Still, I’ve been told that if you share your resolutions, you have a better chance of keeping them. Official self-reflection every year can’t be that bad, right? What did you accomplish last year? Are you better or worse? Happier or sadder? More fulfilled or more empty?

I guess I’m uncool enough that I think it’s worth it. Besides, it makes me feel good to keep any of them. You should try it. Self-satisfaction tastes a little like  an artichoke heart after nibbling away the leaves one by one by one.

To all the bearded, tight-pant, checkered-shirt, scarf-wearing  hipsters out there, here’s 5  resolutions from my 2010 laundry list:

1. Read 36 books. That’s 3 a month. I did 23 last year. I have 18 lined up already. Everyone should have a reading goal. Reading books will make you famous.
2. Picture a day. One photo from each day of the year. I got through February last year. You’ll look at the world differently if you do it. You can watch my flickr stream to see if I’m keeping up.
3. 2 marathons, 2 triathlons, 2 ultras. This, of course, means I’ve got to figure out what’s up with my knee and build my mileage up again. The hundred mile run will be in October. That’s plenty of time to get ready, right?
4. 50 blog posts. It’s all about building your brand, or in my case, continually figuring out what my brand is. 50 posts makes sure that I am writing everyday. Lucky for you, I don’t post everything I write. Otherwise, you might be reading about little, bearded men talking to me from my grandparent’s bushes.
5. 3 months as a vegetarian. I seem to try this one every year and forget about it during some stressful day in February when I attack a plate of buffalo wings.  This year, I’ll shoot for at least 90 days (for month long stretches). I’ll start in January and decide what happens after that.

I’ve got at least 6 more, but believe me, you’re better off not knowing what they are. These are the good ones. The others will give the tight-pant hipsters out there a little too much ammunition.

Now go, be uncool, and make some of your own.

I talk a lot about there being two types of art (music/books/performances/paintings): those things that make you excited in the moment (think Batman), and those that you chew on and have to digest (think The Darjeeling Limited)–those that stay with you for days, weeks, years. I think a lot of people I know went to Where the Wild Things Are thinking they’d be getting the first kind of experience. When they were confronted with the second, they felt a little bit like they were watching Adam Sandler going punch drunk during a song about Hanukah.

I was trying to put words to why I liked it so much on the drive home. The only thing for now–remember, I’m still digesting–is that Jonze and Eggers presented something real. You can’t really call it magic realism; there’s still an overlying mist of fantasy in Marquez’s stuff. But it does seem ironic that we get to see real relationships and sadness unfold with giant horns and beaks and claws. They manage to give us something that feels honest.

This is Eggers’ strength in A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. It’s too easy to turn relationships into either a complete mess or a complete success. We want relationships in our lives and in our stories to have clean boundaries and be easy to describe. Good or bad. Doomed or ordained.

Take Robin Hood for example. We never see his moments of doubt or indifference. You’ll never see him cry or wonder if Marian is worth it. When the lovers are together, we don’t see him confused about what to do with his sword, or trip and fall after he kisses her goodnight. It’s not real-life. Most of us don’t really want it to be, but this is where the poetry comes in. That’s what poetry is: beauty and meaning still existing in our honest, mundane, messy, sticky, confusing, angry, double-standard lives.

So, you should go see Where the Wild Things Are if you’re ready to digest something meaningful and you’re ready to be self-obsessed for a little bit  after watching huge wild creatures pelt each other with dirt clods. If you’re looking for something a little more cartoony, stick with Sponge Bob.

I’ve been obsessing about this for weeks.

I walked for 15 miles in the middle of the night–in the middle of the desert–with a guy who set out to run 100 miles. I joined him at mile 45. We had a full moon, headlamps, and plenty of pretzels every five mile to keep us company. And he was breaking down, his body had stopped tapping into any of its reserves. His only energy came from whatever food we got into him. We walked and walked and walked and shuffled and walked.

We got to know each other pretty well. We quoted Weird Science a little too much and talked a lot about a girl who was dressed up like Rainbow Brite. We created our own religion–it gets goofy out there. He can quote Pulp Fiction from beginning to end. 6+ hours later he finished the race at 100 kilometers. He didn’t finish the 100 miles, but he went further than he ever had before. Up until this race, the furthest he had gone was 38 miles. He did 62.

This is what amazed me. There was nothing in him that said, you can’t do this–you need to prepare more. Keep planning, keep thinking about it. Somewhere he decided that 38 miles was good enough to try for 100 miles. He had been running, he had been training, and then he just did it. I admire the way he believed in himself (and still believes in himself).

Me? I debated doing the 15 miles with him. I wasn’t sure if I could deliver a noteworthy performance. I knew I could finish, but I didn’t know if I could finish without being laughed at? I knew I could finish, but would he regret taking me on as a pacer as he struggled to keep me at his pace?

I plan too much. I think about what’s next too much. I worry about how I’ll look or what people will think too much. It’s left me questioning my goals. It’s left me, at times, wondering who I am. What is it I really want? Because, I reason, if I really wanted it, I would have already acted on it. Right? So I guess I don’t really want a whole lot.

6 hours in the desert with this crazy guy gave me some perspective. My “it-must-not-be-what-I-really-want-attitude” is crap. I wouldn’t plan and obsess and think about it if it wasn’t what I really want.

I have a favorite word in Polish. It’s już. In Polish, it sounds like “youshzz.” It doesn’t quite translate into English, but the closest word is “already.” It can mean I’m coming, I’m there, I’m here, too late, or it’s happening. I need to say this word to myself more in relation to what I want and what I want to do. Sometimes, I just need to stop preparing to do something and remember that I’m ready to do it.

Run 50K. Już.
Get an audience. Już.
Write a book. Już.
Write a novel. Już.
Be a father. Be a friend. Już. Już.

If I ever get a tattoo, this will be it. Don’t worry mom, I’ll put it somewhere professional. Unless you know me, you’ll have no idea I have it.