Check Your Points

In the little seen but highly decent Steve Buscemi flick Tres Lounge, the last shot is a haunting one. The main character, after 90 minutes of boozing, doing bad drugs and chasing women out of his league, goes back to his favorite bar and comments that one of the regulars, an old man we've seen throughout the film, is missing. Apparently he died, having lived his life on the barstool. No one noticed, and no one missed him. The last shot is Buscemi, staring into space, realizing he's in the 3rd quarter and he hasn't scored any points.

That image burned into my memory and was vividly recalled yesterday when I received a note in the mail that one of my favorite teachers from high school had passed away. They are holding a memorial service for her tomorrow, and I won't be attending. I liked her, she spoke highly of me, writing me several recommendations and teaching me my first Shakespeare (though I credit the fact that I read Macbeth at least once a year to another teacher). She was right up my ally and definitely a favorite.

Yet, she wasn't important enough to me to either keep in touch, or attend her memorial service. It makes me a little morose to think of that, but what really gets me is the idea that most if not all of her other students felt the same way - pleasant memories but a glancing blow in terms of a lasting impact. I wonder how many mourners there will be. I wonder how long I'm going to remember her name. I wonder if she was the drunk on the barstool in Tres Lounge who registered with people, but didn't move them to any sort of action.

To be fair, I only was familiar with one part of the woman's life. She more than likely had friends and relatives. And also in the interest of fairness, how many people would think of me a year later if I died tomorrow? A few, but not that many, which is the fate of almost all of us.

Education, I guess, could be different. If you get the right person in the right situation, they can change lives (and if you get the wrong person in the wrong situation, you end up with an ulcer and a bunch of pissed off students). It's a job I admire people for taking, one that deserves a bunch of mourners when you go the trip.

But that damned empty barstool is haunting me since I heard of her death. It shouldn't - what does she care what sort of legacy she left, she's dead and no matter what you subscribe to, things are better or done when you die (unless you go to hell, which is a fate I can only see PE teachers enduring). It's bothering me. Someone who puts up with us when we're at our worst should have some sort of recognition, I guess. They should live on, like in that episode of the Twilight Zone where that literature professor is visited by the ghosts of his former students.

Not an empty barstool. Not for her.

Likes on Wednesday: Starship Troopers

I can't tell you how many times I watched this trailer in my Sophomore year of college. My roommate and I had a VHS copy of Apt Pupil starring Ian McKellan on whom we both had a massive man crush. But for every one time we watched Apt Pupil, we watched the Starship Troopers trailer 6 times, at least.

The trailer had everything a 19-year-old man/boy wants - action, jingoism, pretty people, the promise of gore - but, oh sweet Klandathu, how the movie delivered. How much do I love Starship Troopers? Let me count the ways.

1. Great Creatures - If ST is nothing else, it's a great giant bug movie with plenty of ooey gooey creatures. Drones with razor sharp appendages? Check. Giant beetles who shoot plasma out of their giant bulbous heineys? Check. A brain bug with a front crevice that not so subtly suggests female genitalia? Check.

2. Great Gore - This flicks effects department must have watched Braveheart on Nitrous Oxide. Limbs go flying, legs disappear leaving bloody stumps, people are speared and beheaded and squished and torn apart and a few lucky ones get their brains sucked out with absolutely no morality or apologies. They even spear Jake Busey's hand, which is something everyone can get behind.

3. Great nudity - Throughout the ages, philosophers have pondered this seminal question - how could anyone could hate a movie with a naked coed hard body shower scene? Some people hate this movie...but how? There's men and women, in top physical condition, showering...NAKED! Execution aside, the idea deserves applause. But when pulled off with such finesse, such beauty and such terrible dialogue in between - God, what a movie.

4. Some of the worst dialogue this side of porn - A sampling from the top of my head:
(Dying man holding a grenade) "I came here to kill some bugs, sir!"
(Man shooting) "You want some? You want some? Here's some!"
"They sucked his brains out."
"Bugs don't take prisoners."
"5...4...3...Ready...Steady...GO!"
"I'm not flying with Inez. She's crazy."
"This isn't random or light."
"You've got something to say about the mobile infantry?"
and the immortal
"You don't have what it takes to be a citizen."

Poetry. Sheer poetry.

