Dignity. Always Dignity.

The Worst Doctor Ever...

2012-01-25T21:48:00.001-08:00

I've never been a real friend of the medical profession, but in my aged years, I've grown to appreciate at least to some degree what they offer.

My main gripe has always been that I've thought they were at best ineffective communicators, and at worst pathetic ones. Over the years I've generally come to the conclusion that they don't really see any point, other than wasting time, in explaining things to patients. If they can 'fix' why bother explaining why the problem exists to begin with (other than to explain the cost of fixing...), or how the problem got fixed in the end. If they can't 'fix', well send them off to the next guy...

Sometimes that can't 'fix' 100%, but at least can 'fix' sufficiently to make things 'better' - and for that I offer at least 7 years of gratitude to Dr. Steeg. Not a great communicator, but at least competent (and probably expert) at what he does...

Today, I met a new Doctor. I was referred to him as also being competent in what he does. As the day isn't over, I, myself, feel incompetent to judge on the efficacy of his competence. I must say, before he started manipulating my neck, he failed to mention: By the way, this might hurt like hell for the rest of the day...

A couple of weeks ago, I popped something in my back and ever since have been experiencing similar, though not as severe, nerve pain in my back, shoulder and left arm, as what I'd experienced leading up to my surgery (not mention my nom de plume of 'quippled'). I saw my regular Doc on Friday last, and she referred me to the New Doc.

Approximately 2 minutes into the exam/interview the question of my alcohol use came up. I had given my honest answer of 4 beers per day on the 7 page form, and repeated it to the Dr's inquiry. I then got to sit through an approximate 30 to 40 second stare-down, where the unspoken message was essentially: that's your stock answer, now what's the real one. i.e.: I sort of realized that he didn't believe me - and for the first time, in at least a fairly long time, I was stuck in the quandary of how do you make someone believe in the truth when they don't... I sort of guffawed, and said, well, sometimes 5 ... but also, sometimes 3.

This is not to say I'm particularly proud of my 4 beer per day intake, but I would like to make my Drs. understand that, at least for a number of years, my beer intake is partially for analgesic reasons, and therefore I do not want to be dishonest with them about it.

After the stare-down, the discussion slightly shifted forward to the real reason I had made an appointment with him, but then after about another 2 minutes, being quite spooked by the stare-down, I sort of brought it up again, and got him to admit that he hadn't actually believed me. I've got to say that when he admitted this, I came within about 5 seconds of standing up and walking out. My better judgement got the best of me as I realized it was sort of irrelevant per my reason for being there, and I wanted to see if he could help. As noted above, the jury's still out on that part of things.

But I must say, that as this day has passed, the stare-down has preyed a little on my psyche. And what my final conclusion is that it was ultimately dishonest of the practitioner. If he had instead responded with oh, you look like maybe you drink more than that... or oh, you know your alcohol consumption might be contributing to your problems, or, anything else, well, then, so be it, but to have developed an opinion but not expressed it, except through the stare-down, was extremely rude and dishonest, and is something I don't consider to be professional.

If I had a moment to express a private thought to him, I'd say: Why should I believe in you, if you don't believe in me... But, it isn't even that; it's more: Why should I believe in you if you don't have the honesty or integrity to tell me what you're thinking. I suppose, I'm supposed to argue that its just another example of pathetic MD communication skills; but in this case was something worse; it was sort of offensive, and well, something to which, I don't know how to respond... It sort of trumps competency.

Slave To Another God

2012-01-22T20:43:00.001-08:00

A slave to another God
Is something I would rather not be.
For I already am,
To so many others.

Why Gods make us slaves
Is something I cannot say;
Perhaps it is an answer,
That awaits another day.

Why strangers deign to invent
New Gods, escapes me.
Why create something that
Berates you?

My main God is words,
As John foretold me;
Time is another,
That controls me.

Slave am I to time,
I cannot deny.
If only she would say
How I should lie, the day I die.

But words,
I love,
And if I am a slave,
I am a dove.

You're Cool If You Think You're Cool

2012-01-20T20:33:00.000-08:00

You're not if you don't.

The Centers of Time

2011-12-19T22:03:00.005-08:00

According to Einstein, there is an atom of time that is required for light to move from a to b, unless of course an object is moving along with light at an equal speed - in which case a appears to be b, and b, a...

What this means philosophically is that if I were with you in a bar enjoying a beer, and you made some quip, which took point x seconds to reach my ears, nevertheless would also take z light atoms to reach my eyes; i.e.: there is some divisible instance between what your time is and what my time is. The quandary of course is that though your quip's time lagged behind my time, my response of course would lag behind yours. Sort of like my reaction to a star that's 5 million parsecs distant is 5 million year too late, it's reaction to my reaction will be a further 5 million years sadder. And so we echo our reactions.

Of course the lag between you and me and me and the star are significantly different in scope. they are nevertheless no less different in texture.

I've scoffed at the physicists who've declared an infinite number of parallel universes, not so much because they might be wrong, but rather that if so, there must be x to the infinite number of intersecting universes. (of course semantically, universe is "one" so, excuse me if I disagree...). mais, the perceivable singularity may have imperceivable iterations that are both intersecting and parallel, defining something other than a singularity - a "one" - rather a spectralverse of unparalleled diversity.

My point, if no one has gathered it by now, is that my center of time is me; yours is you, hers is her; etc. all other times, yours, hers, intersect mine, (or someone else's) (or sadly perhaps sometimes no else's) and that each defines a distinct universe. Uni, in being the one, the me, the you, the she, the he, but never the we, the they, the you the many, For the we, the they, the you the many are the intersections, and not the "one"; and the "they" and "me" and "you" and "me" - well the distinction is ... a word forgotten - google says 'except' (perhaps 'exception') ; i.e.: the spectralverse, the union of the many, the union of the the common and the exceptions, being an expression of set theory; the 'all' and not the 'one'. In the beginning was the word, and the word encountered the conundrum of grammar... Presumably something that popped up after the word...

it died so soon

2011-12-07T21:28:00.000-08:00

it died so soon,

and she seemed so sad,

and I don’t know why,

but I feel so bad.

The moon is true

In its endless glide,

I don’t know why,

But I’m on its side.

Worth a tune,

From a big baboon,

Sorry time

For a worthless rhyme.

it died so soon,

and she seemed so sad,

and I don’t know why,

but I feel so bad.

Well the day is done

And the year is wrung,

And I think I’ve sung

As much as I can.

it died so soon,

and she seemed so sad,

and I don’t know why,

but I feel so bad.

Modern Myth

2011-12-03T21:53:00.001-08:00

By mistake I q'd X-Men in my Netflix Q.
I was looking for the 2011 film but inadvertently stumbled across Patrick Stewart.
And Wolverine, and the host of X-Men... and X-Ladies.
Maybe, X-Lads and X-Lassies.

In any event I thought how our modern myth has become this comic book hero;
Not to mention my admiration for Cap'n Amerique.

I had forgotten this movie, as I'd forgotten its year. And yet,
it was better than average
had perhaps something to say.
still perhaps nothing, as I'd forgotten,
or didn't I say?
that I had forgotten, forgotten this play?

Break me into 20 pieces,

The Happiness of the Left Hand

2011-12-02T21:12:00.000-08:00

Because of physical issues I've transferred a lot of my mouse responsibilities to my left hand. My left hand being the hand that had total failure about 6 or 7 years ago. Though it is painful it is less so than the right. In any event I thought it worth remarking upon that regardless of the pain, I think there is a little (more than little?) happiness in my left hand. It is like it has a seized a power that it never had for 56 years. I wonder if it is making me think differently?

As an aside: whoever invented the mouse, though it was a brilliant idea, it was nevertheless a bad one. The movements might be more appropriate for an octopus, or something without a skeleton. Perhaps a sign that skeletal creatures are ultimately doomed? In any event, one of these days I'm going to sue you for a billion dollars.

B.C.

2011-11-30T20:14:00.000-08:00

Awhile back I panned a Van Heflin performance from the '50s, and deservedly so, but after watching a B-flick cop story with Broderick Crawford, from the same era, I realized just how bad Van was, mainly because of just how good B.C. was... The movie was Down Three Dark Streets, and was in the style of a Dragnet tale (though FBI, but still in L.A.), I'm pretty sure with the same narrator, and definitely with the same narrative style of voice over explication of the mundane. The thing about Broderick is that he doesn't really seem to care about the product; isn't intimidate by what a piece of shit movie this is; rather, he'll crack a smile, or frown in a concerned way, and you're reminded of a real person - perhaps an uncle or a friend. I shouldn't really say piece of shit movie - is always fairly interesting to see '50s flicks just for the time travel effect. The backgrounds, the foregrounds have their own fascinations - it isn't someone's imagined version of history. And regardless of the melodrama(s) - or the cheezy narration - it was well filmed on location and most of the actors were o.k. - Mr. B.C. of course being better. Definitely not running from the taxman.

Person Man And Soul

2011-11-23T21:10:00.002-08:00

She was a good person
That's something you might say.
Not perfect in any way.
(Well perhaps a shade above the rest.
Perhaps even second best...)

Man is flesh, and meat and gizzard,
Bone and orifice, optic nerve, bowel movements,
Urinary functions, food, sleep, dreams, wetness
and dryness, youth and age, itches and tickles.
Nothing perfect in any way.

Soul is God's tool,
Make us pray.
Soul is God's school
Every day.
And yet we know
We can but fail,
So soul is not perfect in any way.

The Green King

2011-11-17T21:52:00.009-08:00

The green king is dead.
The wind sweeps new golden leaves down my lane.

The wind rolls the skies in grey and weepy gloom

While I sit inside this room and ponder what to do.

While I sit inside this room and ponder what to do,
The dog dreams of hunts in golden fields,

Her paws claw the air, her eyes search behind closed lids

For prey that lurks in canine fantasy -

Her time will come - I think.

Her dreams make her blink, and sometimes she will growl or purr,

At things that are outside my world.

The king is dead; long live the golden king.

The Big Bang!

2011-11-16T21:36:00.000-08:00

Oh my god!
What did I do!

Effluent Explosion

2011-11-15T21:24:00.000-08:00

Tonite were I privileged to an effluent explosion from beneath my sink. The pressure apparently arose from the disposal of garbage, and the plastic connection failed, and there flowed the effluent.

My old age overwhelmed me as I tried to address the problem. To bend over, to stoop, to reach for unreachable pipes, all bore down on my soul and made me want to weep. (Not to mention the pain associated with each and every movement!)

The Hoover Steam Vac sucked up the water, ... and then a towel or two, and then dumping what was in the sink, into another sink, and sink I did... well, at some point I sat down, looked at the dog, and sighed.

Finally, I kneeled before the god that was my sink, and found the strength to fondle the coupling of the disposal to the drain, and there found the gasket askew and in need of adjustment. Pleasant patience came to rescue the day! And though I later collapsed in a fit of defeat, realizing how unfit I am to face such challenges, I at least was not killed by the calamity; I get to live another day.

The Happiness of Bees

2011-10-27T20:51:00.002-07:00

I am not sure if bees would smile,
Or if they did, what would be the subtlety thereof,
Or if their eyes might dance,
With their wagging behinds...
But maybe so...
A fly might know happiness,
A toad might know hope.
An elephant might know rhinoceros
For all I know.

Whitman's Beard!

2011-10-21T20:39:00.000-07:00

I just thought it worth remarking on Whitman's beard. I have less to say about other stuff. Quite remarkable, in its own way, Whitman's beard; ergo, my need to remark thereon...

