Upward.

Day 365

(Moving On is a regular feature on IFB)

©Copyright Bob Hill

Choose your battles wisely. This is sage advice for show runners and politicians alike. And it certainly would have served Peter Jackson well when deciding what footage to fight for in order to justify The Hobbit‘s sprawling two-hour and 49-minute running time – the first hour of which is completely hunkered down with unnecessary details and back story and set up and speeches and singing and intros and drinking of mead.

Part of this is due to Jackson’s semi-admirable attempt to remain true to J.R.R. Tolkien’s original source material. While The Hobbit is easily the most charming and lovable of Tolkien’s novels, Jackson’s film sacrifices a considerable amount of gusto by not making more of an effort to simply speed matters along.

During its second hour, The Hobbit falls into a recurring pattern of brief action sequences, sandwiched between much longer monologues, each one of them accompanied by the very same ominous music and tone … so repetitively, in fact, that about midway through the cycle almost becomes laughable.

In terms of scale, The Hobbit is both majestic and sweeping, much like every previous installment from The Lord of the Rings franchise. And yet, this prequel doesn’t feel nearly as potent or well-oiled as those other films did. While it certainly made sense to break The Hobbit down into three separate parts, Peter Jackson could’ve served his audience – and Tolkien’s story – more constructively by paring this first film down into a much tighter 2-hour and 10-minute spectacle.

(The Hobbit opens in theaters nationwide today.)  Continue reading →

OK. So there’s this, like, couple, right? Well, it’s actually more like two couples. And they’re all, like, best friends, y’know? Well, it’s more like the two guys are best friends and the two girls are, like, sisters, but you get the picture. Anyway, the one couple is, like, totally engaged, and the other couple … well, like, the guy is, like, soooooooo completely in love with the girl he’s, like, already bought the ring and what not. And the girl, well, she’s like totally into him too. I mean, it’s like the two of them can, like, totally talk about their farts and what not, and it’s like no big thing. And yet she’s still not quite there in terms of, like, making a lifelong commitment, y’know? And, oh yeah – I almost forgot – the chick? She, like, totally works at this little indie bookstore. In fact, she’s, like, so indie bookstore that these guys actually refer to her as “Bookstore Girl”. Bookstore girl? I mean, can you even imagine? Meanwhile, the other couple? They’re like planning this, like, TOTAL hipster wedding with organic catering and music by iPod, and the invites are like completely DIY and what not. And, oh yeah, the two sisters, they’re, like, always saying “Really?” back and forth in time. Like, like, like, Really? Really? Really? Really. And the two guys, they’re in a band together, see? And, like, all four of them regularly insert necessary plot points into everyday conversation like it’s no big thing, y’know? And the four of them, they’re, like, all super-dry. Like, like, like dripping-with-sarcasm super-dry, OK? And so, like, one night toward the end of this totally killer gig, the lead singer of the band – a band named Wolfbird, BTdubs – well, anyway, he, like, totally decides to just go ahead and propose to the other sister right there and then, in front of like, a million people. And you, like, won’t even guess what happens next, but …

Exhausted? Me too. Anyway, that just about sums up what the first 40 minutes of Save the Date feels like. Somewhere during the second hour, the film actually manages to settle into its pace, adding some worthwhile charm and magnetism to the mix. What’s more? Save the Date also manages to get a lot of stuff right down the stretch. But it puts the audience through stiff rigors in order to get where it’s going. And, in the final analysis, the ends simply do not justify the means.

Bottom line: Save the Date is perfect for anyone out there who simply could not get enough of Celeste and Jesse Forever. Otherwise, well, you get the idea.