5. Michael Ironside. WOOOO!

6. A perverse streak a mile wide - Whenever I have to legitimately defend this movie, that is by all accounts the biggest budget B-movie ever made, all you need is three words - Paul Verhoven, fascist. ST is actually a potent political statement wrapped in the dumbest, prettiest, bloodiest package you can imagine for mass consumption by the public. This movie has more to say about the state of fascism than The Manchurian Candidate. It's a parody, but also a straight faced fascist wet dream - a logical consequence to ridiculous rhetoric with bugs instead of liberals.

Don't believe me? Check out every single transmission from the Federal Network, or basic training in general, or Doogie Hauser in full Nazi regalia in specific. The flick is a sci-fi Birth of a Nation with boobies and blood. It's among the smartest dumb movies ever made.

And finally, this sucker is infinitely rewatchable. It's something I average about once every three months since I got it. I have a worn out VHS copy that actually gets fuzzy during some of the battle scenes I've watched 2,000 times. It's fun never diminishes and it never fails to elicit a head shake from my loving wife.

So why bring up this movie now? Because Johnny Rico's back, bitches! I'm so there!!!

Do you want to know more? You bet I do.

I've Got A Lot To Say

I'm just not quite sure how to say it yet.

Picture Monday - Sexy Quilts

I found this quilt that I photographed interesting for a couple reasons.

1) The words "sexy" and "quilt" have never been uttered in the same sentence, ever, but that's exactly what this is.

2) I've seen these images before. In fact, one of my first exposures to erotica of any kind was of the vintage variety. Even to this day I feel guilt for enjoying these images so much. They're completely exploitative but undeniably sexy. In other words, this quilt would keep me warm in a number of ways. Also, the craftsmanship is tip top.

There Was Blood, and it Sucked

My wife had a grandmother who fainted at the sight of blood. Any blood, paper cut or massive hematoma, she lost consciousness. I found her behavior weak to a fault and laughable until yesterday evening.

My little girl, all of 4 years old, was acting zany last night as we were waiting for a seat at a generic sit-down eatery chain. We told her calm down and she didn't. We told lower her voice and she didn't. We told her to quit rocking on her baby sister's car seat. She, in following with the theme of the evening (she was really tired) didn't and proceeded to pitch backward and hit her head on the metal edge of the door frame of the main door. She started to cry, reached her hand back to the wound and it came back red.

I know for a fact that head wounds bleed a lot, and I know from seeing with my own eyes the injury she sustained was not life-threatening. Still, when the blood went from her head to her blond hair to the napkins I ran to get from an unhelpful wait staff, these facts seemed not only academic but quite probably wrong. Instinct kicked in and suddenly my orange chicken bowl didn't matter worth a good goddamn. It was to the door and to the hospital. It wasn't even an argument - once we got to the third napkin spoiled with my child's blood it was time to go.

Luckily the women in my life had cooler heads. They grabbed some ice and kept things calm, even if the kid was pretty close to hysterics.

I remember once when I had to have stitches after a nasty bicycling accident on a construction site (still one of my best scars), my dad came in and started talking to me about where my mind was. He wanted me to go to a place that was "far away" and where I would be happy. I guess "far away" triggered something and I imagined myself in the cloud city of Bespin from "The Empire Strikes Back," fighting Darth Vader. I remember where I went in my head very clearly, and also remember the wound and the ER quite clearly.

I decided to try the same thing with my kid - get her mind onto something else and away from all the blood, but what I didn't count on was how panicked I was. I crouched down to her level and went blank. All I could think to ask her was what she was going to order, which worked for about two seconds until the trickle of blood recaptured her attention and wailing continued. It's one of many ways I don't measure up to my father, but I think I learned something for next time about myself (don't panic) and about my kid. She's looking to me for anything in that moment, and next time I hope I'll be a better dad to her.

We'll see.

Revenge in Verse

I usually don't mix my desperate plees for attention, but I thought this was pretty cool.

A friend of mind turned me onto a writing challenge called Ficlets - www.ficlets.com. The premise is a bunch of authors gather and write very short stories. The stories are counted by the keystroke and I think you get just over 1,000 key strokes to tell a story.

I've written five or six but decided to do something a little different. This story's called 18-1 and the first line contains 18 words. The second line contains 17 words and so on all the way to the last line which consists of a single word. I also used the exact amount of keystrokes to write the story, something they call "Ficlet Nirvana.

