One Hundred and Fifty Mile Cup of Coffee

Just off the interstate highway 684 in Danbury, Connecticut-in fact underneath the overpass itself-was the diner that got its name from the dairy/processing plant right behind-Marcus Dairy.  According to a short history I looked up on the company web site the ‘dairy’ was a farm which the Marcus family bought in 1919.  They built up a farming and milk distribution business and finally gave up the farming to focus on packaging and distributing dairy products.  Sometime about 60 years ago they also opened a restaurant that served breakfast and ice cream and over the years it became a regular Sunday morning hang out for the motorcycling crowd.  Bikes would line the road and fill the driveway and parking lot.  It was a freewheeling museum with every kind of motorcycle and many old cars and hotrods.  The breakfast was fresh and good and I looked forward to riding there with my friend.  Outside the dinner familiar faces hung out and families visited to see the array of shinny motorbikes.  The mood was always festive.  The Harleys and BMW’s and the ‘squids’ all parked in their respective areas but the feeling was generally up beat- live and let live.  If it has two wheels and it made it to the ‘dairy’ it was cool.

Not long ago the ‘dairy’ was demolished to make way for the inevitable tentacles of retail America.  It would soon be just another strip of stores and restaurants and the wandering Sunday morning motorcyclists-myself included-had to begin the search for someplace new to go to…No real suitable place has surfaced.  The Marcus dairy crowd has spread out to various dinners and restaurants but none welcomes the huge crowd and noise and biking enthusiasm the way the Marcus’ family place did.  Hanging out in the parking lot of Starbucks with a dozen Ducati’s just doesn’t feel nearly as good.  The overlook at Perkins Drive is a nice solo destination during the week but on Sunday it is crowded and impersonal and there is no coffee or anything to eat.  I almost stopped taking a Sunday morning ride altogether, as I just couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the available venues.  This morning I could stand it no longer and even though I couldn’t get my regular companion to come I took a little ride myself.  A different kind of Sunday morning ride-Over the mountains and up to God’s country to have a coffee and some conversation with old friends. 

I have known Richie and Hadie for over twenty-five years.  We have shared Baptisms, bar mitzvahs, barbeques and birthdays.  We share a love of life and work.  I had not been up to see them for a very long time.  Riding sixty-five miles to their vacation home near Grahamsville, NY was a pleasure on this cool summer morning.  The coffee they put in front of me had a familiar Bustello flavor.  We sipped and caught each other up on the trivia of our lives.  I saw the recent work they had done on their home and Richie showed me his ‘new’ truck.  The vintage Dodge was shinny and black with decals of a sexy woman on the door panels.  I felt like a kid climbing into the cab with Richie and Hadie.  A host of my own memories accompanied the ancient truck smells and the sound of un-synchromeshed gears grinding and grumbling as the truck lurched out of the driveway.  We played with the extinct ventilating windows and the air scoop on the hood.  We made bad jokes about seat belts (or the lack of them) and gasoline consumption (pre CAFÉ standard).  We rumbled past the Roundout Reservoir and tiny decrepit churches and general stores.  Up and down the hills of southern New York the little truck groaned and smelled of oil and gasoline.  This is what heaven should smell like, I thought to myself. 

Back at their home after an hour’s truck ride I said my good byes.  Richie snapped my picture as I got on my bike.  They waved as I pulled out of the driveway.  The perfect weather held.  The perfect Sunday ride was not Marcus Dairy, but a visit with friends.  The bike was not the star but only the conveyance.  Perhaps next week I will visit someone else and ‘catch up’. 

