Movie Review: Super 8

           So, maybe it’s just me and maybe it’s just because I’ve been reading a little too much of good-old, sexy Jacki Derrida--



--and so am just super attuned to all things “Metaphysics Of Presence”, but I think that a great many reviewers of JJ Abrams’ recent Super 8 are knee-deep in the M.O.P. sh*t, so to speak, and being knee-deep in the M.O.P. sh*t is no good for reviewers and no good for those of us that read their reviews. Why? Because if/when a reviewer is knee deep in the M.O.P. sh*t, the tools they use for critical assessment are warped and the products of said warping get passed on to others in/through their reviews, just like a nasty case of... ORAL HERPES!



Egads!

So, you’re probably wondering “What, the eff, does M.O.P. (‘Metaphysics Of Presence’) mean? And, uh, can it really give me oral-herpes?” The answer to the second question is, unfortunately, yes. The answer to the first is contained in the following and also contains the cure.

In his Of Grammatology, Derrida explores the common-understanding of the relationship between writing, speech and, to a lesser degree, thought, in which speech is understood to be more “present” than writing, and thought more “present” than speech. Which definition of “present” is Derrida being critical of? One in which present is defined as complete, full, trustworthy (i.e., non-differantial... I'll explain this in a moment, to the best of my abilities). In response to this common understanding of the relationship between writing, speech, and thought, Derrida says “Je ne se No!” (i.e., speech is not more present than writing, thought is not more present than speech), and charges said common-understanding with being complicit in the history of what he calls the metaphysics of presence. To be complicit in the history of the M.O.P. means to posit/think/believe that something--like speech or thought--is fully present and/or trustworthy, without any gaps in it, all there, etc., but, more than this, it is also to posit/think/believe that something like speech (or thought) is more-present than things that are supposedly parasitic on and/or derivative of it, like writing, e.g., “Speech is more trustworthy than writing. Speech, that’s real, that’s where it’s at! If only we could get writing to be more like speech!!! Or, gosh-golly, so-and-so’s writing is a lot like speech, ergo, better, more accurate, more true." Over and against being complicit in the history of the M.O.P., Derrida wants us accept what that he calls differance--which means both to defer, in time, and to differ, in space--which Derrida wants us to accept as true of everything (thought, speech, writing, you, me, movies, what-ever), i.e., all things differ and defer and aren’t fully-present to themselves or others. So, rather than say things like, "Speech, that's real!" We should say things like, "Speech isn't more real than writing, but rather, writing is different than speech, and vice versa." Thoroughly confused? Well, I felt like I at least had to try to explain/define M.O.P. if I was going to fault people for falling into it’s traps.

So... In the case of Abrams Super 8, I noticed that a number of reviewers were knee-deep in the M.O.P.-sh*t. Here’s a quote from somebody that liked Abrams’ movie (thanks Rotten Tomatoes), “Remember the good old days? This is the movie you went to see on a Saturday afternoon in the good old days” (Tom Long of the Detroit News, italics me). Here we have a clear case of the critical-analytical herp caused by M.O.P., which is here indicated by the phrase “the good old days,” which, I’m sorry Tom Long, NEVER ACTUALLY TOOK PLACE!!! Or, at least, didn’t quite take place like you remember them, sorry (again). Why do I say this? Because I guarantee that Abrams Super 8 is better in almost every conceivable way than most of the creature films from the “good old days.” Don’t believe me? I double-dog dare you to go and watch a bunch of old creature films, hell, go and watch E.T. and tell me: Is the story better? Are the characters more engaging? Is the production value as mint? Go and watch E.T. and watch it from the perspective of your expectations and tastes and sensibilities today and don't compare Abrams' movie to your memory of E.T. and honestly tell me that Abrams’ movie doesn’t compare favorably. Long is complicit in the history of the M.O.P. in that he grants full-presence to his memories of the good-old days, which are never quite as good as we remember them being because of the nature/character of memory, which fills-in certain gaps and glazes-over cracks and... You get the idea.