(Save The Date opens in limited release in NY and LA this Friday. It is also available now via OnDemand.)  Continue reading →

“When you’re climbing well the fear is not there. You’re doing something that you know you can do, something that should pose you no apparent difficulties. Yes, there are moments when you question yourself, moments when you have to pull yourself together. Doubts can creep in anywhere, but you can also stop and pause and recover yourself. That’s a normal part of climbing. Climbing is a process that requires you to constantly make the move, to travel upwards. It’s different than other gravity-assisted sports like snowboarding or skydiving. With those the impulse to stop is removed by the speed of your descent. With climbing it’s a process that requires you to constantly make the move, to travel upwards. Climbing requires a deeper commitment. Contrary to popular belief, there isn’t really a point of no return. Most ascents can be descended. There isn’t a point when you have to keep on going no matter what. You can always retrace your steps. It is just that downward climbing isn’t something that I usually do.”

By Bob Hill

I was still living on Magnolia Avenue come November, having moved from the rear apartment I had previously shared with Bobbi Jean to a ground-level unit that wrapped around the side of the building. I’d been out of work for three weeks. Thus, I hd filed for unemployment along with a quarter of the island. Over the past two months, the City of Wildwood’s population had plummeted from a robust 220,000 to an anemic 5,200. All along Atlantic Avenue, the overhead traffic signals rose and fell like blinking buoys. The midtown streets ran wide and empty. The ashen tide had lost its groove.

People were always finding ways to take advantage of the offseason unemployment boom in seasonal towns like Wildwood. One guy I knew managed to collect in Wildwood despite living in Northern Ireland that winter; another enlisted the aid of an accomplice so he could collect while slinging drinks in Central Florida. Across Cape May County, there was an entire subculture devoted to working under-the-table jobs while collecting full benefits. Local officials were well aware that to acknowledge such things would be to take accountability. It was much more practical to turn a blind eye.

***

My relationship with both parents remained severely strained throughout this period – an unfortunate, albeit necessary, reality which is reinforced via this excerpt from a letter written to me by my mother, dated November 10, 1993:

Bob, one thing I want to mention to you on the side is how bad Dad feels about the way you treat him and talk to him. You know, Bob, Dad probably gave you more time and effort throughout your lifetime than he did any of the other children. I know you say you were just running track for Dad’s sake, well … I think if you really stop and think about it, all the time and effort he put into it, if you had just stuck with it, I am sure you would have won a scholarship to some college and would be in your Junior year by now, completing a college education for FREE! Then, in another year or so, you would be coming out of college owing nothing on student loans! I realize you didn’t want to run track anymore, but don’t you think at 20 years old it may be time to stop and reflect on all your Dad did for you and how much it hurts him when you are constantly “put out” and make both him and I feel like we are just butting into your life? None of the other kids make us feel this way. They may not always agree with our suggestions, but at least they listen to us and think about what we say without being so put upon as you seem. After your birthday when we were coming home from the shore, Dad said he couldn’t understand what he’d ever done to make you so hostile toward him. He was so worried about the heating situation in your apartment, and when he asked you about it, your answer was always, “Don’t worry about it.” All I am asking, Bob, is that you treat Dad a little nicer – take time to talk with him and be in the same room with him. He cares so much about you and feels like you just don’t want to be bothered with him at all. It is a very hurting situation. You will never know the way you talk sometimes, how it hurts a person. I’m sure you wouldn’t talk to any of your friends that way, or you wouldn’t have them very long.

Track. Cross country. Student loans. Engineering … The whole thing sounded like one big ball of hooey to me, perhaps even more so given the prepackaged way it was being presented. The more I insisted upon straying from that path, the more my father reinforced the notion I was shattering every dream he ever had for me. And eventually, that shit took its toll, grinding me down to the extent I spent several years believing I was a total failure – a wholly vile and worthless individual, completely undeserving of long-term love or compassion.

All of which might explain why it was I sought solace in the arms of a 16-year old girl who was categorically succeeding in all the places I once failed. Meghan was an honors student, a class treasurer. Meghan was stable and well-rounded and well-liked; a 5’10 forward, attractive, hard-working, a loving daughter, a cherished sister. Meghan was already half a dozen admirable things I could never really see myself becoming. And yet, she seemed so horribly wounded – bleeding in so many places she kept hidden from the world.