Nipples In The Desert

2011-09-23T22:45:00.003-07:00

In the old days, before nipples were prolific on the video screen, they still liked busty girls, but they would just put them in tight sweaters, and let their eyes do the seducing.

TMC threw some old Van Heflin flick on the screen tonight. Described as being in Afrique d'Nord, after a moment or two I wondered if it would take me back to Tunisia. And then there I was transported. Of course it was some world 23 years before I was there, but there were vague recollections, and lost conjectures...

Van apparently was having some tax problems that made it beneficial for him to make movies outside the USA; or so says WInona Ryder.

The movie is some sad precursor to Indiana Jones, as archeologists and treasure hunters search for a lost golden mask. And yet, there it is: toonsie. And I'm sure I've visited the ruins, and well, the rolling hills look familiar.

Van Heflin could be Indiana Jones if he were Harrison Ford, but alas he's rather inept. And there's some real strangeness as there's a love interest that's actually engaged to someone else, someone else who's rather a wet rag, or ... hard to say, but at least sans passion.

In any event, at one moment in the filming in the ruins that I'm sure I visited, but forget, the tight sweater is quite tight, and the young lady's nipples are clearly impressed thereon... In the old days, that's how they did things.

Whether the Weather Matters

2011-09-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

Is it a question we should ask? I visited the shore, without a sun. The moonbeams did not come. A fish flopped dying in the surf, not quite aware of where it flopped, I'm sure.

There is a penchant, to search for penchants, that finds itself, self-fulfilling.

And filling one's self is not to be done lightly; rather it is rather, everything delighting.

I'm sure that the weather will change; or at least will show another face. Perhaps one familiar, perhaps one we've faced, sometime in the past, that we've long ago lost.

It is a question, that is worthless to answer, for the answer is known, for the cotton will not grow, or the lives will be tossed in the tossing flood, or the ooze will frost on the tops of the mud, or the soldiers with boots on will die in their blood...

Regardless, the weather matters, weather or not ...

In Rubique's Rainbow

2011-08-16T21:39:00.005-07:00

In rubique’s rainbow, under the starry light,
Bathed in moonglow,
and afterhours hues...
Shades of midnight blue,
This rainbow hovers over you.
Like lovers, she entwines,
With a voice that's so devine,
Ella would but pale, if she, herself, could not define,
Surreptitious smiles misaligned
Like a Cheshire Cat’s
In Con-nec-ti-cut.
Where a memory was once but a kiss,
It lives out its life as an unfulfilled wish;
For there is no road that will take you there.
The sky is as empty, as the night is aware
That colors are pleasantly caught in its snare,
To be freed by the morning or freed by the stars.
Or freed by the moonbeams where ever they are.
Dreamer beware, this rainbow is real,
She stands at the door, a cat with a hiss,
Pass nay,
She may say
At the end of your way.

Martialing

2011-07-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

A few moments ago, my brain was struggling to find the word 'martial'; there was a discussion in a TV show about sport's importance in the universe, and its persona in colleges (or universities), and my mind hearkened to something I'd thought a while ago, (a couple months), about martial skills probably being part of the curriculum of ancient colleges, except this time, though I could remember this thought, I couldn't remember the phrase 'martial skills' or more specifically, the word 'martial' - I then zoned out... how many seconds? minutes? passed. And suddenly the little messenger, researcher, I'd sent out to ruminate my file cabinets, (what a library I've amassed!), came back with his chit of paper, and there enscribed: martial. As time goes by, I realize more and more how much I rely on the little messengers. Thank god they still find their way back... don't get lost along the way!

Well

2011-05-06T21:13:00.001-07:00

How do you get there from here?

The truth is you can’t even shed a tear.

Not, unless you have something particular to fear.

A loss perhaps that you held dear.

So dear in French is cher…

And possibly you are aware,

That loss is quelque chose perdu,

Quelque chose. tres cher. perdu.,

Well, my dear, perhaps you weren’t aware…

Well, others fair as well,

Impossible to tell,

Just how much the number swells,

Perhaps a gypsy may foretell:

The answer's hidden deep within a well

Where the harpies’ shadows dwell.

Guarded by a witch’s wicked spell

Or so, the gypsy might foretell,

Words forgotten in a pause,

Words that have no hidden cause,

Meaningless, and echoless,

Words for which there is no voice.

Words for which we have no words.

Words that must remain unheard.

Don’t think I have forsaken,

In the heart of the tear I found I’d awakened,

The wish for a wish that was long ago taken.

The heart can’t be broke, but the soul can be stolen.

And broken, I wonder, well, wonder just: well…

Where’s that confounded old gypsy well?

I thirst for its water, I thirst for its curse,

Down there I don’t think it could possibly be worse.

So why bother now, why bother at all; the fardels will get you,

If not, you’ll fall.

Without Title

2011-02-03T19:01:00.008-08:00

Without purpose,

Without weather,

Without wonder,

and little pleasure.

Ghosts hobble

Without measure.

The word wobbles

Tumbles, falls, and crashes,

Into an unknown ether.

Where 'known' is neither.

Perhaps just a dancer

In an analyst's dreams.

That's how I turn, that's how I worm,

The word into a shallow petri dish,

To see what might grow,

Oh! If it wasn't so old!

The Coincidence Cannot Abide

2011-01-18T20:25:00.003-08:00

Yesterday, I, somewhat randomly watched an episode of House that I had recorded a couple of months ago. It was about a possible smallpox case that derived from a broken bottle brought up from the frothy deep, that had exploded, and cut a young lady's hand. The bottle was from a sunken slave ship from yore unknown. Ultimately Spock would've termed it illogical, but nevertheless, after one guy dies, it turns out to be something else...

zzzzzzzz. Hopefully not putting you to sleep.

After this show was over, I wandered over my list of shows on Tivo, and decided to watch Bones.

After a couple of minutes on this show it suddenly pops up that there are 'bones' discovered from a sunken slave ship. This show also had been recorded a couple of months ago. It goes on to tell the tale of some gigolo, who died at the end of his "Jane's" hook. There were also pink worms involved - and then there was a melodramatic scene about the slaves, and their lost lives - yeah, but what are lives without freedom!

Okay, then about halfway through Bones, I realized it was MLK's Big Daddy Birthday! Okay, you may all think this is co-incidental, but I'm getting damned paranoid. What the hell is God trying to tell me!

Travelling with your Stuff

2011-01-05T19:52:00.003-08:00

I can barely handle travelling now; and yet I think that's all I'll want to do once Alice is beyond the pale. I could explain why I can barely handle it but don't want to - elsewhyse - I hope and think that Alice's pale is still a few years down the road.

I bought something from Amazon.com (more mystery) and it's coming from Indiana. Through the wonders of 'tracking' I know that it has traveled into (and probably out of) Illinois. I realized while thinking about this, that there is some visceral connection that I have with my 'stuff' that allows me to travel with it through my imagination; there's Iowa... barren fields this time of year. Perhaps I have mistaken Missouri for Iowa, but same general idea.

I don't know why this visceral connection should exist, but I believe it really does. Of course the 'tracking' really helps to make it so, but I still think that in the olden days this was probably still true. I imagine a prairie girl ordering a pretty dress from some outfitter in Chicago, and riding along on its trip too. Hey; bon voyage!

* The word 'stuff' was brought to you today courtesy of Amazon.com

Who Would Fardels Bear

2011-01-02T20:55:00.004-08:00

-Something brought To Be or Not To Be to mind, and for a moment there I thought I could still recite half a dozen lines.

The wonder of the internet is that in a matter of seconds you can verify whether this memory or that memory is correct.

I think I dropped about 3 or 4 lines between the 4th and 5th.

Being on the internet, of course I read it from top to bottom; then back from top to bottom. And so forth.

I realized of course that I'd missed more than half of it in the first place. The true heart of the poem is in the lines below; 'the grunt and sweat under a weary life' and 'pangs of despised...' struck a chord.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,

The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,

The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,

The insolence of office and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make

With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death,

The undiscover'd country from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will

Do You Sometimes Wonder...?

2010-12-21T21:35:00.008-08:00

Do you sometimes wonder if perhaps you're really just a zit on the complexion of time?

Or perhaps a cancer eating away at its breathing apparatus?

This in reverse to what you seem to be?

What you seem to be, being: normal, healthy, pale and hale?

You never know... but your destiny is seldom what the gypsy foretells...

from your moments both of ecstasy and unforgettable hell.

The Pleasure of your Christmas Company

2010-12-08T19:54:00.002-08:00

My boss had me and his other worker bee out to dinner for Christmas cheer. I had the small filet, and there was an eighty dollar bottle of wine, that he indicated would be about twenty at costco. I have no frame of reference when it comes to wine, so I was seeking his knowledge, though for what purpose I know not.

When I arrived, he and Peter were discussing skiing. Also something for which I have no frame of reference. I always think of skiing as zip zip. Oh, I watch it from time to time at the olympics, and I think in winter when I was a kid. I always remember the jumping skiers - or is that ski jump skiers? - though I never really considered that skiing, it being all in the air and everything - and slightly on the insane side.

My problem was that skiing always seemed to be just a little too fast; that also being a little insane. For some reason, and I don't have a clue how long it's been like this... I've always had the feeling that life was meant to be lived slowly. So, I've always prided myself a little on how I've been able to live slowly. I walk slowly. I talk slowly. I even think slowly. Though, I sometimes think I could probably drink a little more slowly than I do, nevertheless, I think I drink slowly.

UPON reflection, I realize that even though my boss was describing his skiing as zip zip, what he and Peter were really talking about was how soft skiing could be. And this is also something I've felt for a fairly long time, ... that life is also best lived softly. The nature of matter and physics doesn't make this always an option, nevertheless it is generally preferable. Now I'm left with this stupid feeling that my one prejudice for slowness, may have left me out in the cold, so to speak, from this party where this great softness was taking place. Alas, I'm too old to think about starting skiing now. And besides that, it's still too damn fast... And seeing as skiing is noted for killing and maiming people, the softness can't be there all the time, and knowing my luck, well...

The Hair and the Floor

2010-11-20T20:40:00.002-08:00

I am overwhelmed with the images of Miss Havisham. I wonder if anyone has ever produced a greater monster. Dracula is really rather pale, and Frankenstein's was a little green, but Miss Havisham is death alive, well life in it's most pitiable final stages. Nothing left but hate.

I'm not sure Miss Havisham will make further appearances. I rather think that perhaps Dickens is done with her. He's turned the corner and the spectre in this hall is Magwitch; witch perhaps none the less. I haven't quite followed him yet... I'm still there with the witch of Satis Hall, haunting her own life, with those low and moaning cries...

Jeopardy of the Unknown Remembrance

2010-11-18T20:49:00.003-08:00

Tonight on Tivo, a Jeopardy question arose about Pip and his circumstances at the opening of Great Expectations - and though I knew the question was Great Expectations, I realized I'd missed this altogether when I'd opened the book. Or at least, I had to go back and reread the opening paragraphs... Though I always remembered the convict, and their exchange, I'd never noticed that Pip was visiting his parents' graves, and well the graves of five unknown brothers.

Of course you know he's an orphan, and that's sort of what Dickens does so well, nevertheless, it's significant when judging the later Pip to remember these circumstances...

Lately I've been wondering, if there is a kingdom of Heaven, what place hate would take there. Could a man or woman who had ever known hate find a place for themselves there... There's also the question of the place fear would own there... Great Expectations is about the place fear might own. There is really no guilt to be laid upon this child. And yet his life is a treasure house of fears. It is a wonder that life can be so terrible, and yet a man may once in a while still be noble.