On the flip side of the same coin, here’s a quote from somebody that didn’t like Abrams’ movie (thanks again, R.T.), “In a manner similar to Gus Van Sant's Psycho, it's merely a high-resolution photocopy devoid of its revered predecessors' soul” (Nich Schager of Slant, italics me). Here we have another clear case of herp, M.O.P.-style, which in this case is indicated by the words “photocopy” and “soul,” which are set in an antonymic relationship in order to justify why Schager didn’t like Abram’s movie (or Van Sant’s), suggesting that Abrams’ movie has no “soul,” whereas other movies, movies like Psycho--and movies like E.T., for that matter--do. Schager is complicit in the M.O.P. in that he posits that certain movies have souls--ergo, are fully present and trustworthy and Good--and certain movies are photocopies devoid of souls. You know what, Van Sant’s Psycho sucks in comparison to Hitchcock’s, but that doesn’t mean that Hitchcock’s has a soul whereas Van Sant’s does not.

Both Schrager and Long are guilty of basically the same thing, which is to view and review Abrams’ Super 8 from a fully-present perspective, Long from the perspective of the Good-Old Days, Schrager from the perspective of There-are-Movies-with-Souls-and-Movies-Without-Souls. This should be unacceptable behavior for movie critics the world over, which doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t occasionally indulge in nostalgia or engage in metaphysics, merely that we shouldn’t let our nostalgia or our metaphysics color our reviews of films, which other people are going to read and then take with them into the theater and into their conversations with others (herpes). It would be like, if I started watching every single movie from the perspective generated by my childhood memory of the quality of the original, animated, Transformers: The Movie, which had Leonard Nimoy and Orson Welles and Eric Idle and Judd Nelson--

(that’s right, Judd F’ing Nelson!!!)--as voice actors. If I approached movies from this perspective, then every single movie I didn’t like would be soulless, and every single movie I did like would take me back to the really, really good-old days in which Autobots battled Decepticons, protected the entire universe from Orson, er, UNICRON, and awesome 80s hair-metal and Weird Al tunes were the only tunes on the proverbial juke-box. Wait, maybe that’s not such a bad place from which to approach my movie reviews...
   

So, what’s my review of Super 8? Well, I probably wouldn’t pay to watch it again, but I have no problem imagining myself between the ages of 7-11, going to the movie and absolutely loving it and having a huge crush on the girl and starting to make monster movies with my friends as a result of how much I loved it, which I think is actually pretty high-marks for a movie, but then, I'm not between the ages of 7-11.

Bachelor Parties

            More than a couple of my good buddies are getting married this year (2011). And you know what that means, don’t you? Bachelor parties!



Wait... But how do you know? How do you know that the answer to “And you know what that means, don’t you?” is “Bachelor parties” and not “Getting drunk with people’s parents!” or “My friend Troy performing Al Pacino’s halftime speech from Any Given Sunday, pretty much verbatim, from memory!” or “I’m starting to worry about getting old and being alone, FOREVER”?

According to Wikipedia--In Which We Trust--a bachelor party is “A party held for a bachelor shortly before he enters marriage, to make the most of his final opportunity to engage in activities a new partner might not approve of”. And you know which activities these are, don’t you? DON’T YOU! Wait, but how do you know that the activities that will most likely be “engaged in” in the name of “making the most” of ones “final opportunity” to engage in them are (1) drinking in/to excess:

And (2) strippers:



HOW (THE H*LL) DO YOU KNOW?!?

Here are my questions: Why are strippers and drinking in/to excess the two activities that will obviously be engaged in during bachelor parties’? Or, asked differently, why are these the activities that we’ve agreed make the most of somebody’s final night as a bachelor? Like, how is it sooo damn obvious that these are the two activities that really make the most of what Wikipedia ominously calls a bachelor's Final Opportunity?

OK, rather than pussyfoot around and act like I haven’t made my mind up about the whole bachelor-party thing, I’m just gonna' Cut Right To It:

First, drinking in/to excess doesn’t make the most of ones Final Opportunity, at least, not by itself; and second, neither do strippers. And further, deep down, everybody knows this.

How do I know the first part to be true? Because nobody needs to give up drinking when they get married, or even drinking in/to excess (like, most of my buddies won’t actually be giving up drinking in/to excess when they get married, I PROMISE). And, if anyone does need to give up drinking it’s probably because they just need to Give It Up, Period.

Most of the Would-Be-Wedded don’t need to give up getting drunk, but rather need to give up one of the things that drinking in/to excess has, can, and tends to facilitate... Do you know what I’m talking about? I bet you do. In the event that you don’t, I’ll give you a hint: It’s not anything as utterly meaningless as what transpires between strippers and their clientele. (Sorry, those of you who think the relations/connections that are purchased at strip clubs are Real and not just that, purchased, i.e., relations without any obligations exceeding those of the financial exchange that created the "relation"/"connection".)