Meghan was a child of divorce; a damaging affair that had resulted in Meghan’s older sister Lauri going off to live with their mother. Meghan never forgave her mother or her older sister. Meghan’s mother had given birth to Lauri during a previous marriage, but Meghan’s father had legally adopted the girl when she was a child and he had raised her as his own.

Meghan was the primary reason I had decided to remain in Wildwood that off-season. Well, Meghan and the fact that I had no other place to go. I mean, sure, my parents had extended a conditional offer for me to come back home and live with them. But the fact was I no longer had that in me. The thing about Delaware County – and there really is no easy way of getting around this – is that any worthwhile native who ever aspired to make a name for him- or herself needed to leave that place in order to do so. None of which is to say that Wildwood represented a place where stardust dreams were given to orbit. But it is to say that Wildwood represented one very necessary step in the wrong direction for me … and I needed that in the grand summation of things.

The weekend after I turned 20, Meghan and I attended our first high school mixer together. I spent most of that evening in the cafeteria kitchen, helping chaperones prep and pour RC Cola into Dixie cups. I appeared so out of place that at one point the Wildwood Catholic Vice Principal, Mr. Turco, sidled up alongside me and said, “Do you mind if I ask exactly what it is that you’re doing?”

“Oh, yes … I mean, no,” I said, glancing round to find the other chaperones had disappeared. “Not at all, sir. Y’see, I’m, umm, Meghan’s boyfriend?”

I said this while pointing with my thumb toward the dance floor, where a loose configuration of high school juniors bounced and ricocheted like gas molecules in a compound.

“Meghan Mac?” Mr. Turco said, upper-brow furrowed foul with skepticism.

“Umm, yes, sir,” I said. “Meghan Mac. That’s right, sir. It’s just that, well, umm, y’see, she’s all the way out there dancing with her friends right now, and I, umm, well, the ladies who were back here a minute ago, they all said it’d be OK for me to help, and …”

“No need to explain,” Mr. Turco said, as he scraped a plate of leftovers into the garbage. “It’s just we get a lot of kids from Middle Township trying to sneak into these events. When I swung around the corner there and saw you standing all alone, tinkering with the bevearges … well, let’s just say I wasn’t quite sure what it was that you were doing here. That’s all.”

I am the guy who stays too late at the party because there is no place that I belong.

Day 353

***

(Moving On is a regular feature on IFB)

©Copyright Bob Hill

“Democracy is not a spectator sport. It is a difficult, hard, challenging, full-contact, competitive, participatory endeavor. And this … this is critical – people who get comfortable of body get fat; people who get comfortable of mind and intellect get dull. People who get comfortable in their spirit, they miss what they were created for. They were created to magnify the glory of the world, not simply reduce in size and fail to reflect that spirit. I’ve come to learn in my life to embrace discomfort because it’s a precondition to service. I’ve come to realize to embrace fear because, if you can move through fear, you find out that fear is a precondition to discovery. I’ve learned in my life to embrace frustration because, when you get really frustrated, that is a precondition to incredible breakthroughs.”

Killing Them Softly drives its point home like a jackhammer to the cranium. And yet, it somehow manages to drag in all the places it should soar, lulling the audience into a collective malaise – one that’s interrupted only briefly by tense episodes of gore. Killing is the type of entertainment that’ll stick in your craw like gum to the loins, making a nasty impression for all the wrong reasons. What’s more (or less)? The majority of this film feels like one long, cliched take on free market Capitalism, only this time served up raw, with a jagged set of molars on the side. All of which would be just dandy, mind you, provided there was just a little more worth savoring than the two or three scenes in which Messieurs Pitt and Gandolfini get their game on toe-to-toe.

(Killing Them Softly opens in theaters nationwide today.)    Continue reading →

(Good Pictures/Bad Camera is a regular feature on IFB.)