The Forgetfulness of the Long Distance Punter

2010-11-12T20:57:00.003-08:00

My age is showing. When I'm drinking beer, and otherwise entertaining myself, I find (more so with each day) that I can't hold a thought for longer than 10 seconds. I find myself watching something on the telly - and a thought crosses my mind - something I wish to pursue on the on-line and switch from telly to online, but by the time I'm online, I've forgotten why I wanted to be there.

Oh, sure, I remember now that I had something to say about Great Expections but even there I forget what it was... I remember reading Great Expectations as a ninth grader (ninth without an 'e'?) but now am wondering a little whether the version I read was abridged. Sometimes I think that, sometimes I think not... I find I have to read Great Expectations aloud. The wonder is that I can hear the voice of Dickens, or Pip, or Joe, or Miss Havisham, Miss 'A' to Joe, and sometimes it's just gibberish, but the rest of the times is a gentleman having a grand time expressing his digestives.

I remember reading Great Expectations with Ivanhoe. And these two novels set me down the path I've long been on, of reading this and that... And now, I have returned to Pip; I'm halfway down this lane. London's windows weep with soot when it rains.

Snowcap In My Eyes

2010-10-25T20:48:00.014-07:00

Snowcap arrived at the store and the October winds followed post haste.

Poor Alice, her walks are foreshortened by the foreshadowing storm.

Snowcap's delicious like a fire that's warm.

Don't be suspicious, there's nothing of harm.

The winter is with us with a withering charm.

My eyes are forgotten, my arms are quite long.

I wonder where with us, the lags, they belong.

Snowcap's delicious, don't forget it is strong.

That Faraway Feeling

2010-10-08T21:10:00.003-07:00

I finished watching Val Kilmer in Kill Me Again. It took me three or four sittings. When I was done I remembered why I'd thought it would be worth the time. It has a really good ending.

A few days ago I typed wants when I meant to type once. Makes me wonder how my mind works? What filing cabinet spell checker do my hands think they're using.

Kill Me Again was the debut for a director named John Dahl. He's also credited as a co-writer. And then noted his next movie was another in a group of memorable films... Red Rock West.

When I checked up on this movie on imdb, I was mainly shocked that it was made in f*king 1989. Having just watched it, the story could've happened last year, or I guess next year. Perhaps a sign that I haven't been paying attention to the fact that Val is getting older. I remember watching him in Wonderland a year or few ago. Think I may've dignified it. Notably it was made in 2003, and yet I don't remember Kilmer being much different than what I was just watching. And then there was Spartan, ambivilently, I think this was a movie I saw with Babi... But then my memory could be playing tricks with me. I didn't think there was any way Kill Me Again couldl be 20 f*king 1 years old.

I guess you'll have to slay me.

C Sharp on a Clef

2010-09-02T21:04:00.005-07:00

And time jumped up on your shoulders and wept,

And made you forget,

And forget to forget.

Or rhyme crept up on your shoulders and slept.

So that all that was left

Were the dreams you forget.

Yes, the dreams when you wake

That you often forsake.

It was a child's dream

That someone once wove.

With the wheat they had reft.

C Sharp for a Clef

But there’s so little time left.

I’m sure I’ll forget, so let pass on,

And let me be left.

Your focus determines your reality...

2010-05-30T11:29:00.003-07:00

What are metachloreans?

Metachloreans are a microscopic lifeform that resides within all living cells.

They live inside me?!

Inside your cells, yes...and we are symbionts with them.

Symbionts?

Lifeforms living together for mutual advantage. Without the metachlorians life could not exist and we would have no knowledge of the force. They continually speak to us, telling us of the will of the force. When you learn to quiet your mind, you'll hear them speaking to you.

from Star Wars, Episode 1, The Phantom Menace

My only comment is that if life could not exist, then why bother worrying about knowledge of the force? Unless, of course, knowledge of the force could exist without life.

Vaux's Swift

2010-05-29T20:35:00.002-07:00

In winter light, May almost done,

At walk's end, or rather farther end,

The swifts were gliding with delight,

Sliding left then right. Amazing me with deft swift and sudden flight

They could not stop to say a thing,

Instead they dove and rose on wing.

After what or why they flew.

A ghost like me,never knew.

But still a moment frozen there. Perhaps a chance to be aware.

Melmoth The Masterpiece

2010-04-20T19:31:00.003-07:00

It took me three, maybe four, months to get through Melmoth. It was actually a really good book to think about, so like a good meal, it needed to be savored, not devoured.

The author was a great word smith; his sentences, complex. He layered two stories inside two or more other stories, so his plotting was equally so...

I think there's little doubt that he sympathized with Melmoth, but he, the author (Charles Maturin - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Maturin) was apparently a god fearing Anglo-Irish Protestant Clergyman - and Melmoth by comparison was supposed to be the embodiment of Satan on the face of the earth...

Of course there were many pages in which it appeared the Catholic Church in Spain was equally an embodiment of Satan. There was a propagandist voice in some of his Catholic railings, but it should be noted that Melmoth was from Ireland, and not Spain, and his religion, or upbringing there-in, was never alluded too; that said, the contemporary Melmoth's (or Melmoth) religion sounded protestant... that said, the Spain of the late 15th, 16th, 17th centuries was probably about as good a definition of Satan as you might conjure up.

Somewhere early on in the reading, (I have no patience to find it now...), one of his characters, perhaps the Spaniard (though there are many...), mentions something about torture, and then something about the worst torture, which he identifies as the 'water' torture. I had to flip back to the beginning to make sure it was written in the 19th century; water torture being in the news and all... something of a 21st century thing...

I just went looking for an on-line version, thinking maybe I could find the 'water' torture reference. I could not. I did find, interestingly enough, Maturin was the uncle of Oscar Wilde's mother. And that '... after his trial, Wilde adopted the name Sebastian Melmoth' (http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1O54-MelmoththeWanderer.html) (I see someone is competing with Wikipedia...).

(Incomplete post...)

SW&7D's

2010-03-29T20:01:00.002-07:00

A few weeks ago I did Snow White & the 7 Dwarfs. I must say I was charmed and for at least a day was humming the songs, hummer that I am.

In the midst of it, when they all come back and find the house cleaned and are scratching their beards and Grumpy said somethin'g about there being somethin'g dirty afoot, and Doc blurted out somethin'g like search every crooked nanny, er, ... ah well, I copied it down. And well, confound it, I can't find 'it! etc. etc.

I always like to try to remember the dwarfs, there bein'g seven of them. Doc, of course, and Grumpy. I was surprised to see Happy was a fatty? Dopey, Sleepy, gonna take a nap Sleepy, Sneezy, god bless yee, oh, it's always the seventh one that trips you up... slightly appropriate it's Bashful, he always hides.

Well me, well me, I always thought I'd be Happy, just to be another dwarf.

The Eye of Sybil

2009-12-11T21:16:00.005-08:00

I found it odd this summer, well, and now fall, that I was reading this book called The Eye of Cybele by some Paraguan - or was it Uruguay? - or Paraquayan - and it was a book about fucking Alcibiades! My god, it was only a year ago I found out about this dude, and here's the ... (I'm sure there's some Dignified reference to this in my past.) And it's really about 'fucking' Alcibiades, or this girl, who sort of does. - well she dance's and is the Queen of the Rump Dance, or something like that, where she dances, and fucks, with a bare bottom. Oh, my, god! For some reason Alcibiades was very attracted.

And the next book I read, (the witch of porto...) was about a witch named Athena, and well, Alcibiades, and Athens, and well, the girl with the bare bottom, were all about Athena, and well, so should I, her being the goddess of wisdom and all, but... I hated the Witch of Portobella!

But then yesterday, I was thinking about how in that book the witch was dancing too...

Yesterday or the day before I finished The Castle of Otranto, my in-between book of a hundred or so pages, of ... Today, I drove by this brick building that looked like some '60's architecture, with glass and brick, empty, not on the right commercial path, with a concrete sidewalk and weeds (even in winter) sprouting up through the cracks; and for some reason I was reminded of some summer day, that I personally never experienced, that occurred some summer day, perhaps 50 years ago, on that self same sidewalk, where the sun was pouring down, and foretelling the weeds, and the desertion.

Yesterday, I started Melmoth the Wanderer. I think I've stumbled on a masterpiece. Well, I've only read 26 pages... Chapter 1 ends, I think, on page 23. It is Irish; and it is protestant Irish. And it makes me wonder if that 'protestant' isn't against the pope, but rather, and perhaps, against the religion. For the Irish you know have their own folklore.

Today, I finished the first chapter. You might say the titular character died at the end. But then I've only just begun. But in the midst of that first chapter I was confronted with a character known as a Sybil, reference to Virgil, (I believe); but then I could not help but think of Cybele - who according to the Paraguayan - no the Uruguayan (I've checked the back of the book) (his name is Chavarria) - was the mother goddess of all time - or at least according to one of his characters - and I wondered if there was a correlation between Sybil and Cybele, and Athena and me... Oh well, I'm looking forward to this read. The author, Charles Robert Maturin, writes very densely; but the imagery he drew, at least in the first chapter was close, was right there, something I could see, and hear, and well, was scarey, made the hairs stand at attention and salute!

Merry 10's.

Tom

Anatomy of a Murder

2009-11-29T07:16:00.001-08:00

This movie was something of a surprise for me. Although its star and director are A-list, and it was nominated for seven Academy awards back in 1959, I had never seen it before. In part because of its star (Jimmy Stewart), I thought it would be a fairly formulaic courtroom drama. In some ways it is, but it has some noir undertones, excellent characters, and nice subtle acting by Stewart and a great supporting cast including Ben Gazarra, Lee Remick, and George C. Scott.

Especially cool is the soundtrack, by none other than Duke Ellington. The Duke himself has a cameo appearance as a piano player in a local jazz club.

I cared less for the actual trial histrionics than the scenes with Stewart and his associates outside the courtroom. But the way the case is played out is surprisingly blunt about various aspects of the crime, and there are unexpected bits of seedy humor. The way Remick's alleged rape is dealt with made me cringe at times--a key point becomes whether or not she was wearing underwear at the time, implying that if she wasn't she clearly deserved anything she got. But the short sidebar among the judge and lawyers (all male, of course) about what term they should use in referring to Remick's panties is a nice, funny touch.

Two Shoes

2009-10-23T20:32:00.005-07:00

I was wondering where my loafers were, when I noticed one was by the door. For a day or so, I wondered where the other'd gone to...

Then today, or so, I noticed the other was at the farthest end of the condo, by the terrace door.

I've always found loafers convenient; slip on to run outside. No laces, you know.

'Course these have their laces, they're moccasin style; or is it boat shoe? I forget which.

'still I'd wondered why, and I still do, how each had reached their locations, juxtaposed you know.

like they were arguing, pouting perhaps, had a disagreement that made them perplexed.

They don't speak to me, but at least now I know,

Where two shoes have gone to, for this moment at least,

Hopefully their soles will find some sort of peace.

Books That Have Passed My Way

2009-09-25T20:27:00.002-07:00

A number of years ago I found a book in french, Rue des Boutiques Obsure, of which I could read the first couple of pages without too much diffuculty - or difficulte - so I bought it. I remember once sitting down to read it, and getting through 30 or so pages before giving up. I had a pale idea of what was going on. I wrote notes in the margins. When I gave up, I thought, this would be a good book to get the english version of ... and read, side by side. Some time later I found the english version on Amazon Dotcom. I knew it was the same book because Amazon provided the first chapter or so for reading. I could read side by side the english and the french and well there were essentially the same prose.