A Long Run- E.K.-RIP

GrilleMaster 554

We don’t grille much any more. I can’t tell you why. We don’t have a bonfire very often either. These things just past away-out of our lexicon of dinner activities and after dinner entertainments. The roaring bonfire and the sparks weaving up to the inky evening sky just don’t have the attraction they used to. The contemplative and hypnotic orange sparks leaping up with the smoke doesn’t get it. I am more comfortable in front of the wavering images on the TV screen. I save the outdoor cooking for the occasional campout, but now that Benny-my camping partner- is far out west I don’t know when I will be doing that next. Tonight was an exception. Lizzy brought home some whole fish and she wanted them grilled on the fire-it is a favorite of hers-so I dragged out the old GrilleMaster 554 parked in the back of the house, uncovered it, and took inventory as to its condition. Already the end of May and this will be the first time we are using the grille. I don’t think we used the grill twice last year. It was not in great shape. The gas manifold was completely rotted and a mouse had obviously spent a comfortable winter in one corner of the firebox. I cleaned it out. I cut out the gas guts and scrapped the grilles. It was my opinion that the racks were not useable. I devised a way to use one of them, positioning it just above the floor of the firebox to hold a bed of old fashioned charcoal. Above that I would use a couple of stones to hold the fish rack above the coals. The fish rack is a two piece affair that clamps the fish and has a long handle that makes it easy to “flip” the fish while they roast. I cut out the bottom of a coffee can and filled it full of charcoal, some newspaper and a few twigs. It lit right up and within a few minutes I pulled out the can and had a nice bunch of coals burning away. My rig with the fish clamp and the stones worked well enough. Balancing the clamp on the stones took some fiddling but the fish cooked. In half an hour we were sitting down to dinner.

It was nice to get in out of the humidity and into the air conditioning. That’s something else I ‘fired up’ for the first time this year. In fact the initiation of the A/C season makes me feel more like summertime than the whole grilling thing. Pretty soon I’ll fire up the TV and sink back into the sofa, stinking slightly of smoke and fish, I’ll watch some stupid sitcom and/or cop/doctor/lawyer show. The end of the evening I won’t be getting into a tent or a sleeping bag but rather into a newly made bed with clean linens, with a book, or the TV (again) and my eyes will close while I think of the GrilleMaster 554 and wondering if I should buy a new gas grille. Or maybe I’ll be thinking of the sculpture I am making down in the basement or the job I will be doing tomorrow. Nothing exciting, that’s for sure. And I just flashed on a line of poetry that I learned back in South Miami Junior High School about how it all ends “not with a bang but a whimper.” I understand that line now. But it’s not exactly true. Life can end without a “bang” but accompanied with a smile. Not as incendiary as an explosion, but far less desperate than a whimper.

i-Pod

it lay in it’s own chrome shadow
for more than a year
on my desk.
the desk is it’s own junkyard accumulation of bills and cords and chargers for all the gadgets of the house. somehow they all just find their way there. every once in a while I sift through them and discard what I can identify as no longer relevant to a current piece of equipment. the device gets the boot long before the charger and the spare cords find their way to the trash. bills and brochures have their own pile on the left side of the desk top. they similarly get attention at unpredictable intervals the pile gets deeper or thinner shredded or filed from time to time.
the i-pod was a special case of actual equipment that lived next to the laptop and would have sat up on it’s legs (if it had any) and beg for attention and I would have absolutely loved to have given it some. unfortunately, my technical ability -like my general energy level- seems to have dwindled and is moving towards the vanishing point of my unamazing biologic perspective. what ever skill I have already processed and stored in my brain is all that I have to work with now. I am going no further. I have moved in fits though my adaptation to the computer, the cell phone, transistor’s, recordings on vinyl, magnetic tape, cd’s, dvd’s and the internet. I’ve made photos/images on a brownie, and a 35mm, and a video camera, and a digital camera that recorded postage stamp size photos on floppies. the i-pod with its sleek touch screen had proved to be a step too far.
sheri gave it to me when I saw her in Atlanta. I got as far as figuring out how to make it play recorded novels through the speakers of my VW when I drove back up to New York. when I got home I tried to use it for other things but either for a lack of ability, a lack of desire to learn any more or laziness, I never did integrate it into my life. it sat. I charged it once in a while. if it had been cheese it would have turned to mold.
Ben is home for a visit. he and sixty thousand other young people took the test to become a fireman I am not sure why…he came to town for this and, anyway, I am very glad to see him for a while. he said a couple of times he would help me get over the hump with the i-pod. teach me to load the things I want on it and show me how to use it. but it didn’t seem like it was going to happen. then it did. he began to erase things from it and put things on it. he said it was going to be easy and I thought yeah. I used to be the one to say things like that. while he held an electric saw or a drill or the steering wheel of a car and I talked him through those learning processes. now it was my hand he was holding and the electrons were flowing. the i-Pod began to glow when he looked at it. when he punched the keys of the laptop, the electrons all pressurized snaking down and out through the white wire into the i-pod, it began to come to life. Ben was illuminated by his own glow. I stood over him and the i-Pod while they bonded and lighted up together.
he erased all traces of my wonderful brother-in-law. all his music all his history all the novels I had heard on the trip back from Atlanta and all the ones I had always intended to hear but never would have. he even erased the name of the i-Pod. it was time to rename the i-pod-like when a slave is sold and it becomes the property of the new master and the new master gives the slave a new name. “should I name it ‘Rand’s i-pod’”, he asked, and I realized it was not a good name.
it had lain face down in it’s own chrome shadow
on my desk for a year.
now as Ben looked up ready to baptize
I said “name it ‘Ben’s i-pod’”.