Either way, I'm proud of the thing. Here it is:

18-1
I can’t begin to tell you the anguish you’ve caused me, the nights I’ve spent obsessing over you.

When I saw you eating in that restaurant across town, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.

But there you were, breathing and conversing, chowing down on a burger and sipping a Budweiser.

I don’t know if this is providence or something slightly darker, but here you are.

My basement is nothing extraordinary, but it’s going to become extremely special to you.

It must seem an odd reversal of fortune, you shackled in my basement.

But then, fate is unpredictable, rivaled only by the mysteries of love.

After you killed my daughter, I thought you had vanished completely.

Imagine my surprise, finding you here in my own backyard.

And now, there’s the matter of what happens next.

By now you’ve probably guessed I want revenge.

I know you don’t believe in God.

I’m not sending you to heaven.

Here’s what’s going to happen.

I’ll stab you here.

Then you’ll die.

And then?

Nothing.

Likes on Wednesday - Corner Gas

Are you guys always this sarcastic?

'Nothing else to do.

And thus began my love affair with "Corner Gas."

I started watching this little Canadian gem about a month ago after my youngest daughter (all of 3 months) established her sleep schedule. She nods off every night between 11 and 11:30 which is when "Corner Gas" aires, and my wife and I stumbled upon it and were charmed immediately. It's now to the point where we both catch each other humming the theme song (dammit, it's catchy).

"Corner Gas" has aired for four seasons on Canadian National Television, as far as I can figure. The basic premise reads like the bastard child of Garrison Keilor and Jerry Seinfeld - Brent (show creator Brent Butt - yes, Brent Butt, it's right there on the show's credits) is the owner of Corner Gas located in rural Saskatchewan. Adjascent to his station is a diner. Brent's parents live near by, as does his childhood friends, local law enforcement and other random characters. That's it. The comedy comes not from the situation but from a mix the most laid back sharp dialogue I've ever heard and a collection of very well defined characters.

It's the characters that make the show immediately charming. Let's face it - Corner Gas is nothing complex but the read-throughs must be amazing. If you were to read an average episode in script form, my guess is it would do very little for you. For example:

Oscar: (on buying a new wheelbarrow) That's why I'm waiting for next week's money.

Brent: Next week's money?

Oscar: Yeah. This week's won't quite cover it so I have to wait for next week's.

Hank: What is this next week's money? Is it like a pension or something?

Oscar: The money Emma gives me.

Brent: Mom has you on a budget? That's adorable.

Oscar: It's not adorable and it's not a budget. I get so much money every week and that's it.

Hank: So it's more like an allowance.

Oscar: Oh very funny smart guy. It's not an allowance. It's a set amount of money that Emma dolls out at a set time every week.

(pause)

Holy Hell! I'm on an allowance.

Not all that funny, huh? Now check it out - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5eOe_pXt8v4

See! Isn't that the most charming damn thing? Watch other clips. They're charming too!

I've decided there are three main reasons I'm hooked on this show like John McCain is hooked on scary looking ladies.

1) The decided un-Hollywood looking cast. Aside from the fact that Brent Butt looks like a Dick Tracy character, everyone on the set is remarkably and attractively unspectacular (although I wouldn't kick Gabrielle Miller out of bed for eating crackers, as the saying goes). There's not a sprayed-on tan, surgical enhancement or overly toned body in the bunch. It's charming and it also makes it easier to believe these are authentic rural folk, which is essential to the show having any charm on you at all.

2) The absence of a laugh track allows the jokes to crawl under your skin and explode long after the shelf life of an average joke. It's hard to explain because it's not that the jokes are difficult to "get," on the contrary, many are simple. It's the ease in which the jokes flow, the delivery that's decidedly unforced. There are no rimshots, no pauses for chuckles, just a stream of jokes that range from cute to boarderline brilliant, all inviting you to laugh at your own pace.

3) The whole rural thing. I'm a rural guy, as much as I might want to fight it and I relate to the lyric "that's why you can stay so long when there's not a lot going on." Amen, Brother Butt. I'm with ya, on the tone, on the jokes, on the trip. Good work.

Ruining Stuff

They say if you love what you do you'll never work a day in your life.

As I develop experience that is kinda sorta turning into wisdom, I think I have a caveat to this sage old advice - if you do things you love for work, eventually they will become as much work as they are fun.