Flash forward, and sometime last spring, the idea of reading them side by side surfaced again. For the umpteenth time or so, my glance fell on Rue des Boutiques Obscure. I went back to Amazon. I found the same book, but couldn't find the first chapter, until, well clicking here, and clicking there, and of course I was confused why the title was translated as Missing Person ... Long story short, I ordered it, read 'them' somewhat side by side... Well, I would read one chapter in one, then maybe two in the other, or, the french would throw me into the air for 50 or so words, and I'd have to go read the english...

Ultimately, near the end, I didn't really need the english; but then again, shit!, ou possible, merde!, I was content to be getting 60 % of what I was reading.

In the long run, it was a fairly interesting story. an amnesiac who after a number of years picks up the trail on his former existence only to discover the tragedy that caused him to forget everything to begin with... The title americain sort of addresses that; that he was the Missing Person. The title francais refers to an address where the old Guy (c'est son nom) lived in Rome. It refers to an area of the story that was never actually addressed in the novel, is someplace Guy is heading at the end of the story.

Catching the Not Paying Attention Disease

2009-08-23T21:14:00.006-07:00

The world infuriates me by not paying attention,... But then lately, it seems I may have caught the disease. You wonder: why? But of course 'wondering why' is part of the disease. Some thought passes before you and you go chase it for a moment, forgetting the thought of a moment before. And then when the moment before thought re-introduces himself, you wonder what the hell has he been talking about?

Alas am probably off to chase some other thought for a moment or two...

Drinking For My Father

2009-07-30T20:33:00.003-07:00

Drinking for my father,

Or in his stead.

Lieutenant,

Place holder,

Until I'm dead.

second looeys are

full of hooey

and are stuffed with chop suey.

or is that fooey?

Drinking for my father is

my final sin.

What do the scientists say

about yesterday? Where did she go?

Who are the soothsayers that pretend to know?

I am one, I believe to pretend.

There's a cure for what ails ya'

And who could say no?

Is yesterday iight that's gone a long day away?

Is there hope that the light will come this way again?

Is the answer in a bottle, or perhaps in a djinn?

Life is quite silly; that's where you begin.

It frightens, it n'lightin's, it's made up of shade.

The soothsayer knows this; is why he's quite gay...

I am one, I pretend to believe,

I believe there's a weave to what we can see.

The mountains are hard; the oceans give way.

And yet I am hopeless and drink every day.

My three beers, my four beers, my time for deep sleep,

Waking, pretending, amazing, I find time for reading,

And yes, I like eating, and walking the dog, of course,

Oh and that chocolate, hmm, yummy chocolate!

Why do I not search for something defining?

Even when I am sure something's designing,

The web of my dreams, the web of my fears,

The web that has stopped me from shedding any tears.

I suppose the Earth will burn down to a crisp.

It's sad, you know, that all is at risk.

Such a short time we've been here,

And so quickly we've spent here.

Coin, is my meaning, not life that I'm spending,

We've spent her as though all of her twirling

were worthless. We've spent her, so why should we care?

Ah such is the curse,

The worst of the worth.

The worth of the worst,

and the word of the cursed.

Drinking for my father until the end.

A movie I will never watch

2009-07-21T20:46:00.003-07:00

The Son of Dr. Jekyll

The blurb in the guide indicates it about a kid out to prove his da weren't looney. My thinking is it's more likely he's the child of Mr. Hyde. But of course all Mr. Hyde's tramps were probably killed, so maybe my thinking ain't straight.

In any event, if there is a never never land, maybe I'll get a chance to watch it there, but until there, I doubt I'll bother.

The Crowd

2009-06-03T19:20:00.002-07:00

More from Turner Classics silent films, tonight The Crowd:

We do not know how big the crowd is, and what opposition it is... until we get out of step with it.

The Hermit of the Hill

2009-06-02T20:41:00.004-07:00

The hermit on the hill,

Drinks his beer for his thrill,

Walking summer days in summer heat,

Wondering,

Is there something

to surpass

a dog rolling in green grass?

Mu(with umlaut)nchhausen

2009-04-21T20:02:00.002-07:00

A few years ago Terry Gilliam made a Munchhausen movie. I have vague recollections of Mork/Robbin William's Head floating around on a platter, and not really getting the movie at all.

A few nights ago Turner Classic Movies had the Nazi version of Munchhausen on... made in '42. This starred a gentleman named Hans Alber(?) who has an uncanny resemblance to (both literally and stylistically) to George C. Scott. It's like he could be George's elder brother.

Like Gilliam's movie, twas a little strange. It was fully interesting just being a real nazi and german, and what did Hitler call it?, movie, about Germany and Russia and Turkey and well, Venice; the moon and the castle. The scenery was sometime beautific; was color. And interesting colors. And interesting costumes, and well, interesting ways... There were negro slaves in Turkey, but no sign of Jews... Supposedly, a product of Goebbels, Inc.

But unlike Gilliam's movie, the history itself was sort of interesting. Catherine the Great was something of a whore, and Turkey was filled with libidinous idiots... (and a little Harem nudity!). There was a semblance of plot to this movie that I don't remember about Gilliam's. The plot being basically about the history of eastern europe. There are odd parallels when a notorious criminal Count suggests a plot to take over Poland that the Baron turns down, and another comment about how war and drama and the like are something he uses whereas the other abuses.. The Count ultimately proffers unending life as a reward for a benificence from the Baron...

More Cuts

2009-04-16T20:22:00.003-07:00

A few years ago, May '06 to be preciser, I posted something about 47 cuts, about Ronin, and about film editing, and about how there were 47 cuts of film, each a different angle for the camera... This is something I'm noticing about Mickey One. The same sense that one angle follows another, but seldom is it the same/repeated angle.

Movies on the Installment Plan

2009-04-13T20:32:00.004-07:00

I've watched the following movies, in various and sundry installments: Grand Central (Ibelieve) with William Holden and some very observant chick-a-dee, Intruder in the Dust, black man white man, Faulkner, lynch mobs with gasoline, sensitive child, black man smarter than the white men... Coming Soon, a girls trying to, learning to, orgasm kinda flick, well chick-a-flick. And I'm still doing Mickey One. The latter is actually a joke on me. Maybe someday can tell that story.

MCML

2009-03-31T19:44:00.002-07:00

During the nineteen-nineties I was always wondering why various copyrights were listed as MCMLXXXX... - when the reality is, when you don't think in decimal, but rather in Roman, you'd use MXM... or MVM when you got to 1995. This I believe is two-fold. One, the Roman's had a wonderful laziness about their math, that got convuluted down the road. And the other is how blind we are. We are truly pathetic... Oh, cry me a river.

During the nineteen-nineties, I often wondered why Bryant Gumbel didn't make an uproar over the mistake of 'not' using MXM...! I used to think this while the Today show listed its copyright as MCMLXXXX...

But then when you think about it, wasn't the whole last half of that century just wrong... shouldn't it have been MLM and not MCML?

Real Ingredients

2009-03-17T18:53:00.003-07:00

This is something of a news flash. A Kraft Salad Dressing commercial just aired, and I swear to God, they reported that their dressing is made with real ingredients! Can you imagine? I couldn't believe my ears, so I had to repeat the commercial, and by golly, that's exactly what they said... It's made with real ingredients! Believe it or not...

Makeup

2009-03-15T10:05:00.006-07:00

I have some vague memory of seeing John Holmes in a porn movie; the memory is of some old beatup man wearing makeup. I just did a search of the web for JH photos and found only a couple. The pictures looked nothing really close to this memory; but then again were of a younger man. Apparently he died of aids and continued making porn even after he knew he was infected, so maybe that's the man I saw. Well, I should say freak I saw; as that is sort of what the memory is of... Some sideshow freak, this one with an anomaly not fit for a normal sideshow.

I woke up the other morning, with a piece of a song in my head; the only line I could actually remember was just like an old time movie... I knew I should've remembered more of the song. When I found a moment I used google to find the song. There it was: Gordon Lightfoot.

The night before last, I was changing channels and stumbled on Wonderland. Perhaps it was the music that made me keep watching. But I barely noticed the music until the end, when the titles rolled to the beat of Gordon Lightfoot singing If you could read my mind.

I waited for the credits to roll to the songs (always last for some reason...) and then noticed all the songs I'd been hearing.

Val Kilmer played John Holmes. For some reason I was thinking, that's not the way I remember him. For some reason I thought the performance would've been better if he was wearing eye makeup. Mascara could've rolled down his cheeks with the blood.

I suppose I could do a little investigative work and find out more about this story, but the story in this movie seems, to me at least, to be enough. The man is dead now and whatever judgements you might feel compelled to make are really of little consequence. But there was something about the story and about the man that makes my skin crawl. Presumably a much more realistic version of the fantasy played out in Boogie Nights.

I liked it; one of the better pictures I've seen in a while.

I should add that in my little search for JH on the web, I was informed that If you could read my mind was JH's favorite song, and that he sang it to his girlfriend on a regular basis.

That Taste of Miller Lite

2009-02-18T20:22:00.002-08:00

Tonight I did that rare thing, and drank a Miller Lite. I bought some at Costco a number of months ago, and there are like 4 or 5 of them left in the fridge.

I poured it into a glass. Also, a rarity, as I'm usually a bottle drinker...

I took that first sip, and I was transported back to Anaheim and the hotel that gave you two free beers each day, choice of which was Miller Lite.

I remember the hotel, because it had a garden courtyard, and I read Basil and Josephine there. Or at least a few of the stories. And I did this drinking Miller Lite.

Those stories, the Basil and Josephine stories, were some of the best I've ever read, and yet I probably couldn't remember many details these many years from then. I remember Josephine was so sad in the end because she had wasted all her love by the time she was nineteen. And Basil, well, he was just very funny.

And then there's the Miller Lite. I probably shouldn't be drinking this beer. (It's me third one tonite!) But, hmm, that taste... It really isn't bad for what it is.

When Grandma Comes To Town

2009-01-23T20:03:00.002-08:00

I'm watching Twoandahalfmen and Charlie's supposed to take Jake to school, and then in his halfwitted way takes him someplace else only to find out that it's the wrong place, and then is about to have a nasty fart over not knowing where he's supposed to take him, and I say, Take the day off ya stup'd idyut! And of course, I'm guess we're all supposed to realize how stupid this is, when it's well Judith took a vacation to Hawi'aa and well let the kid take a day off! That's what I would say anyway; but no Charlie has his long fart, finds the right school via his cell phone and later goes home to get drunk on his couch and...

But no... for a moment there I was back somewhere in a downtown Heidelberg or Stuttgart or ... And I'd swear it was fasching, all because my grandma'd come to town. Twas one of those rare events where I didn't have to go to school, because she wanted to take me into town, for a museum, or something... It's a memory that somehow haunts me. It is like someone was there in painted face, which is why I think it was fasching ... But no, it is the vagueness of the memory that haunts me.

An Obamanation?

2009-01-22T12:25:00.003-08:00

Before anyone else utters this pun, I thought I'd take a stand and say no, it is, but it isn't.

Bab'hi Au Monde

2009-01-16T20:15:00.002-08:00

I've been watching Mr. Hulot's Holiday in spurts. More than anything it reminds me of Chaplin, but then there are these little french comic strip moments, and well, then there's this guy in this voiture who's spouting off french blah-blah-blah, but I'm thinking, that's Babi Hammond, oh with dark hair and more hair, but tout-de-moins c'est Bab'hi... Qu'est que c'est?