What’s something that excessive drinking has, can, and will continue to lead to that you think maybe you’d have to give up if you were to get married according to non-polygamal parameters? Well, of course, having sex with people other than your beloved. But what if sex is just one possible consequence in a whole series of antecedents, one of which may be alcohol--alcohol is, primarily, a facilitator--that must also be given up? What if sex is just something on the Far End of a whole spectrum that, once wed, is sort’a kind’a verboten, and understandably so? Interest, curiosity, desire. Furtive glances. Doubt. Insecurity. The summoning of Courage. Initial approaches. Awkward exchanges. More doubt and insecurity, perhaps. Provocative and invigorating, stimulating, conversation. Not-quite-accidental touch. A caress here, a caress there. A secluded walk. Some anxious texts. Some sexy texts. A connection, rife with the excitement of possibility instead of the tedium of actuality. The hopes/dreams of something different--different tastes and smells and stories and proclivities and commitments and values. A kiss. A relationship, but one of the non-friendly, non-professional variety. One which might tend towards sex, but which also tends towards strong feeling and History and obligations and trust, the very particular human experience of forming a new world with another human being...

Isn’t it the possibility of all the above, but with other people, that we’re supposed to give up if/when we wed (assuming we’re not polygamists)? And doesn’t all of the above come nowhere near occurrence between my good buddies, when they’re knuckle-dragging drunk, and strippers? Which begs the question: Is drinking to excess and partying with strippers really what it means to make the most of ones Final Opportunity to be a bachelor? Be honest...

In light of All This, what do I propose? A different kind of bachelor party. A bachelor party that actually makes the most of ones final evening of bachelordom. A bachelor party that I can’t imagine anyone--either of the betrothed--actually wanting (or agreeing to, for that matter, because perhaps they do want it...). The following is my vision of a real bachelor party:

• It’s got to be set in/at house-party, not a bar-party (albeit, perhaps bars can be visited early in the evening).
• The house in which it’s set can’t be one of the bachelor’s good-buddies houses, i.e., the house needs to be one w/which the bachelor is unfamiliar.
• Most of the guests at the house party (with the exception of a few close friends, probably only the bachelor’s groomsmen, maybe) must be strangers to/for the bachelor.
• A significant number (5-10) of the guests at the house-party must be people in whom the bachelor might be able to develop a romantic interest (e.g., my buddy Nate would have a bachelor party stocked with, primarily, red-heads; my buddy Matt, short blonds; me, feisty intellectuals).
• The drink of choice, i.e., the one/only drink at the party, must be some “jungle-juice” equivalent, i.e., a high-alcohol, All Too Easy to Drink, drink.
• There must be a dance-floor, preferably a dark one, preferably in a basement.
• There must be a good DJ.
• There must be places in/out of the house in which deep/meaningful conversations can occur w/out interference...
• Perhaps have one or two of the bachelor’s ex’s--only ones for whom the bachelor still has some positive feelings--attend the party, staggered over the course of the evening.
• Make sure that the bachelor doesn’t need to worry about getting home.
• Provide food, at some point, but not too much.
• Have there be a second party that can be transitioned to, at some point.
• Have one of the bachelor's good buddies hold his cellphone for the evening.

            The above is a list of what I take to be the necessary conditions for a real bachelor party to occur... Uh, any takers?!?

What the H*ll was That?

If I’d had my wits about me I would have asked her, “What the h*ll was that? That look you just gave me? What the h*ll was that?” Alas, I never quite seem to have my wits about me when I’d like to.