Tonight, I was part of what I'd call a wild success. The Grand Island International Film Festival (http://www.gifilmfest.org/) showed Casablanca at the Grand Theater and on a Tuesday night we pulled just under 200 people. It was a great showing and it will allow us to fight another day, financially. It was a great movie in a great theater for a great audience. Great night, right?

Well, yeah, but it was also a night where I didn't sit down to watch Casablanca. I was helping in the booth and with concessions, I was taking tickets and co-MCing the proceedings before the movie, and I was running around chatting with folks. All in all I saw about 20 minutes of the flick that I consider to have the best screenplay ever written. It's a movie that's pure romance and intregue, a fantastic film that I love to sit down and watch and I didn't sit down and watch it. I was working, more or less.

I've done this my whole life. I like ice cream, but working at a Dairy Queen aint that sweet. I worked in TV for half an hour before I realized the guts of that are not pleasant. I like movies and wrote about them for 7 years before realizing I wasn't terribly good at it, comparably. I tend to do things I love and after a while they sorta turn into work and aren't strictly in the domain of fun anymore.

I don't think that's completely a bad thing - I could be doing things I didn't give a hoot about and probably suffer for it. Still, it's curious and I would have loved to watch Casablanca tonight.

Picture Monday - Flower Dog

We were making cookies last week when my two wiener dogs (and my mother-in-law's wiener dog) started begging for scraps or whatever else was going to fall from the table, so I threw a fist full of flower on one of the dogs. In my mind, it was a warning - quit sitting up and begging. To them it was "hey, someone's getting food, beg harder."

I only flowered one dog, and would have liked to flower the others, but no good. I was stopped. Still, the one pooch looks sorry for begging, no?

Pick Your Future

It's part of the unwritten rule of the faithful that there are specific times during a church service where your attention is appreciated, but not required. Yes, you listen to the sermon, yes, you sing the songs but when everyone is filing through for communion, it's OK to let your mind wander.

Which brings us to Sunday's service. The way our communion works, the front rows go first, and everyone behind moves up as the line progresses. It's a simple that can be done without firing one synapse or utilizing one brain cell. It's clockwork, but someone forgot to tell the gentlemen in the Blue Blockers.

I'll back up. For a couple weeks I've been watching this older gent who attends our service regularly. He's always clad in Blue Blocker sun glasses (medical? style choice? only he knows for sure), is about 6-foot, probably pushing 80, stocky and never seems to enjoy the fact that he's attending church. In fact his disdain is palpable, so I started to watch him. Today, the pastor issued the communion prayer and Mr. BB started digging for green gold. Hard. He was like Bruce Willis in Armageddon, he was drilling so hard. John Holms had nothing on this guy (over the line? Sure was!). Then he wipes it underneath the pew.

Then, communion. Everyone in his row gets up, and he only starts to get up once it's his turn. He doesn't anticipate, he waits for the clockwork to get to him, and then he starts the long, laborious task of getting to his feet and out of the pew. The whole ordeal took probably 45 seconds, but 45 seconds can significantly screw up the machinery of communion. And it did. The line to the right, where Mr. BB was holding up the line, shriveled while the left line flourished. When all was said and done, his 45 second obstinance added that time onto the communion ritual. Yes, it's small, but there's no denying the middle finger with a booger on it that he was waving at everyone.

The reason I bring up Mr. BB at all is it makes you wonder what sort of old person you'll turn into, presuming you make it that far. There are times I feel that life has broken me down a bit, but I can't imagine a life where such odd little defiances are necessary to feel empowered. Was this, really, the only place and time Mr. BB could make a man out of himself - by holding up the line and smearing God's house in his own crusty snot juice (over the line yet again!!!).

Or, the possibility exists that he said "screw it" to life a long time ago and lives his life as a third grader in an old man's body. You have to admit, the ideal if not the execution has a certain appeal.

I hope when I'm old dignity will have come my way in a small measure, but I somehow doubt it. I'm not a person with whom dignity gets along. I'm much more disaster prone than to think one day people will take me seriously because I'm old, accomplished or not. But I sincerely doubt you'll catch me holding up the line for the blood of Jesus.

Anticipation, Redux

Part of me is dreading the upcoming "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull." My friend Chad pointed out, quite correctly that the movies maintain a law of diminishing returns. If the trend holds, the flick will be the worst of the four (don't get me started on "Temple of Doom," my favorite of the series but a film that, I will concede, is inferior to "Raiders of the Lost Ark" in every conceivable way).