The Day I Couldn't Sit Still

2009-01-01T11:29:00.003-08:00

This movie doesn't even deserve mention, except of course that I couldn't pass up the opportunity of using "The Day I Couldn't Sit Still" as a title to a blog posting. It would be nice if someone presented an intelligent story about space invaders with dire warnings for us, but alas this movie just fell back to that old line that government and everyone else is just plain dumb, except for of course maybe one person, who perchance might save us from ourselves. Sadly, Kathy Bates portrays the epitomy of this dumbness, which made me wonder: isn't she smarter than this? As I said, I couldn't sit still. After I had eaten my gummy bears and wondered for the 100th time what is this burning sensation I'm getting on the knuckles on the back of my right hand? I decided I might as well leave. I entered the lobby going to the bathroom. I noticed by the clock on the wall that I must already be an hour into this movie. How could that be? I wondered.

Lon Chaney

2008-12-18T20:00:00.002-08:00

"We're brothers all.. my friends. Bear no ill will....life is what we make it."

Lon Chaney as the Bishop as the Blackbird in The Blackbird. And yes, he has a notable face.

The Hummingbirds

2008-12-18T19:19:00.003-08:00

It snowed today. And it snowed a few days ago. A few days ago there was a hummingbird who took a moment to rest on the gutter surrounding my snowy deck.

Last summer, I would sit on my deck reading and drinking beer, and otherwise amusing myself when I started to notice the hummingbirds. They flitted in the trees obstructing my view of the sound. They rise vertically you know. And seem to move in 90 degree bursts. They liked the trees in my way; and the power lines. There were at least 3 of them, well, maybe 2. But then one day it seemed like they exploded into 3 or maybe 5. They would come out at sunset, when the deck is its best.

The hummingbird on the gutter was alone; or so it seemed to me. I felt like it must be looking for food. Or maybe it really was taking a moment to rest. I'm sure the wings beating keep the blood warm. But it is very cold, you see. I'm not so sure.

sweetie!

2008-11-26T20:22:00.002-08:00

Sweetie,
Is my dog,
Earlier tonite,
She pooped like
A plog.
What is the question?
Well, don't bother askin!

Pling, pling, ping, and pling.
Whither will the nose go?

S0uth, north and west.
Pitying the best.

Sorry for the charlie.
Worry for tomorrie.

The Peloponnesian War-War

2008-11-20T20:20:00.003-08:00

Okay, I thought it might be cool to characterize my relationship with Donald Kagan's The Peloponnesian War as a war, ergo, the War-War.

I'm sure there must've been days there when the place-names and the people-names were such a blur, that I considered the reading somewhat as a war.

Never-the-less, I've been missing my war ever since I closed its final pages... That the war ended seems something of a Greek Tragedy. And yet, well, history echoes.

The amazing thing is how modern the greek world was. Of course distances were miniaturized but that's sort of the point. But in reality, they were a world engaged in new technology, the trieme, and trying to use it to expand their philosophy. Sometimes the parallels with 2008 are actually jaw-dropping. And considering the reverses of time, makes me a little less pessimistic about our own times, however pessimistic our own times might be. (Slightly smiley face...).

Plum Crazy

2008-09-09T20:00:00.006-07:00

I think I may be going plum crazy. I walked into Fred Meyer last night and the first thing I saw were two bins of black organic plums. I walked up to them. They were a $1.49 a pound. For a moment there, I thought I was in heaven. They were all very black, very firm. All summer long I have been dying for plums. I have a photograph of black grapes and one black plum. I'm sure that twice a week or more I've gone to stores looking for plums or grapes. I bought the black grapes at Costco. And they looked so akin to the black plum...

I have 2 of them in the kitchen right now. I keep wandering in there, looking at them. I'm sure 3 have passed into my digestive system since this morning. One last night. The 2 bins scared me so much, I told myself I had to limit myself, and so only 6 of the poor devils found their way into my plastic bag. The 3 I have eaten so far have all been perfect. They sort of come apart when I twist them, but they don't necessarily part at the pit. It takes uncommon strength to part them, yet I do... I keep thinking I need to go back to Fred Meyer. An opportunity is slipping slipperily out of my hands... No sale on grapes! (But Safeway had them at 78 cents a pound over the weekend...).>)

Batman and the Hostile Me

2008-08-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

Batman and the Hostile Me...

I saw the latest installment yesterday. I was sitting in the fourth row. When “The End” flashed, I jumped up and jumped to “The Exit” which was in front of me and out to where my black batmobile was waiting. For a moment there was total darkness, but I knew there was going to be a door there, and vaguely I could see the bar there that I needed to hit... The door burst open, and there was the black batmobile, and of course, daylight. The dog was in the backseat. Unusual, I thought, unlocking the door, and then, well as I ignited the batmobile, I said, I asked the dog: Are you pissed off... She looked very pissed off.

I shrugged my shoulders; what could I do... I pulled away from the curb. I had a plan; round the corner, round the corner, then left, and to Carkeek Park, where I could run her, and tire her, and then, well, go home and drink beer.

Ah, but round the corner, there was a RED LIGHT, and well, an IDIOT, that couldn’t figure out how the heck to leave enough room on his RIGHT to let someone turn RIGHT (me) when he (him) wanted to turn left, and so I had to wait (well, rage), before the light turned green, and then, of course, when I got to the next light, I had to wait for, before turning left, I realized, well, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

I ran the dog in the park; she wore herself out...

I couldn’t help but remember my anger. There was something about that movie that I didn’t like.

so why am i quippled

2008-08-22T20:56:00.006-07:00

A dozen years ago, I was Parthree. No it is actually ten...

It was when I moved here, above the Par Three Golf Course, that I announced that I was going to be Parthree... I put that name up on the pool chalkboard at The College Inn... more than once... and I remember Babi Hammond knowing who I was.

At least one stranger commented on the name.

Before that, I was Thomas Argin D'Argin, of arguin' dargin fame... Well, maybe the dogs knew who I was.

And then once, I thought, well maybe it would be funny, if I swapped at least a couple of T's in my name with Q's, and so, I was Qom Qurkington,,, a name that means nothing...

But that made me think of quarks, which are qureatures of quantum meQuanics, and well, briefly I was Quantom. At least before I was Qurkington.

And then I started to die. I lived through 2 weeks of hellish pain, or was it three? no, I'd say it stretched into 4 before the surgeon cut me open... and the morphine made me think the pain was gone. But no, ... I watched Lost under the influence of percoset (sic?)

And then, well, how many years ago is that? It never really went away. I promised the surgeon I'd make a contribution to his favorite charity, but never really did.

For the percoset and the morphine faded. And the arms still feel the cold pain. Three months ago I started Pamelor, and a month ago I told my doctor I was cured... And then a week ago, well, the least favorite kiss brushed my lips again...

Perhaps it is gone, perhaps I am cured. At least I am typing with beer on my brain...

But when I returned, well, google had come. Dignity was lost in google's scum....

He said, well, I don't know the diocese that Quantom is from...

And wouldn't listen to any words I wanted to run...

So, I said, quck you! I'm no longer a quark! I'm quippled so don't give me no qrap! Or else that qrap will end up back in your qlap!

And love, well is like a flighty dove, she's as likely to grab you as give you a shove.

why I love the fantastic four

2008-08-21T19:54:00.003-07:00

Tonight as I waited for the sunset there was a red sail upon the bay..
Later it was gone, nowhere to be seen,
Though there was a blue sail
With a red stripe, amongst the white sails that were sailing there.

The computer could not understand the word ‘sail’; I ranted at it: ‘red sail’ ‘red sail’
It replied: ‘Rad sale’ ‘Bad mail’... Is my voice so sad?

Why I love the fantastic four...

They have a comic book stupidity about them, that bleeds into pathos...
The movies have made it a summer full of superheroes...
Have they nothing else to offer?

But these superheroes, well, they fight the evil amongst us,
But then again they fight the evil out there...
They are not so stupid as to imagine that we are worse than them.

And therefore rise, fantastically,
To this forum made of air.

Attack of the shit mutants

2008-08-08T03:50:00.002-07:00

Odd, perhaps, considering the recent post about Charlie's street-cleaning job in City Lights, but I had a dream the other night about what happens without street cleaning.

The world had gone to hell--streets were flooded, fires were raging, society was falling apart. I was, for reasons known only to dream logic, shepherding a small group of elderly academics through the chaos a city. At one point three of us were standing on a small ledge on the side of a tall building that seemed to be swaying back and forth. I worried that the oldest of us would not be able to keep standing there much longer. He looked down and remarked at all the cockroaches crazily running around down there. "Those aren't cockroaches," I said, "those are people."

Later we were crossing the rooftop of another building, hopping from roof to roof to avoid the streets. It smelled terrible. There were piles of shit everywhere. "What is that?", asked companion who had apparently not been paying attention as society crumbled. "That is literally piles of shit," I said. I don't remember if it was spoken in the dream or just understood that the piles of shit in the streets were both a sign and a cause of society's decay. Obviously, in a well-run city, people would not be defecating on the streets. Things had clearly gone pretty far wrong if they were. If seeing this were not enough to cause panic among the people who had not already panicked, the smell from the shit was driving people crazy.

Some of these shit mutants--a term that did not appear in the dream, but was the best way to describe them later--had formed into tribes, painted their faces, and preyed on the tribe-less. At one point I avoided fighting the champion of one tribe through a clever stratagem that I no longer remember. But as the small group of academics I was leading crossed the rooftop, the same champion was blocking the way to a fire escape we needed to use to get to the next building.

She was a stocky white woman with her hair pulled into three stiff ponytails sticking out of the top and sides of her head. She fought with a long pole. Luckily, I too had a long pole, tipped with a taser device. I surprised her by attacking first, and managed to stun her with a blow to the chest. After I did so, the dream helpfully cut away to an infomercial about the taser-tipped pole, explaining how it shocked once on the first hit, twice on the second, and so on. Then I woke up, and the dream never continued.

L'Hommage au Silence

2008-08-04T20:25:00.005-07:00

I'm watching Charlie's look of disgust. The horse has just shit in the street. His eyes follow the horse, his shovel follows the shit. He marches on. Before him a team of mules cross the street in front of him... He turns around. Three steps further on an elephant passes by... His eyes register everything.

He's wearing a pith helmet, and a white uniform.

Turner Classic Movies is doing this thing this month where they play one actor's (well, actresses are actors...) movies each day; from dawn til dusk, and well, beyond.

I think Saturday was Charlie's day. I picked City Lights to try to watch. So far I've taken it in installments. It is a strange and beauteous movie... The scene with the horseshit almost didn't register, well, not until the elephant passed by, so I rewound. The second time around, watching his eyes follow the horse, my eyes started to water with laughter. The scene takes 15 seconds. I couldn't stop laughing... I had to run over here.... Remember the moment.

You can tell he knows that talkies are going to kill his medium. That is the most poignant feeling, empathy, I'm getting here, his face, so funny, is really so sad... This, he says, is what you are throwing on the trash heap, in with the horseshit, and the muleshit, and the elephant shit, and the rest of it.

But he doesn't lament.... The music is his. The music is a story unto itself, and is a celebrations of sound... So he doesn't lament.

And Alice perked her ears when he swallowed the whistle... It was like the movie had entered the room. For the whistle scene takes 45 seconds or so, and sadly, well, funnily, my dog didn't understand, but she reacted, she reacted exactly like the other members of the room, like, what the hell is that...; the other members of the room, being those inside my television screen...

King Tom

2008-07-19T20:59:00.002-07:00

King Tom deserves a post...

King Tom was skipper of the brig Lightning in Rescue.

He had another name, Tom Lingard, but the girl kept calling him King Tom.

In the end, the white folk just walk away... and that's ultimately the point I guess, except it comes at the cost of King Tom's honor, and his honor was his life, and so... well he goes sailing north, instead of into the sunset.