I was standing at the counter of one of your Portland Area coffee shops, waiting to order a glass of milk for the P.B. and J. I’d smuggled in, when the girl working the espresso machine looked over at me and gave me this look, the kind of look that girls only give guys in Fantasy Land, i.e., a “come hither” look. You know what I’m talking about:

I was startled, shocked, flummoxed, dumbfounded, befuddled by this look, and it took me a little while but I eventually realized that this was just her way of greeting me, of saying "Hello," of acknowledging my presence, perhaps her standard way of/for acknowledging the presence of any/all her customers!?! How’d I manage to figure all this out? Because I plum just didn’t say anything in response to the look she gave me, my face totally slack with confusion--tilted to the side like a dog’s after you’ve just fake-thrown a ball and hid it behind your back and they're just not sure why--and then she raised an eyebrow, which I--thank my lucky stars--recognized as indicating that she was anticipating a and expecting my response, i.e., used to having people such as Yours Truly actually respond to such a look along normal customer-service lines! And so, after those few milliseconds of dumbfounded-befuddlement and her raised eyebrow and my realization that she actually expected me to respond along normal customer-service lines and whatever the h*ll else Fired Off in the head of Yours Truly, I was like, “Hi, I’d like a glass of milk, please!”

Call me old fashioned, but I’m pretty sure the only people that should be giving me the kind of look that the girl working the espresso machine gave me today are lovers (which I don’t have) and strippers/prostitutes (whom I never visit), but even then I’d probably be Supremely Weirded Out if someone I was dating or married to (or whatever) or, h*ll, even a stripper ever gave me the kind of look that the girl working the espresso machine gave me today...

What Is to Be Done: Greenpeaceniks

This is the first piece in a what will hopefully become a series. The title of the series--“What Is to Be Done:”--comes from something written by Lenin; and no, not that hippy-dippy Brit, John, but that supreme bad*ss and leader of the Russian Revolution Vladimir Ilyich:

That’s right. Look at that hat.

In Lenin’s What Is to Be Done? he discusses all the pressing dilemmas and issues facing the Russian communists back in 19-whenever, and he does so with acuity, style to burn, and a whole lot’a piss and vinegar.

All you would-be partisan politicians and commentators out there--

--could do a lot to sharpen your bombastic diatribes by brushing up on your Lenin. Lenin was/is a Kung-Fu grandmaster when it came to making his opponents and detractors sound/look like idiots and heretics.

On the flip-side, my “What Is to Be Done:” has pretty much nothing to do with the trials and travails of Lenin’s much beleaguered communist party, nor with making my opponents and detractors sound/look like idiots (even if that happens as a side effect). Instead, my W.I.t.B.D. will be trying to deal with problems or dilemmas that you and I face in our daily lives, problems where Right Conduct or Right Action are at issue (hence the title). My primary goal with this series is to try and deal with said problems/dilemmas in a way that helps the lot of us actually deal with them, and to do so with brevity and a little wit, not that my wit is little, but, you know, like I want my pieces to have a little wit in them, not like in terms of quality, but, like, in terms of quantity, you know? Like a little wit here, a little wit there...

What Is to Be Done: Greenpeaceniks

It’s a day, any day. You’re in downtown P-town. Westside, Eastside, it doesn’t matter. Maybe you’re alone, maybe not; OK, so you’re alone. You’re standing at one of Portland’s many automated crosswalks, waiting for your chance to go from one side of the street to the other. You’ll jaywalk, if the coast is clear. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.

It’s probably raining. Hell, it is raining. For a moment, only a moment, you stop looking to see whether or not you’re going to get your chance at minor criminality and instead look across the street. And there they are:

F*cking Greenpeace! Only, they’re not talking to three hapless tourists, the poor bast*rds, even though you’re wishing with all your heart that they were and you’ve read The Secret more times than you’d ever willingly admit and so, like, actually believe that if you just visualize sh*t it will happen to/for you and so you just close your eyes and visualize the sh*t out of an opposite side of the street sans Greenpeace and with maybe, what, like a Snapple Sample Stand or something relatively innocuous like that on it... And then you open your eyes: The Secret is garbage! The "Greenpeacenik"--my trademarked name for them and their ilk--is still there! Just standing there, feet spread about shoulder width apart, some kind of rain-jacket on, little binder under one arm or the other. If they’re male, they’ve usually got some craggy facial hair and a big ol’ sh*t eating grin on their face. If they’re female, they’re usually just a little too cute, in an eclectic and unhygienic kind’a way. And they’re looking right at you. Not behind you. Not above you. Right at you. And you feel kind’a like Bill Murray’s Venkmen must have felt in Ghost Busters when he first encounters Slimer in the hotel... “He’s looking at me, Ray...”



(Minus the T-shirt, of course.) And you’re like “Sh*t,” which brings us to the titular question of this series: What is to be done?
   