I'm dreading it because, from the sound of things, it's just going to get goofy - aliens, bastard children with goofy names, Ray Winstone (whom I love, BTW). But I'm actually getting up early tomorrow so I can watch the first trailer on Yahoo Movies. I'm not sure when it will be posted, but if I can catch it before work, I'm gonna do it.

The trailer has already been spoiled all over the web, but I still can't wait. If the character is about anything, it's about myth, so I don't feel so terribly guilty about desperately wanting to see Harrison Ford back in the fedora.

Also, this poster would completely kick ass if the same artist hadn't already done the Star Wars prequels, which bring memories of the evil George Lucas, not the good one who pitched "Indiana Smith" to Steven Spielberg on the beach. Still, Cate Blanchet looks spectacular as a commie dominatrix, and once that theme starts playing, I'm sure all will be forgotten.

Bad Media Day

Can someone tell me what the hell is wrong with Newsweek?

Today, in the middle of reading a story about how the neo cons hate John McCain, I was compelled to put the piece down out of disgust. The story started with quotes (obtained by Newsweek) by Ann Coulter and went on to quote Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck and other media figures of the extreme right wing of the Republican party.

Why put the article down? Follow me here for a minute.

In the first two pages of this article on John McCain, one of two people who will be competing for the presidency of this country, they quoted a woman who called John Edwards a faggot, a drug-addict hypocrite windbag who is chiefly resonsible for the lowering of political discourse in this country, the premeir irrational screaming talking head among wingnuts and a Moron convert who once promised to broadcast an abortion on his radio talk show, only to play a clip of Al Franken's radio show (who explained the tasteless stunt by comparing himself to Lenny Bruce). In other words, the story was stacked with sources who no serious journalist in their right mind would listen to.

The argument might then be "But these are the neocon powerful. Who else are you going to talk to?" Senators. Representatives. The president or his staff. Joe Liberman. Mitch McConnell. Dan Carlin. Robert Scheer. Harry Reid. William Kristol, if it comes to that (even though no one should take him seriously, either). You don't talk to entertainers, many of whom have IDENTIFIED themselves as entertainers as opposed to serious political pundits and visionaries. By quoting Ann Coulter, you are validating her and I, de facto, am giving her attention. So I put the article down.

I'm totally engrossed in the presidential election right now, but stuff like this takes the wind out of my sails pretty damn quick. But, I had some good news - the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue came today (with my sweetie, Brooklyn Decker getting significant play), so I put down newsweek which was trying to entertain me as oppose to inform me in a subtle way, and picked up something that appealed to my basest elements in a forthright and straightfoward manner. When I need political coverage, I think I'll go on-line in the near future until Newsweek gets their shit together.

Picture Monday

While I've taken a lot of good pictures in my life, some of which I'll share in the coming weeks, I can't think of one I've taken that Samuel Beckett would be proud of. But, there's a first time for everything.

The background: My friend Matt found a "Choose Your Own Adventure" book in a Barnes and Noble, which was a nostalgic thrill. I found this page and made him hold it up and - Instant Nihlism.

Bigotry, Hatred and JOHN WOO!!!

I had an interesting discussion last night about bigotry that I want to try to work out here. By "work out" I mean, I think I know what I think, but in the course of this entry may type some pretty stupid things. Please be gentle.

It started, innocently enough, with an airing of "Mission Impossible 2" on TBS last night. John Woo birds were fluttering across the screen, impossible shots were offing bad guys and Tom Cruise is in the middle of it, driving through fire on a motorcycle. The wife walks in and we start talking about his nutty Scientology video and how his belief structure had cast a different light on his work - it's somewhat tougher to buy Cruise as a secret agent with all those Thedons attached to my spine or wherever it is they attach themselves.

Mitt Romney, the candidate for president who happened to be Mormon, had dropped out on Thursday, and said some things in his closing speech that deserved John Stewarts well thought out commentary "Fuck You!" It really fit, especially if you watched the speech, which I did. But the two events - MI2 being weird because Tom Cruise's religion is weird, and giving the middle finger to Romney who believes Jesus partied with the Native Americans, it sets one to thinking about where the line is between logic-based opinion and bigotry, and more importantly, what side you're on.