The sunsets were magnifique! The shallows were magique!

I think there are always faults in Conrad's stories... Sometimes his characters are stupid, but I suppose that's not unusual in the real world whereever that is found. I will never be in the shallows of the south seas; but now I have been.

So Who The Heck Is Morrissey

2008-07-18T20:43:00.002-07:00

Yesterday, I catch this blurb on the Comcast TV guide about, I think, Blood for Dracula, by Paul Morrissey, and about it being some companion piece to Warhol's Frankenstein, and well, about a week or two ago, I watched this movie called Mixed Blood by Paul Morrissey,... and well, after that movie I remember wanting more.

I don't think I've ever quite seen a movie like Mixed Blood. There was a comparison on the Comcast TV guide with Dicken's Fagan... The young actors have faces that will be hard to forget... and yet, it's a movie from 1985, and the faces have probably long since grown old, never seen again?

All I can say is it's about a Brazillian (?) gang in Alphabet City, and there's really no hope, (sorry Barrack...), and the actors look like they're not far from home, nor is the heart of this movie... I sort of believe that maybe people do live like this. It's just that I can't imagine how I could ever do the same.

The Best Plum

2008-07-06T19:01:00.002-07:00

Tonight I went to the store. Mainly to buy fruit and another gallon of milk. A week ago, or maybe ten days ago, I bought some grapes. They were sour. Sour grapes! I thought. Some of them were good, and then I was in FM and bought some more grapes, and they turned out to be very sweet... Very good.

Tonight, I thought about getting grapes before going to the store, but somehow forgot about them entirely when I got there. There was a big display for nectarines and for the same price, peaches. But I didn't want either nectarines or peaches. I grabbed four bananas. I had four bananas the other day, and they lasted a day or two.

I saw a tray of black plums, $2.98/lb. They looked firm. I like a solid black plum. Want almost the density of an apple, but then they need to be very black as well. If I were to have to pick, was told, well there can only be one fruit..., I think I would say black plums, but they have to be very firm, and very black... I picked 2 from the tray that I liked. Found a plastic bag to put them in. Hmmm, yes a waste.

Across the aisle there were Organic Black Plums. I only saw them after I'd stowed away the 2 chosen ones in the wasteful plastic bag. They also looked very good. Very firm. Very black. Though these were slightly larger, so I thought, Hmmm. I'm going to have to try one... And I picked one and added it to the group... bananas, plums, organic plum...

I used the self checkout and didn't bother to distinguish between the plums... I think the price for the organic plum was the same...

I had dry mouth all the while... It was a mild but warm summer day, and the heat only made me think of my thirst more... When I got to the store I'd seen a soda machine, and said, uh, no, and had thought about the water fountain, but again said, uh, no, thinking I could wait, and was looking forward to a beer when I got home.

But when I got home, after I found room in my freezer for food that I don't need, I unpacked the plastic bags and there were the plums. I thought, oh, this will quench my thirst..., and selected one of the three plums, and then on second thought, said, no, I should try the organic one... so I identified it (it has a special sticker attached...). I cleaned it. Then as is my wont, I went to twist the plum. Sometimes they will break along the pit... But this one, I could tell wouldn't break, so I thought, I'll just go ahead and bite into it... And oh! I don't think there has ever been a greater plum in all of god's (or the madman's) creation. There is no way I can explain the nirvana of that moment of perfect sweetness, delicious juices, utmost elation...

So, I guess I will have to leave it at that...

New gaming blog

2008-06-28T16:49:00.002-07:00

I'm not so interested in console gaming--the Nintendo, PS, and whatever sort of gaming. I like my stodgy turn-based historical war games just fine, thanks. But a friend of mine has started a blog about gaming, and although I don't understand much of what he's on about, the writing is very good and enjoyable to read. So check out the Somnambulant Gamer. If you're into gaming, so much the better.

The Abraxas of Lost Books

2008-06-18T17:25:00.006-07:00

A great new 'used' book store has opened in the old Ballard Library. It is called Abraxas Books. May I say it has books of all kinds but not yet Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I started at the A's and quite honestly was tired looking at the titles by the time I got to the D's. There in the C's was Conrad, and this old copy of his Rescue.

Ah, I thought. I don't think I've read this one. Opened the cover and saw a price tag of $6.50. Put it under my arm.

The Author's Note, indicates it, the note, was written for a release of his first Collected Edition, and for a while I thought maybe this copy was from that edition. There is no reference to printing, only that it was Copyright 1920,21 and the Author's Note was from 1920... But then I noted it was published by Doubleday, Doran and Company - and I have since learned that Doubleday was so known from 1927-46, so presumably the copy is from this era.

The other day I turned to page 340 and noted, curiously, that the next 2 pages were actually connected; i.e. they were the same piece of paper folded at the top.... so now the question is, how am I supposed to read pages 342-343? Of course it struck me that no one had gotten near to finishing 340 pages, else they would've sliced the pages to read ... Because it is actually something of a page turner, very cinematic, about pirates and swashbucklers... Who could want more?

Nevertheless, this discovery has left me with something of a quandary, as for some reason I'm not quite ready to take my knife and separate these siamese/conjoined pages. In some way I feel the book is better off in this pristine state; it is like these pages themselves are lost, lost inside this lost book, found in Abraxas Books; a charm, an offering, an abraxas you might say, of lost books.

Shia Enough Already...

2008-06-13T10:06:00.006-07:00

All you need to know about Transformers:

Our planet was once a powerful empire
Peaceful and Just
Until we were betrayed by Megatron
Leader of the Decepticons.
All who defied them were destroyed.
Our war finally consumed the planet
And the all-spark was lost to the stars.
Megatron followed it to Earth
Where Captain Wikwiki found him...

He Was So Old

2008-06-06T19:32:00.004-07:00

So said my nephew after watching Henry Jones and the something crystal skull...

I shrugged my shoulders... So are we all, I mumbled. I waved to my great nephew half a block away. They had to go. I went the other way.

It was fun. Had that comfortable feel of your favorite TV show on a cold winter eve.... Still, it was Indiana Jones, I said.

Of course, now I know who the hell Shia LeBeouf is (not LeBouef, you idiot@!). Regardless of Karen Allen's claims, I don't think he was Indy's kin...

Peace!

Younger Bear and the DVR

2008-05-31T17:45:00.005-07:00

I wanted to say something about the miracle of the DVR. For anyone who does not watch TV with one, well, you're still 'watching' TV. I was thinking earlier today that the DVR makes TV more like a book, than, well, like a TV. I mean that like a book, when I finish a chapter, I can lay it down and come back to it later. I was thinking this because I'd been doing just that with the movie Little Big Man. I was probably back to watching it for the 3rd or 4th time over the last week or so, taking it in in 20 or 30 minute intervals. And also like a book, if you don't understand a phrase, or mis-read/hear it, or realize that maybe your mind has been wandering for a minute or two, you can rewind/re-read/re-hear/re-see.

I really had forgotten how good a movie this was. In a lot of ways it could be Dustin Hoffman's best performance ever, ... but more than that it was/is this sweeping story (a little like Forest Gump) that encapsulates a lot of American history, no less so the 1970's, as the 1870's. This is especially enhanced by the sweeping scenery, the widescreen photography, the breath of america in its locations...

But above and beyond it has an ensemble cast that really put out some of their best performances, including Dan George, Faye Dunaway, Martin Balsam. William Hickey, Richard Mulligan (very good as Custer). Of special note, Cal Bellini as Younger Bear was hilarious.

The Next Generation of Nuts

2008-05-08T19:55:00.003-07:00

So I've been guilty of watching a couple indie flicks, and well, of course, I've enjoyed them more than the few mainstream... well, I don't go and watch many of the mainstreams any more. I watched Brick which is sort-a High School Mystery... but was also very good (I had another story, inserted here, where I didn't really understand half the conversation in this movie, but nevertheless, it didn't seem to make a difference; i.e. bad hearing, etc.) Hmmm.... Tommy Solomon from 3rd Rock... Then there was Shia LeBouef ....??? Am not shure (sic) I spelled it right. But then for some reason over the last week or so, I heard this name: Shia LeBoeu... (Oh please forgive me if I've misspelled!) - on an advertisement for Saturday Nite Live, no less, and it popped up in some other TV conversation; but, then I had watched the movie The Battle of Shaker Heights a week or so ago, so I'd already heard of Shia, or at least seen this movie... But then tonight, I turned on this movie Manic, somewhat because it had the Tommy Solomon guy in it, but then there in his/Tommy's group therapy session is the guy that played LeBouef's best friend in Shaker Heights. He even has the same haircut.

Brick is really a very good movie on many levels (great sky). Shaker Heights was also entertaining, but then once I lived (briefly) in Shaker Heights, and then a little less briefly, on the border of Shaker Heights. The 'friends' house was something I'd drive by regularly... A little strange, but better than Ironman, no disrespect for Ironman intended...

Anything Unusual Here?

2008-04-23T18:44:00.000-07:00

Features

Works with over 300 digital cameras
6-ft connector cable provides extra convenience for indoor shooting
With the 6 ft connector cable it can be conveniently used for indoor shooting.
110-220V worldwide
Works with over 500 digital cameras

Outside of Price

2008-04-20T19:37:00.002-07:00

The literal translation of Hors de Prix would be something like my title here. On the outer side at least. American Translation: Priceless. I'm not sure if the french were actually playing on the words Whores of Price, but this is pretty much the premise. Is a very funny movie, both in french and in english subtitles; but is also lavish. The menu prices are 180 euros, and more.... I'm not sure what the food was.... Lobsters... Croissants. Who knows what the hotels were charging. La prix de billet was $7.50. I thought while I watched this movie, I should step out to one of the fancier grocers in the neighborhood and buy a piece of cake. I should not consider the price. I should not worry about my retirement. There was such beauty in this movie.

One of the novels of my imagination is entitled: The year of living extravagantly. I fantasize that I will have such a year; after which, who cares... Hors de Prix basically compresses that year into a month(?). Ah well. Such are fantasies.

Coincidence? I think not!

2008-04-02T14:23:00.002-07:00

... or Bunny Lake and The Zombies ...

I was watching another one of those 60's movies the other day, this one with Larry Olivier and Carol Lynley, and Keir Dullea called Bunny Lake is Missing. It starts out pretty good, Larry gives his standard emotionless performance, there's a little bit of mystery... Basically Carol Lynley has lost her daughter, but because no one ever actually sees Bunny (the daughter's name) the question is one of perhaps Carol's kookoo, and really doesn't have a daughter? Okay, so it turns into something really ridiculous, and I hated the ending and what...

But midway through, Larry and Carol are in this English pub, he's trying to convince her to eat some food along with the double shots of brandy he's feeding her. There's a news program on the TV in the pub, but when the announcement comes on about this missing child, the barman goes over and flips the channel. The channel that comes on, has some 60's rockers playing some 60's brit rock, and for a second I was wondering if perhaps the band was the Kinks. For a second I got excited. I had to run over to my computer and check on the IMDB to see whether they could tell me who they were... Turns out it was a band called the The Zombies. I decided I needed to do a little research. Turns out some album they did is actually in the number 80 spot on Rolling Stone's all time greatest. They've had a number of incarnations, including a period of time in the 80's when they reunited with nothing but 'new' members.

But then there was a blurb about how the original band sort of got back together in the early 00's and that they were still out there plugging away. So I had to find out whether perhaps they had any concerts scheduled, and voila, they have about 10-15 scheduled at various spots around the British Isle. The interesting thing though was that on all of them they're double billed with The Yardbirds. Now if you read this blog, you may note that I recently watched another movie in which The Yardbirds had a cameo roll.