          In this series, what I’m probably going to tend to do (we’ll see...) is begin to try to answer the question of W.I.t.B.D. by first asking whatever I understand to be the Necessary Prerequisite Questions (N.P.Q.s), i.e., questions that need to be asked/answered prior to figuring out which Possible Course of Action (P.C.A.) we should take. Once we’ve laid all this out, then our answer to the bigger/broader W.I.t.B.D. should be pretty clear, hopefully.

         Necessary Prerequisite Question Numero Uno: Are you in a rush? Like, really? Like are you on your way to a meeting or a date or a movie, i.e., something for which you’d be punished for being late? Or, along the same lines, are you operating within a limited time-frame in which you are supposed to accomplish Objective X, e.g., to get/eat lunch or drop-off/pick-up Object Y?
         N.P.C. Numero Two-o: What do you think of Greenpeace? And/or, why do you think the Greenpeacenik does what they do? Like, what’s their motivation for standing on some street corner and giving you the biggest possible sh*t-eating grin a human being can muster without the help of Hard drugs?
         N.P.C. Numero Drei: What kind of person do you want to be, like, in general?

         Now, before we answer the above questions (even if you’ve already answered them for yourselves), let’s lay out what I understand to be the Possible Courses of Action available to those of us who’re unlucky enough to be staring down the barrel of a, er...
 

   

Possible Course of Action Numero Uno: Straight-up avoid the Greenpeacenik, the Green Piece of..., i.e., cross the street in a different direction or at a different location, cut a hard angle before you reach the far curb, or pull a big-fat 180--whatever it takes to not have to pass within a quarter-mile of their persons, if that’s even what they are!

P.C.A. Numero Two-o: Listen to the Greenpeacenik, i.e., cross the street and when what sound like words start emerging from between their sh*t-eating, dope-smoking (I mean, probably, right?) grins, nod your head, ask follow-up questions, nod your head some more, rinse, repeat, etc.

             P.C.A. Numero Drei: Confront the Greenpeacenik, i.e., cross the street and B-Line directly for M-F’er for the purpose of delivering a haymaker...



Yeah, something like that, but maybe with words (maybe...), perhaps along the lines of, “Can’t you find a less simultaneously sycophantic and self-congratulatory form of employment? Oh, not in this economy? Well, maybe you need to go back to school and get a degree in something other than philosophy!” Ouch...
             P.C.A. Numero Four: Quasi-avoid the Greenpeacenik, i.e., don’t not cross where you initially intended to cross, but, instead, cross and just smile tersely and avoid eye-contact while you’re within the range of their desire to shake your hand and exchange names and life-stories and establish the kind of symaptico necessary to sell sh*t that can't sell itself, and move in a small but definitely noticeable parabolic arc, like the kind that ships try and take around icebergs:




             If your answer to N.P.Q. Numero Uno is/was that you have either a meeting/date to get to or some objective to accomplish within a limited time-frame, then you probably shouldn’t take P.C.A.s Numero Uno, Two-o or Drei, all of which will probably wind up costing you valuable and irrecoverable minutes (unless your haymaker is super Swift and Sweet, in which case...), which means that P.C.A. Numero Four (quasi-avoid) should be a pretty tempting one. HOWEVER, whether or not you should take P.C.A. Numero Four as your own personal course of action depends on your answers to N.P.Q.s Two-o and Drei. If your answer to N.P.Q. Two-o is something along the lines of “I think people who work for Grenpeace do what they do just to torture people and feel self-righteous, the masochists!” then you shouldn’t feel all that bad about taking P.C.A. Numero Four, unless your answer to N.P.Q. Numero Drei is some amalgamation of, “I want to be the sort of person that treats people, even people that I find obnoxious, with a modicum of respect/decency, and/or I want to be the sort of person that doesn’t cower in the presence of people that I find obnoxious or people that make me uncomfortable.”

So, if your answers to the N.P.Q.s go, “I’ve got a pressing engagement; I think Greenpeace is sh*t; but even sh*t deserves decent, human treatment,” then don’t take P.C.A.s Numero Uno, Two-o, Drei or Four (even though Four looks like the best). If your answers go, “I’ve got a pressing...; I think GP is sh*t; but I don’t think sh*t deserves the treatment I give to non-sh*t,” then I think you should have no internal qualms taking P.C.A.s Numero Drei or Four the next time you encounter a Greenpeacenik. If, however, your answers go, “I’ve got...; but I don’t think GP is sh*t,” then I don’t think you should be taking numeros Uno, Two-o, Drei or Four... But then what?