For me, it's becoming increasingly tricky as I move further away from religion but closer, I think, to faith. I make no secret of my 2-year existential malaise, where some of my beliefs, I've determined, are simply not true. Where do you go from there? I'm not entirely sure, but I'm finding my way. God is still real to me, be it psychological detachment from logic or the spark of the divine. I feel something and I know, for me, it's real even if it's mental illness. I hope it's God and that's sort of where I'm sitting - between divine intervention and the possibility of insanity. It's not a terribly pleasant place to be, and I haven't yet convinced myself it's better than blind faith.

But in deconstructing (and slowly reconstructing) my own belief structure, I have cast a more critical eye on other faiths and found some of them seriously lacking. Like Scientology. And Mormonism. And that's where I'm finding myself worried that I'm actually intolerant. Where does the line exist between "I think your beliefs are foolish but I respect your right to believe them" and "I think you're crazy and have dismissed you." If I'm over the precipice, can I come back?

Let's get some subtext in here - I actually have three people in my life I'd consider friends who attend the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I like them, they like me. I respect them as all three are talented individuals in their own right. Again, I like them but there are portions of their belief structure that can be disproven right away through the historical record, and some of the church's stances and practices disturb me. So here's the nuts and bolts - do I think less of them for what they believe? The answer...as people, I don't. They're my friends and that hasn't changed. They could believe in Abe Vigoda riding a unicorn as the savior of our ethereal plane and they'd still be the same people I hang out with as long as they weren't overly concerned about converting me to their bat shit crazy religion. As a concept, however, I think to myself, quietly, in that part of your brain you can't control "how can you believe that?" It's something I haven't figured out how to stop.

Of course, all religion and religious people of all sects are subject to the same scrutiny when they reveal their faith. Revealing that you have faith and believe in something you can't prove is a powerful statement and one that's become somewhat easy to do in our overtly religious society. But does that little voice in the back of my head, which disagrees with what someone believes in before I know anything about them is the very definition of bigotry, isn't it? And by extension, seeing "Mission Impossible 2" through a different lense because Tom Cruise believes he's tapped into the spirits of long-dead aliens to help him fight the bad effects of other ancient aliens...isn't that the same thing?

I'm starting to think (again, as I work this out) that the answer isn't acceptance of other people's beliefs or trying to silence that little voice in your head that screams "These People are NUTS!" but to make a concerted effort to meet someone as a person before you're able to classify them based on their religion. This can be tricky, and I think the person on the other end has some responsibility, too. If there's someone on the street, preaching and screaming at the top of his lungs about fire and brimstone, that person has put the "little voice" to the front of my mind and is asking, in a way, to be judged by the fact that he's yelling about fire and brimstone. Enter Mr. Cruise. For years, I saw him as an above average actor and movie star, making smart choices and working with great creative people. Then he jumped on the couch on Oprah and told Matt Lower he was an idiot for believing in science and took Katie Holmes hostage and made that freaky-ass video. In other words, he's asking to be judged as a Scientologist, and brother, you got it. "MI:2" will never be the same and it's 90 percent your fault, and maybe 10 percent mine.

As for Mitt Romney, I think that's a little different. He was asking, in effect, to be the name, face and driving force behind the country I call home, and when you ask for that much responsibility, I want to really examine who you are. Religion, I'm sorry, is part of that. You can't say "I want to lead you" and not have your beliefs come into account. The fact that he's part of the Mormon Church was a check mark against him in my mind, and I don't think that's bigotted. If I said "I will never vote for him because he's a Mormon," if it's a deal breaker on his candidacy, that's a somewhat different story.

As it turned out, he was an asshole of a candidate who spent $35 million of his own money and now has nothing to show for it. Christian, Muslim, Mormon or Abe Vigoda riding a unicorn, that's pretty freaking dumb and worthy of scorn and laughter.

Why Do You Ask?

We're eating Thursday night at El Tapatio, pound for pound the best Mexican food in town, when four young people come in dressed all in black, three of them tapping away wildly on blackberries. I lean over to my wife and whisper "they have to be involved with the campaign." Chelsea Clinton was speaking down the street and this crew either seemed like volunteers or people associated with the Clinton campaign in one way or another.

We finish our food and as we're sucking on our mints and waiting for the check to come back, I glance again. I was right. They were involved with the campaign as one of them was, indeed, Chelsea Clinton.