To My Friend Sylvester...

I will really, really miss my cat. I never thought of him as my cat until the kids all left home and then there could be no doubt as to who he hung out with. There was no choice left. Elisabeth never let him sit on her lap or crawl up on her shoulder while she snoozed in front of the TV. She fed him often as not and cleaned out his litter box more than I did but when it came to companionship I was the go-to guy. The only guy left to go to.
The job of hooking him up under my arm and putting him down in his little padded box each evening fell to me. Cajoling him out of the screen door into the cold so he could get a little air was my job. Brushing him and cutting out the knots in his long, fine, volumous fur was my job and it meant getting scratched and bit a lot because he hated anyone grooming him. He could live with knots of fur the size of ping pong balls and he shed twice his weight of fur each day (or so it seemed-fur covered every rug, every piece of furniture, every article of clothing…)but he would not tolerate a brushing. Over the years I got him used to a little grooming but mostly he hated the brush and he loathed the nail clippers.

For many years he had a friend-Garth-a pure white short hair-and the pair grew up from kitten-hood in our newly built home. Garth passed on a number of years ago and Sylvester took up the slack, so to speak, relishing the attention of the whole family. We tried bringing another cat into the house but he would not tolerate any other cat hogging up his limelight. For a year he did put up with Pebbles the rat terrier who belonged to Benny and we were all very surprised that he did so. We chalked it up to his advancing age and resignation that he couldn’t boss a dog three times his size into submission. Pebbles also had an indomitable spirit and mostly got along with every one and every thing, including Sylvester. When Ben moved and took Pebbles to Colorado Sylvester owned the house again and he maintained his routine almost right up to the end.

To wit: wake up early (before our alarm at 5:15) and start moaning from his bed in the basement. Clearly announcing that he was ready for breakfast. Sit on the steps and wait impatiently while Elisabeth or I spoon out the canned food and open the ‘cat door’ so he can come up and eat. Eat half a can of food and climb up onto the bench at the table to accompany Liz and I while we eat breakfast. His head at breakfast and lunch and dinner just peeking over the table top, sniffing the meal but never getting on the table itself. That would have caused him to receive a healthy smack, and he knew it. After breakfast repair to the living room and lie on the bay window or the sofa and snooze all day. Alternate sleeping areas included the little couch in the den or the kitchen bench or, sometimes, back down to the bed-in-the-box on top of the ceramics kiln in the basement. As he got on in years he went outside less and less. Most days he slept all day long. He would follow me around from room to room after I got home from work until he got his supper and after a few minutes to eat his dinner (the other half a can of food) he would wait for me in the living room until I was done with my own meal and spend the evening sleeping on my lap/back/shoulder/ leg/ etc. When the TV and the lights were turned off he let me carry him down to the basement and put him in the box. Thus beginning the cycle afresh.

I said “he maintained his routine almost right up to the end” because in the last couple of months his physical condition began to deteriorate and he began to show signs of age. His self grooming became even more erratic. He was less and less able to jump or climb up on the furniture or bay window. There were times when his hind legs failed him for a few moments and he had to collect himself to get his balance back. He slept 23 ½ hours a day and moved only to eat, poop and climb up on me in the evening. Often he was in the same spot for 8 or 10 hours sleeping peacefully. I was happy that he was comfortable and looking forward to his twentieth birthday in July. And then a couple of days ago his legs failed him completely.