How strange! I thought. What a wierd coincidence! I thought.

Sycophantic, Phlegmatic and Pusillanimous

2008-03-30T19:58:00.002-07:00

More from Look Back in Anger. I had to rewind 4 times to figure out what the hell Richard Burton was saying, and it turned out to be Sycophantic, Phlegmatic and Pusillanimous. Go to Webster's to figure out what he's saying. I'm watching this movie about 2 minutes at a time. Right now, it appears he's decided to be "Angry". Mayhaps is what the title is all about?

More Headlines

2008-03-20T20:20:00.004-07:00

This from the movie Look Back In Anger:

A Woman's Ghastly Ordeal

SEX PILLS

by a mother whose

voice went husky

and who lost her

liking for knitting

By Mrs. Phyllis Pride

I felt like a dusty, crumbled moth, pinned on a collector's card...

The Hall of Absudity

2008-03-19T21:02:00.004-07:00

A couple of years ago I got the opportunity to watch the UW Huskie basketball team from the seats owned by the guy that owns the Space Needle. My sister worked for him and apparently nobody wanted them... All I can remember about the game is that the seats were like 3 rows from courtside, and there was this guy behind me that just couldn't shut up, and all he did for the 2 hrs was gripe. Gripe. And gripe. And, uh, gripe. Of course all the players were crap, and the coach was crap, and I got a feeling this was the year that Lorenzo actually won the Pac-10..? Of course it was fairly early in the season, and perhaps before they improved.

That, I believe, was the last time I went to see the Huskies until tonite. Tonite they were in some 'new' tournament, playing Valpo, and when I checked yesterday they weren't going to be on TV, so I bought a ticket ($17.50 + $10.00 svc) and went by myself. Left the dog in the car.

The seats were medium good. I actually thought they were very good until the game started, when suddenly I realized the stairwell right in front of me was an invisible visibility obstruction, as people were arriving late (the game started at 6 pm), and so through most of the first half, people were climbing the stairs and obstructing my view. But when the ball was at my end of the court, they were okay... (I must say I was very happy with a number of plays underneath the basket.)

Okay, so the guy in the seat next to me couldn't shut up. At least he wasn't a griper. He was sort of at the other end of the scale. The cheerleader was 'hot' (no, 'that' cheerleader is 'so hot') and he's got that all the wayyy down! (even though the shot was missed) and other crap like that...

I was elbow to elbow with people on both sides of me, so I watched the 2nd half from different seats; the arena was only half full. The 2nd half seat wasn't as good as the 1st half seat, even though I did strategically move myself away from the stairwell, and found seats with people who could shut up, though there was a lot of yelling; in the 2nd half that is... I don't remember yelling in the 1st half. I know I was silent in the 1st half. I spent the timeouts in both halves reading George R.R.Martin's Storm of Swords. (approx. .89 pages per timeout). But I also yelled in the 2nd half.

They lost. By one point, but mainly by missing free throws. That was their whole season in a nutshell. If they'd made free throws they probably would've been 21-11 and made the NCAA's. When the game was on the line, Jon Brockman, the team's king, with 4.3 seconds left on the clock and down by 1 point, missed 2 free throws. Life sucketh.

Maybe I should've stayed in the seat I purchased. Don't know what that guy next to me had to say about the missed free throws. I do find it wierd that the last two times I was in Hec Ed, there were these unstoppable talkers driving me crazy. I'm sure this is some sort of sign from god.

The Hipster Connection

2008-03-16T19:06:00.003-07:00

So I just finished watching an episode of Hank Hill (King thereof) about 'hipsters' moving into an hispanic neighborhood and ruining it, and well, doing King of the Hill shit.

Then I flipped the switch to the new Dexter show (alas, poor Dexter, I knew him well...), and though there was this story about the bloodless serial killer and the bloody hand, I notice sitting on the kitchen counter a newspaper, ever so briefly it flashes by, so I rewind and pause, and there's the headline: "Hipsters and Hippies at Bonnaroo" (what in the world is "bonnaroo"?).

Hmmm, are the 'hipsters' perhaps taking over?

Blow Up Grow Up

2008-03-14T20:53:00.004-07:00

I noticed Blow Up was on one of the cable channels the other nite, and recorded, and then watched it, or watched part of it then recorded it, and watched the rest of it. I remember watching this movie when I was like thirteen or fourteen. All I could really remember about the movie was that it was about photography, and there was a murder, and there were a couple of girls that showed their titties. At thirteen or fourteen, girls showing their titties was always interesting, and memorable.

The first thing I noticed this time was that Herbie Hancock did the score, and then there was supposed to be a song in it by The Yardbirds. The Yardbirds were sort of famous for their guitarists, one of whom was Jimmy Page. I think Clapton played with'em. There was another one who was famous, but I forget his name; (widipedia reminds that it was Jeff Beck). So I was sort of waiting for The Yardbirds song, and then David Hemmings walks into this '60's Posh Club, where everybody's just standing around watching The Yardbirds. Oh, their playing some heavy blues rock, and there's Jimmy Page wailing on the guitar, and there's some blond haired singer I should also know, and there's some other guy getting frustrated with his equipment, who ends up destroying his guitar, and ... Well, everybody's just standing around. Nobody appears to be grooving to the beat, if you know what I mean, and then the guy destroying his guitar throws it into the audience, and apparently right at David Hemmings, so that everybody goes crazy, and starts diving for the pieces, and all David Hemmings wants is to get the hell out of there, which ultimately he does, being chased by some other guy, because he, David Hemmings, has somehow ended up with the fingerboard of the guitar, and, well he runs away. When he gets outside, when he gets away, he realizes he's holding the fingerboard, and he throws it on the ground like it's trash. Some other guy on the street sees him do this, and for a moment picks up the fingerboard and examines it, then throws it back down on the ground.

Oh, the titties were still there, but somehow the girls looked prettier than I remembered. There was something in their eyes...

It is a strange movie. But it's about photography, and it is photography.

Another thing I remember is thinking that David Hemmings walked funny. I can distinctly remember him walking through a door and a short entranceway, and thinking "he walks funny." I don't remember seeing this scene this time around. I definitely don't remember seeing anything where I thought "he walks funny". Hmmm. Perhaps this is a sign of aging?

The Herbie Hancock score was actually very good. And once I thought I heard this guitar riff that could only be Jimmy Page, but ... apparently it was Herbie Hancock and company.

I don't know that you ever actually know the name of the photographer David Hemmings plays, so I suppose it's okay to say it's "David Hemmings", but of course, it isn't. (Or is it!?!!)

As I say, it's a strange movie. But as you watch the wind blow through the boughs of the tree where the dead body no longer is, well, I felt like I was reading poetry. Something I don't do often, but, less so, do movies.

I'm a believer

2008-02-08T22:34:00.000-08:00

I believe that you have every right to believe whatever the hell you want to believe.
But I believe that you should believe that I have every right to do the same,
even though, mayhaps, I believe that what you believe is stupid.

Shameless self-promotional cross-post

2008-02-05T16:10:00.001-08:00

I'm sure you're dying to know how "Every fur tells a story." Click here to find out.

John the Assassin II

2008-01-18T19:04:00.002-08:00

I turned to examine the lining of the book for the umpteenth time. The lining of both the front and back covers was a copy of Da Vinci's The Last Supper. My eyes were drawn again to the three figures on Christ's right: Judas, John, and Peter, and to the knife. My mind said there's Peter, his left hand is on John's shoulder, and then there is his right hand, under Judas's shoulder, there in the shadow ... grasping John's wrist and ... But this was wrong. The book had been talking about Peter holding the knife. I had looked at the knife 20 times, and said, no, it's backwards, Peter can't be holding it ... But not until this time did I see that Peter was holding John's wrist, and by consequence, John was holding the knife. Suddenly the picture changed, and would never be the same again...

... more to come.

The hand now on John's shoulder is no longer consoling him, it is arresting ... as is the right. But now there are three pictures there. Because he is consoling the angelic John. But then, no he is holding him back from slaying the betrayer. The angel in John's face becomes disappointment, utter disappointment at having failed to kill him. The angel in John's face didn't think twice about pulling the knife. And then there is the knife and the arm, extended behind Judas' back, it is the image of a spear piercing the body. And then Peter's hands again, because this time I notice they form a sort of cross behind Judas' back, and that pose Judas has, is almost prone, and so there is this third image of a body, pierced, being lowered from a cross...

... am I mad to think these things?

The book was Javier Sierra's The Secret Supper. Though the book never goes near my epiphany here, it nevertheless is arguing the same arguement: that the papacy (and its reflection of Peter) was repellent to DaVinci and the Duke of Milan - and that in fact there was a separate sect, the followers of John, that have been lost to history, but perhaps not to DaVinci, nor the Duke of Milan. There are many other observations about the painting. DaVinci himself is having a coversation with Plato on the very right of the picture...

Whether the world and Wikipedia will ever agree with me, well, perhaps is a question for the ages. I generally think that maybe my theory can be proved by measurement. By measuring the distance between John's shoulder and the knife and comparing it to the, well, other pictures that Leonardo painted, well, perhaps it would would prove out....

For the moment at least, I am without doubt....

First, is the 'crook' in Peters arm. It is there without question. The line of the forearm is into the shadow that is behind Judas's back, and not at all towards the wrist that is in the light, bearing the hand, bearing the knife. But far beyond this, I think the symbolism of light vs. dark that is pervasive thoughout the picture bears my theory out. The light of Jesus shines brightly on John's face. There is virtually no shadow there. At first glance this appears to be also the case with Peter's face, or at least the side of his head is in the light, but on closer observation it is obvious John is casting a shadow on Peter's face. Judas's face has no light at all, either because it cannot capture the light that is in the center with Jesus, or perhaps it is shaded by both or either John or Peter... The position of Peter behind Judas' back is also symbolic. Again this runs into Javier Sierra's theme, and I am not sure how anyone could dismiss this symbolism; for would not Judas cast a shadow on that which is behind him? Which leads me back to the arm, or the the arms: the right hands of both John and Peter, one dark, one light crossed against each other...

My Morbid Christmas Poem

2008-01-02T10:02:00.001-08:00

The heartless one stole her voice away,
So she could not say but one word each day.
The windows weep, as my winter creeps
Into the heart that is me on this christmas day.
Where the silence beats on a silent drum
The word is a bell without its peel.
There’s no one to call, there’s no one to heed,
The peel from the word bursts like fruit from a seed.
It is there if we wait while this silence relates
That time is the conqueror that each of us hates.
I have not even a word to say.
Nor have I even a prayer to pray.
Are they godless gods? or do they pray themselves?
Perhaps to a saint, or a fat winter’s elf.
The gift of the giving reaches out to us all,
But I’m caught in the clutches of death’s winged thralls.
That carry me heartlessly without a pall,
With the silence that waits for us each one and all.

All of you!

2007-11-03T18:54:00.000-07:00

Those are the final words of Fritz Lang's movie M. If you have not seen this movie, you should. It is the only DVD I have ever seen that made me want to watch it again, with the commentary track on, right after I had finished it the first time. If you haven't seen it, please do. And then e-mail me so we can talk about it, because it's that kind of film.

Peter Lorre plays a Hans Beckert, a pedophile whose crimes paralyze the city police and the criminal organizations of the underworld. Scenes from the meetings of city fathers and meetings of the godfathers are interspliced to emphasize the parallels between the motivations of politicians and crime bosses. Eventually, the police and the mob close in on murderer, both intent on dealing with him in their own ways.