I'm an Obama guy, for a number of reasons, but could live with Hillary as president. I want my daughters to know a democratic president. Anywho, there are two other full tables in the restaurant, and I seem to be the only person who notices one of the most famous people in America, someone who's gone through unbelievable psychic trauma. I mention it to the wife, she agrees and, using only our eyes, we have a conversation about whether or not to go over there and say something to her.

On the one hand, when you have a chance to talk to someone like Chelsea Clinton, you probably want to take it. On the other hand, she's having dinner after speaking in 3 Nebraska locations. Props to her, BTW, for eating at a locally owned eatery, unique to our little town. She chose her vittles well.

I ultimately said nothing to her for two reasons. First, it's not good to bother people who don't need bothering. I know she's campaigning, but I know how much I hate being interrupted during dinner. Second, and more importantly, if your not among the legion of coveted undecided voters, what the hell do you say to Chelsea Clinton? "Thanks for stopping in Nebraska?" "I hope you like the food." Lie and tell her your voting for her mom during Saturday's caucus? I honestly didn't have anything to say to her, but was pleased enough to be in the same restaurant and enjoy her celebrity.

It was also fun telling my oldest who she was as we went to the parking lot. She ran up to the window and smiled at Chelsea. She smiled back at the cute 4-year-old blonde. She's nice. I just don't have anything to say to her and want her to eat in peace.

Book Review: "Born Standing Up" by Steve Martin

The fact that Steve Martin was the most famous stand-up act of the modern era, a man who could pack auditoriums with hundreds of thousands of people, seems almost an afterthought in "Born Standing Up." It's a blur, with such cultural touchstones as Saturday Night Live garnering a page-and-a-half out of the book's 200 or so pages. When describing some of his biggest shows, the predominent feeling is fatigue. "The Jerk" and his career in movies, almost a pleasant afterthought.

It's in his development as a performer where "Born Standing Up" flourishes as both a memoir of a developing performer, and as a fascinating look at where the hell someone like Steve Martin comes from. He starts at the beginning, living as a child with an emotionally distant and sporadically abusive father who's dreams of stardom were squashed but ressurected through his child. He comes from Knotts Berry Farm, of all places, where he was part of a Vaudeville act that played on the grounds. He comes from the classrooms of the USC Philosophy Department, from the counterculture ramblings of his peers and, eventually, from the run down stages of a thousand stages across the country. And this, the infancy of a man who many agree is somewhat of a national treasure, is where Steve Martin's heart is. It's hard not to envision the white-haired comic smiling whistfully as he types about his days working at a magic shop, or working in the theater.

"Born Standing Up" follows Martin's career starting at 13 when he started working, illegally as it turned out, as a program salesman at Disneyland and continues up until he walked off a stage after performing for 100,000 people who knew his act frontwards and backwards, and never doing stand-up again. It's a strange final scene to a book devoted to the demons and delights of persuing and pushing the medium of stand-up.

And oh, the demons. One of the most striking passages in the book comes early on when Martin describes a beating at the hands of his father. He describes it simply, but leaves little to the imagination and then follows it up with this passage: "I have heard it said that a complicated childhood can lead to a life in the arts. I tell you this story of my father and me to let you know I am qualified to be a comedian." For those who know Martin only as the bumbling father from his family films, the Fred McMurray of our time, you've missed a good part of Martin's career as a playwrite and author. It's simple but compelling passages like the one above that really shine in this memoir. Martin doesn't overanalyze, he doesn't exaggerate. It's a compelling style, especially in an age where memoirs spell out more than we ever want to know, quite often.

It's also fascinating to see Martin's influences and how he ultimately rejected them. His stand-up was avant gard and got that way through a lot of thought. But what's great to read, and why I think Martin wrote the book, is how much fun he had trying to figure out what he was going to do. The man was a struggling artist, and that section of his story glows with life. There's women, some of whom he loves. There are friends who drink beers and talk philosophy on car hoods ("At one point, we concluded it was impossible to be having this conversation"). There are goofy stories and the butterflies after appearing on the Tonight Show for the first time. There's the victory of cracking up an audience but also the self-ritous and beautiful pain of performing before no one, or bombing.

And what's even worse is the tone the book takes once Martin - who aspired to be a teacher, a playwrite, a musician and many other professions - finally dedicated himself to stand-up and the stars started to align in his name. He describes obsessing over his act and the lonliness the road induced. He never out and out says why he isolated himself in hotel rooms or what happened to his friendships, though he does have a fascinating story about developing panic attacks. He withdraws as he becomes more of a public figure, and by the time he's a star, he's about hollowed out. It gets to the point where when he finally leaves standup for film, it almost seems like a hollow victory, like there's nothing left, and maybe there isn't.