His new condition left him dragging himself in circles with his front paws. He cried in frustration and could no longer get to his food, the litter box or up on his favorite perches. His beautiful red fur grew dull and matted and he began to smell of his uncontrollable body functions. To eat I had to hold him over the bowl and he hung his head down and lapped. He didn’t seem to want water even when I held him that way over the water bowl. I tried to hold him over the litter but he struggled to get away when I did. The only times he seemed contented was when he was in my lap or at night when I left him in his familiar ‘box’ in the basement.

I stayed home from work today, and after his breakfast I held him in my lap for a while. I looked for a sign in his face that would tell me what I already knew I had to do. There was no sign. I am sure someone else might have seen an old, old, filthy cat in my lap. To me he looked just the same in his beautiful face as that little kitten that came to live with us so many years ago. This is the only home he has ever known and now he is buried in a little grave near his old friend Garth. There is nothing else to say except that I love ya Sylvester and I will really, really miss you.

Heads

You know that’s you he’s making down there! No reaction. He was engrossed in an episode of “30 Rock” on the computer in his lap. Sitting on the bed in the old ‘boy’s’ room that was recently converted in to the ‘guest’ bedroom. He looked comfy in his hoodie and his jeans and white gym socks. In just about the position that he would have been in if his old bed was back in the place it’d sat in for about fifteen years. A creature of habit, he naturally, magnetically was drawn there when ever he sought comfort in his old home. The home of his boyhood and young manhood where he was compelled on some holidays to revisit even though he would have been much more comfortable in his apartment up at school. But his girl had wanted to go home to Brooklyn for Christmas and he didn’t want to stay all by himself in an empty college town, in an empty apartment, cooking for himself andsleeping alone. At least here (though he was still sleeping alone) his dad cooked him his old time favorite foods. He did have to put up with his sister and that was a stiff price to pay. He looked up now that there was a commercial on and there she was standing in the doorway, leaning on the jamb-Did you hear me? I said, that’s you he’s making down there right now. Doesn’t that skizz you out even just a little? Have you looked at those things? She had the look of a complete disgust on her face-eye sockets pinched tight into the bridge of her nose and mouth tightly drawn across at the bottom of her pale white face. Total disgust was an easy expression with a face like that, he thought, especially when you add in the fake diamond pin in her nostril, the rows of studs in the grizzle of each ear, the powder pale face and the jet-black dye in her spiked hair.

So what, he said and started to go back to his program. She came into the room and said So what?! I mean they’re a joke. They’re like cartoons! No, they’re like monster heads that have just enough of the looks of the person he’s trying to make them look like that you can recognize them but it’s not them and it’s creepy! I came in one night and turned on the lights and he’d moved the shelf to right near the door. I nearly crapped my pants! The thought of his sister defecating in her drawers made him smile slightly and that made her even madder. It was the smile that got her. His thin, delicate smile that made everyone trust him and want to be his friend…she hated it. And his hair. The twirl of a cowlick and silky tan-ness and softness that made everyone wish they could have his hair. She could see her own hair in the mirror across the room, stiff with mousse and black as the darkest night, and it never crossed he mind that it could just as easily been soft and warm like his. She was a reaction to her father and her brother and at this particular moment she feared one thing more than death itself-that her father would make a clay sculpture of her one day.

She got no pleasure in standing at the foot of her brother’s bed trying to win him over to her side as if there were a war going on and she was courting an ally. There was no war and she had no reason to fight over anything. Sculpting in clay was her father’s hobby. He used to make furniture, and before that he played what her mom had called ‘ear-flickin’ music which was really just bad bluegrass and one day he’d move on from clay to something else. Right now he was making bad clay busts of people he knew and he was having a hell of a good time of it. In fact he wasn’t really all that bad. If he stuck with it, he thought, he might even get to be really good at it but there was little chance of that. He rarely became great at anything though he was pretty good at a lot of things. He’d worked all his life and put a couple of kids through college. He could fix almost anything, got along with most people and he had the good sense to stay out of the way of trouble most of his life. The problem was his daughter. She was the one person he could always count on for an argument. If he said it looked like a nice day, she’d say it was supposed to rain very soon. If he said blue, she’d say green…the TV shows he watched sucked…his car sucked…everything he did sucked…which would have been okay with him if he could just understand why??? On the other hand, to him, all her friends looked like the cast of the Night of the Living Dead and she sulked a lot and her grades were not good. He knew she smoked and he found empty beer and whiskey bottles under her bed. She didn’t even try to conceal them any more. Some days it was all he could do to keep from kicking her in her tight-black-blue jeaned-sixteen year old ass.