The commentary on the Netflix DVD, by Anton Kaes of the UC Berkeley and Eric Rentschler of Harvard, contained some interesting information about Lang's somewhat clouded relationship to the Nazi party, and the debate in Weimar Germany over the death penalty. But their--well, mostly Rentschler's--references to the "social causes" of Beckert's psychopathy seemed like a stretch. The film has been restored to somthig like it's original form--it was first released in 1931 as 117 minutes long, but parts of the original have been lost, and so the restored DVD version reaches 109 minutes only through the use of several unidentified minutes of period stock footage. But there is nothing that I saw to support Rentschler's claim that Beckert's crimes are motivated by trauma suffered during WWI. Sure, it's a nice thesis, considering the situation in Germany ca. 1931, but I just don't see it in the film.

What I do see is a director uncertain about where his own morals lead him in the issues raised by the film. The final scenes, contrasting a court of criminals (most nearly a jury of Beckart's peers), with the unheard decision of a court of law, makes the viewer the final court of appeal. How can justice best be served in such a situation? The way Lang frames it, there is satisfaction in both the rule of the mob, and the higher sentiments of law-bound justice.

The final words are delivered by the weeping mother of one of Beckert's child victims. They emphasize the responsibility of the viewer not only for Beckert's fate, but also for how are decision will affect the future. The film left me wondering which side to take. To condemn the man conclusively fingered as guilty by (literally) blind justice seemed most immediately satisfying. But would such a condemnation merely perpetuate the same desire for irrational gratification that lead Beckert to commit his crimes in the first place?

God is Sub-atomic

2007-09-15T19:19:00.000-07:00

In the eleven dimensions of our universe the majority are not observable. I've heard that these non-observable dimensions may be curved, and as is my wont, I bethought this a little, and imagined that maybe the curvature of the double helix in our DNA is perhaps nothing more than atoms following the paths of one of these curved dimensions, and we should count this dimension as something more than non-observable. Though presumably, still unfathomable.

To those who posh-posh, intelligent design, I entreat, perhaps God is sub-atomic, and the representation of the intelligence of his design is in the atom... or perhaps god is sub-photonic, and the definition of his intelligence is in the photon. If this were so, you must admit, these accomplishments alone would dwarf any claims we have on intelligence.

I, myself, wonder if I cannot count myself as one of the largest objects in the universe. Certainly, there are large gravitational engines that suck at all of us, that make me miniscule in their enormity, but ... in the final analysis, these are nothing more than large populations of much smaller objects... atoms mostly, as molecular structure usually fails in the furnaces of the largest of these gravity engines.

When I speak of size, I refer to a size of structure. Consider the building of matter. A number of elemental objects join in a confluence of force, curving perhaps out of the photonic universe, sans temp, to form the middle men, the neutron, the proton, the electron, and these then join (or do they separate) to form this masterpiece of accomplishment, the hydrogen atom. Was there one point in time where this object stood alone as the largest structure in the universe? If so, was it merely a brief moment of glory.

From this point, structure grows essentially in 2 directions, or on 2 levels. First, again, there is the sub-atomic. More protons are brought to the party. And the neutrons and electrons arrive on time. New atomic structure mushrooms into new elements. The party gets bigger, and bigger, until at some point it reaches the wall.

But, and this, for God, must've been a quantum leap, there is a second road for structural growth ... the road of the molecule. Consider the lonely hydrogen atom floating in an emptiness of endless time, and then something steals, or should I say borrows one of its electrons. For an instance there was something different there. Would God've taken notice of the change. This, molecular congress, sharing, experiential, ... well, we were no longer alone.

And then, molecules innumerable. Well, maybe there is a number. But then 'our' molecule, DNA.... DNA, I believe is one of the longest moleules in the universe. No; I don't know. But then, the DNA built a new structure. Super-molecular it was. Certainly, it was a tumbling replication that echoed "me!".... Oh my god! And then there was "me". "Me" being only a memory of a division of something new! Something, ... well it is a new year.

Hayao Miyazaki

2007-06-28T17:26:00.000-07:00

I just finished watching Princess Mononoke, the 1997 American version of Hayao Miyazaki's animated "masterpiece." This is the third, I think, Miyazaki film I've seen, and only Porco rosso was not too annoying to finish in one sitting--and that had the benefit of pigs flying 1930s Italian seaplanes. Miyazaki's animation is way cool, but the story lines are absurd even for cartoons, and the dialogue would make George Lucas wince. Roger Ebert must have eaten a fabulous couple of meals before he saw Mononoke to put him in a mood good enough to call it one of the best movies of 1997.

There are, to be fair, good parts of this movie. The first half hour was pretty good. But as soon as the action stops and the talking starts, it's all downhill on a very steep grade. Maybe seeing the American version--with A-list Hollywood stars doing the voice work--rather than hearing Japanese and reading subtitles made this movie less tolerable. (And talk about type casting! Billy Bob Thornton as the greedy-but-likable bounty hunter; Jada Pinkett Smith as a tough-and-sassy prostitute?) If awful lines "sound" better as text, that would help explain how the script was written, though not how the movie was finished, nor how it has garnered such consistently rave reviews. Despite it's good points, way too many of this movie's 134 minutes (!) were laughably, cloyingly, bafflingly bad.

Ahoy!

2007-05-13T04:48:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's because I've been reading Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin novels, but I thought this was pretty funny:

But where's the Belay! key?

The Mystery of Kaspar Hauser

2007-01-28T14:54:00.000-08:00

I don't know why I'm thinking of this movie now. I saw it by pure chance several months ago. We were staying at a friend's house, before our new apartment in Philly was ready, and the movie was on top of her DVD player. I'd seen a couple Werner Herzog movies before, and remembered liking Fitzcaraldo very much. The Mystery of Kaspar Hauser is a great, nearly perfect, movie. It's superficially simple plot seems a fantastic contrivance, but is based on a true story: a young man is found in a German town, barely able to speak, barely able to walk. He has apparently lived his life in chained in a cellar, with little or no human interaction. The movie follows the attempts to teach Kaspar how to live in society (and also attempts to exploit him). The performance by Bruno S. as Kaspar is remarkable, and the movie never stoops to the maudlin level one would expect from an American movie of the same subject. Indeed, the facts of the case of Kaspar Hauser are laid out quite frankly, with no attempt to explain many of them, or to tie up the story into a neat package. The movie's unexpected ending left me puzzled by my brief encounter with Kaspar, but deeply affected. I don't know the answer to the mystery of Kaspar Hauser, or even which one of the mysteries in the movie I thought most needing explanation, but I'm glad I got the chance to puzzle over them.

Le Cercle Rouge

2007-01-20T19:39:00.000-08:00

Alain Delon plays Corey, a thief released after five years in jail. At approximately the same time Corey gets out, Vogel (Gian-Maria Volonte) escapes from the custody of the aging Commissioner Mattei (André Bourvil). What Vogel has done we do not know, but Mattei is sure Vogel is guilty. Through a series of coincidences, Vogel becomes part of Corey's plan to rob a high-class jeweler. As in other films by Jean-Pierre Melville, the story is told with a minimum of dialogue and lots of stylish mise en scène. The criminals--including Yves Montand, in a outstanding performance as Jansen, a police sharpshooter lost to the underworld and alcohol--are threatened by their loyalty to one another. The police are discernible from the mob bosses only in that their lies and manipulations seem less principled. Francois Perier, who played the best character in Le Samourai--the policeman Frank Costello--returns here on the other side of the law, as the underworld boss Santi, whom Mattei tries to pressure into turning snitch. Mattei is the only one shown with a life outside of crime, feeding his cats after chasing around after Vogel and Corey. He is steadfast in his pursuit, but seems weary, and perhaps too conscious of how his own actions may have hurt the innocent. It is only Corey and Vogel who appear to do any good in the movie, as their need for a sharpshooter gives Jansen renewed purpose in life. Is it a good purpose? Who can say. But it is thrilling to watch it unfold.

[edited to remove some poor phrasing]

Is It Even Enough

2007-01-10T19:16:00.001-08:00

I think I'll have another beer,
It's only seven o'clock.
I wonder what do we have here,
Is it even enough?
Why didn't the goddamn snow rain down? Maybe's a better question...
O'that delicious yummy beer,
It's making my tummy in love.

2007-01-10T19:16:00.000-08:00

I think I'll have another beer,

Netflix flix

2006-12-09T17:56:00.000-08:00

So here's what I've seen so far:

- Kung Fu Hustle
- Le Samourai
- Chinatown
- Shoot the Piano Player
- The Smartest Guys in the Room

The Kung Fu movie I've already said was very enjoyable. Le Samourai was also good, though sort of puzzling. It wasn't until the end, when I heard the line "Pour quoi, Jeff?", that I realized I had seen it before. Chinatown, of course, I had seen several times before, but it's still a great movie. The Smartest Guys in the Room is a documentary about Enron. It was very well done and quite infuriating--partly because I suspect the sort of fraud the Enron guys were up to is going on all the time in the corporate world, just on a smaller scale.

But so far the movie Shoot the Piano Player has been the best of the Netflix shipments. It's sort of a romance, sort of a crime thriller, sort of a family drama, sort of a comedy. It was very fun on a superficial level, but also holds up well to rumination (metaphorically speaking), if you're into that kind of thing.

Worth a Shout...

2006-12-09T15:50:00.000-08:00

Hey Cabbie!

I just finished the 2nd half of Hellcab. It was such a great movie I thought, hey, I should say somethin about it in the blog. Gosh, if I could just think of what's appropriate...

Kung Fu Hustle

2006-11-19T12:37:00.000-08:00

I think I've already said that this was a good movie, but since I saw it the first time in a bus, bumping over the roads of southwestern China, without sound or English subtitles, I wanted to watch it again. Thanks to Netflix I have seen it again--or, for the first time in anything like its full form--and though it would be nice to be back in China, even on a bumpy bus ride, I can now confirm that the movie is very enjoyable in the comfort of your own home. Or my home, as the case may be. Or was.

The Opposite of Love...

2006-09-25T17:21:00.000-07:00

The opposite of love isn't hate, it's apathy... or so says Le Carre a number of times in the 3rd book of his that I am/have reading/read. I remember this as an assertion I've heard a number of times, (I know on Desperate Housewives just last year...), that I've mentally somewhat disagreed with... as apathy would still allow compassion, and that isn't the opposite of love... (Now some may argue that apathy wouldn't allow compassion, but I don't want a big arguement so shut up....)

But then, lo' and behold, I turn the page and Le Carre's sypathies change; instead the character states: The opposite of love isn't hate, it's lethargy... My God! I shouted. Even compassion can't overcome lethargy. He might be right!

Triple Negative

2006-09-12T18:28:00.000-07:00

Without God, I wouldn't be nobody.

Some black lady on NBC News...

... or without god, you would be somebody?

Tom

Overheard

2006-08-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

Snippets of conversation I overheard on the way home from work the other day:

A young woman dressed in black pants and black t-shirt was talking on her cell phone. She said "It's just that I worry about the transmission... the transmission of certain viruses, you know?" Her tone of voice rose at the word 'viruses,' like it was a question.

Two African-American women were sitting on the front porch of a house. One of them had a notebook computer open on her lap. They were asking another woman what time it was, but she was talking to someone in a double-parked car and didn't hear the question, even when it was repeated. "It's six o'clock," I told them as I passed by. They both laughed and said "Thank you!" in unison. This finally got the attention of the woman talking to the person in the car and she turned toward the porch. "We were asking you what time it was," one of the women on the porch said. "Oh," the other woman replied, "I'm sorry. I'm in my own little world here. You know I've been doing that sleep study."