You have to love honesty like that, and I also love this book and plan to re-read it. It's funny, though in an inside baseball kind of way, and endlessly interesting. When he dropped the Wild and Crazy Guy act, Martin seems like the party guest you never want to leave - self depreciating, witty and somehow noble.

Good book. Go read it.

Tuesday Picture

I meant to do this Monday, but ah well.

Every so often, I get a really good picture off, or find something that's completely worth photographing. So here's the photo, with comment.

Today my tire went flat. I leave work and by the time I turn my 2nd of 5 corners, I can tell something is seriously wrong. Shimmy shimmy, shake shake, pull over into a park to find my front driver's side smoking. I could have sworn I saw flame, but it might have been my imagination.

I grab the jack and tire iron and get to work. After a couple minutes, I'm puffing pretty hard and the snow's really coming down. I decide to walk, just a few feet, to catch my breath and saw a truck which obviously hadn't moved for a while, with it's back door open. I walk up to it and find that note. I go back to the car, take a picture of the note - ta da.

I finally got home about 6:45 after spending $70 on a new tire.

Upon downloading the picture, it makes me wonder why the author of the note didn't take care of the mouse themselves. Yet another mystery.

Annoying Church Song Line of the Week

Singing in church is fun anyway, because it's often highly personal sentiments being expressed en mass, but this morning I almost cracked up at this line from the song "I Walk By Faith":

"Every prayer I make is a prayer of faith"

As opposed to all those non-faith related prayers I make.

"Welcome to Starbucks, what can I get you?"
"I pray for a decaf skinny mocha. Amen."

The other option is like the movie "Malice" where Alec Baldwin's character proclaims that people who pray during their children's surgeries are actually praying to the surgeons. That's all I could come up with, but the mental exercise got me through most of the sermon.

Mood Music

Some days you just get in a mood - not a funk, not a cloud, not a kick kor a rant, but a mood. And when you're in that mood, things strike you differently.

With that introduction, I present to you my new favorite video on Youtube. I'll probably not be nearly as enamored with it in the morning.

And Yellow Thunder Woman might very well be the hottest thing on the planet.

A Time And A Place

Once I attended a screening of "Seabiscuit" at the Grand Theater here in town, and had a blast watching the movie and listening to an old lady cheer at the screen. The drama was highlighted, the races more fun, the movie a better experience. It's nice to remember that after tonight.

For the first time in three months, Sarah and I went to the movie without the kids, and saw "No Country For Old Men." We were, more than likely, the youngest folks in the audience which is fine. No problem there. The problem came in when the old lady behind us treated the thoughtful, arthouse film as if it were "Seabiscuit."

A selection of comments, with a few comments running through my head:

-(Once Javier Bardem comes on screen) "Eww. He's Creepy" That's kind of the freaking point!
-"That poor dog." Yeah, bleak isn't it. Just like the rest of the movie. Maybe there's a theme here.
-"Why doesn't he just run away" STFU
-"He should go to the police" STFU STFU STFU
-"This movie doesn't make any sense." No. No. You're an idiot. This movie makes perfect sense if you pay attention you focus shifting old tart. The more you pay attention to things like setting, dialogue and thematic elements, the clearer subtext, and in this case meaning, becomes. The more you carry on like an ignorant troglodite with a special place in hell waiting for you because you talk in the theater, the less you're going to get out of the movie and the more you're going to reinforce the stereotype that we don't DESERVE these kinds of movies here in this city. God Dammit! STFU!!!!

You get the point. What's strange to me is if I had been in "Cloverfield' and been in front of the same woman, she would have enhanced the experience instead of detracting from it. What it boils down to is a need for people to understand not just what they're going to be seeing, but the type of reaction expected. Laugh at comedies - not hard. Don't talk like a moron through a movie that might, in lesser hands than the Coen Brothers, be nothing more than a taught thriller but turned out to be a multilayered brillaint adaptation of a bleak, minimalist tome - more difficult.

I love The Grand, but maybe DVD is the way to go on these types of films. Though it was nice to see Josh Brolin's riteous facial hair on the big screen.