   

Let’s explore the flip side. If your answer to N.P.C. Numero Uno is something to the effect of, “I’ve got no pressing date or commitment or deadline, even though I sure-as-sh*t wish I did...,” then your answers to N.P.C.s Two-o and Drei are going to be of the utmost importance in determining which P.C.A. you should take. If your answer to Two-o is “I think Greenpeaceniks are sh*t, total shit, less than human beings, degenerates, etc.,” then you should probably take P.C.A. Numero Drei and start delivering haymakers left and right, unless your answer to N.P.C. Numero Drei presents a conflict of interest in the form of, “I want to be the sort of person that doesn’t punch others in the face when I think they’re obnoxious,” in which case: No haymaker; but maybe Numero Four?

If, on the other hand, your answer to N.P.Q. Two-o is either “I think GPniks do good work,” or something to the effect of, “No Greenpeacenik, no matter how obnoxious, actually deserves to be attacked for what they do because they’re really just people, people like you and me, people doing a job, probably a job they don’t always like but which they do anyways because they want to make a living and want to do work that they don’t think-of-as/feel-to-be totally meaningless and without value,” then you probably shouldn’t take P.C.A.s Numero Uno or Drei or Four.

(If you’re like me and you’ve ever taken the time to watch a Greenpeacenik work their corner, and they do indeed work it, well, I can't imagine that lepers get avoided to the same degree, or in the same numbers--like sheer number of people that will go out of their way to avoid them--that a Greenpeacenik does. I mean, honestly, it’s got to be a little bit depressing, day in, day out... And isn’t all that they’re really guilty of--you tell me?--some combination of: First, selling something people aren’t necessarily interested in buying; and second, making--intentionally or no--people feel bad for not being interested in what they’re selling (“You don’t want to save the planet!?!”)? And what’s their punishment? The kind of social ostracization/pariahdom reserved for the dying and the criminal.)

Now, if you’ve taken P.C.A. Two-o before, i.e., actually tried listening to some Greenpeacenik’s spiel, then you know where that takes you and how much time it takes to get there--and I mean we’re all going to die someday, right? So, in actuality, P.C.A. Two-o is--even if you think Greenpeaceniks either do Good Work or aren’t some kind of abomination, and even if you also want to be the sort of person who gives others the benefit of the doubt and/or treats All with Decency--really a “Fool-Me-Once” kind’a option, in my opinion.

Which seems to leave those of us who do have the time and who don’t think Greenpeaceniks carry some kind of virus--or those that don't have the time but either like GPniks and their work or think that everybody, even the lowest of the low, deserves our humanity--with P.C.A. Numero Four as our shared best-bet. However, if your answer to N.P.Q. Numero Drei is in fact something like, “I want to be the sort of person that treats people, even people that I find obnoxious or that I don’t want to give my time to, with a modicum of respect/decency, and/or I want to be the sort of person that doesn’t cower in the presence of people that I find obnoxious or people that make me uncomfortable,” then that rules out P.C.A. Four, at least in my book, which takes us to my secret/hidden P.C.A., P.C.A. Numero Funf!

P.C.A. Numero Funf: Treat the Greenpeacenik like a person, a person who is trying to sell you something you’re not interested in buying or that you don’t want to make time for, sure, but a person none the less. And just what does this P.C.A. look like in action? Let us return to our all-too-real fantasy scenario in which you’re face-to-face with:

 
Now, take a deep breath. Recall how to use your proton accelerator. Remember: Don't cross the streams, er... Look both ways and verify that you’re not going to get hit by a car, bus, MAX-train or hipster on a fixie. Jaywalk. Or wait for the signal, that is, if part of your answer to N.P.Q. Drei is/was “I want to be a gutless, law-abiding citizen at all times!” Walk straight across the street, right up to and around--but not in that ship-avoiding-an-iceberg kind’a way--the Greenpeacenik. Make the kind of eye contact you make when somebody is trying to talk to you. Say “Hi” or “Hello” or “Sup” or whatever. Consider shaking their hand, if it’s extended (it probably won’t kill you, probably...). Tell them you’re “Not interested.” Wish them well. That’s it. That’s all. Rinse, repeat.


--If you’ve got a better answer, I’m mostly ears.