Later in the week she was coming through the garage and on the bench of his little shop she saw it. She had tried not to look at the heads and she didn’t even turn on the light to the garage but there was a spot light with an electric eye that came on automatically when you came into the door. It went off automatically after five minutes so that you never had to turn the light on or off. One of her dad’s innovations, which she actually thought was pretty cool but she’d never admit it to him. She’d hoped to get through the shop without looking at the heads but her eye was drawn to the one closest to the door. It was on the lazy Susan he used to turn the work as he shaped the clay into a head. It sucked her eye to it like a magnet. It was her. The wind left her lungs and she stood transfixed and breathless at a life-sized head and neck that was the spitting image of her except…it wasn’t.

She recognized the eyes and the mouth immediately. They were perfect. The nose was close but not exactly right. The ears were a total miss but looked familiar as did the hair. The hair was soft looking, which must be very hard to do in clay, she thought. It was upswept on one side and there was that family cowlick that had skipped her genetically. She stood there until the light went out. Five minutes. And then she realized that she must have been staring at the thing for a full five minutes and now that the light had gone out she was blind in the dark. She waved her arms wildly until the motion detector re-lit the light and she bounded up the basement stairs yelling at the top of her lungs.

How dare you! Are you crazy? You can’t do that…you can’t use me like that. She looked in the living room and then the den and he was not there. She ran up the steps to the second floor, taking the steps two at a time and banged with her fist on the door of his bedroom. Just a minute. Just a minute. She could hear him inside. He opened the door and he was wearing a towel around his waist and rubbing his wet hair with a different bright, white towel. What’s up…what’s the emergency? He was smiling but she was mad. Spitting mad. Just who do you think you are-God? You can’t just use me for one of your crazy heads. I won’t put up with it. You might be able to use your son or your buddy or your dead uncle but you can’t use me like that…The spit was actually starting to form a light foamy froth on the corners of her mouth. Spitting mad.

Whoa! he said. Take it easy. Let me get dressed and I’ll come out and we can talk about it. He was almost laughing as he slowly closed the door. She saw him smirk and it made her even madder-if that was possible-and she thought briefly about going right down there and smashing that God-damned thing. She waited right outside the bedroom door and when he came out he’d successfully wiped the smirk off his face and he tried to take her elbow and lead her gently down to the first floor and then to the basement. She was having none of it, pulled her arm away and jumped ahead of her father and down the flight of stairs. In the basement the automatic light came on. He reached out and flicked the switch on the bright overhead lights and the two of them stood in the bright 200 watt work light hanging over the work bench and the lazy Susan with the head on it. Father and daughter stood silently looking at ‘the head’.

That’s not what I look like…were the first words she could manage. She was almost shaking with rage. He stood quietly and admired his own work giving her time to develop a deeper line of criticism. She fumed and stared but was, somehow, unable to describe in words the abysmal, inexpressible sense of rage that she was experiencing. He waited for the anger to either burst out of his daughter or to subside so that they could talk but he was unsure when and if either of these things would happen. He took a chance. Why are you so upset with me, he asked? She did not answer him. Please talk to me. Say what is on your mind and I’ll listen…really listen…to what you’re telling me. She took a deep breath and let it out. Her body calmed a little bit and struggling she said, You can’t have me like this. You can’t be allowed to take me-from me-like this. You never asked me if it would be alright to represent me like this and I don’t think it’s fair. He was listening. He didn’t speak for a few minutes. Neither did she.

Don’t you think she is pretty, he said. No answer. Really? Honestly. Tell me she is not pretty. She thought about it and after a moment said, well, yes. I suppose so. And don’t you think you’re pretty, he said. No. I don’t. I am not pretty. Then he said, you don’t think she looks like you? Well, sort of…the eyes, the mouth, but not the hair. Not the nose. While she spoke her father reached into his back pocket and took his wallet out and put it on the countertop alongside the head. He opened it and pulled a photograph out of one of the plastic display sleeves that folded into the wallet. It was turned face down and on the back of the photo was Scotch taped a lock of hair. It was the color of her hair before she’d dyed it black. It was straight and fine and shiny like hers had been. Slowly her father turned the photo over and she leaned towards it to see that it was a picture of her mother that had been taken many years ago.

Your mother was about your age-maybe a few years older-when I took this picture. And this lock of hair was one I picked up off the floor of the cabin where she lived when I first met her. She cut her own hair that day and she got mad at me for taking the lock. Well, not really mad. She liked to make believe she was mad at me but it was only a game she played…we were very much in love and I have kept that lock taped to the photo all these years. Since she died I take it out and look at it almost every day. Then he held the photo up next to the head and it was evident to her then that the head was not her at all. It was her mother. When I look at you I can see her. Sometimes when I look at you it hurts me so badly because I miss her so much… Is that what you see when you look in the mirror? Do you see her too? They were both quiet for a long minute. Finally she looked up from the photo and looked at the head, and then she looked at the other heads-a half dozen of her father’s friends and her brother and one of someone she didn’t know. Finally she looked again at the head of her mother and the tears began to run down her cheeks and drop onto the work bench. Her father reached out and took her into his arms. He felt the tears on his shirt.

You have your ways. I have mine. I make heads to remind me. You decorate yourself to forget. I will never make a head of you unless you want me to. I promise. He flicked off the overhead lights and the bright, floating images of the heads swam before their blind eyes while they adjusted to the dark and made their way up the dark stair.

Invisible
made plain to the sight
light,
on dust
in air,
spins.
Beauty Intrudes
a hole
in the plywood
lets it in.

Thanksgiving

Saturday, November 26, 2011

I picked up Jake at the Central Valley bus stop on Wednesday night. His bus was a little bit late so I cruised the mall and ended up buying a couple of pair of casual shoes for myself. I really needed them. I look like a bum lately and wear my work boots most of the time. Lizzy was shocked that I did it as I never shop for myself. That is the kind of shopping that she likes to do…It is totally uncharacteristic of me. The reason I bought two pair was that there was a sale and the second pair was half price. Matt and I wear the same size so I gave him one pair.

Matthew and Bailey have been with us for two days now. They got in on Thursday morning at 5 am and though I didn’t hear the car pull up in the driveway I was dozing on the couch and I had the chance to just say hi! and watch them disappear (zombie-like) up the stairs to bed. After driving 12 hours straight from Asheville I didn’t want them to come in to an ‘empty’ house. Since Lizzy was sleeping soundly I did the ‘welcoming committee’ thing then I curled back up on the couch downstairs wrapped in three afghans until it was time for her to get up.

Ben is getting primed to head off to live in Colorado. The thought of his departure is difficult for me to process. I understand his need to get out there on his own…it’s just, well, I will content myself to savor these last few weeks with him still living with me.

The thanksgiving dinner was a qualified success. Turkey, pies, stuffing, sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes, string beans and asparagus and, for the vegetarians-Tofurky! It looked like a little bowling ball covered in sweetish sauce. It was the comic conversation piece of the meal. I, myself, am not fond of turkey let alone fake turkey. Jake and Bailey tasted it. Not me. My pumpkin pie (made with last years frozen pumpkin) was great tasting but had a poor consistency. I should have blended the filling more and used cream (which we didn’t have in the house) instead of 2% milk. The addition of a couple of extra egg yokes helped marginally. Still I have tasted much better. With every one of my sons in attendance, with Bailey and her child-to-be, my wonderful wife, and the dog and the cat…I have never experienced a more satisfying hour at a table. “God bless us-everyone”.

Thank You

Sunday, November 20, 2011

To all the people who I have spoken to who have expressed their concern and love and best wishes on my new job…Thank You! It seems strange that a common event such as getting a job should be cause for such expressions of congratulation. Is this what it was like during the ‘Depression’, when news of a job opening brought hundreds of people out to stand in line out front of a factory or on the docks? When people traveled in their cars laden with all their possessions and their families in hope that they would be chosen out of the crowd of job-seekers to pick the ripe fruit at the farms, or build the roads in Mr. Roosevelt’s new ‘projects’?

This is like my father’s stories of those olden times-which I always thought were remote and mostly fiction-come to life. And walking around on the job site it all seems a little bit grayer and colder and real for me now then it ever was before. The faces of the men as I count them and mark them off on my daily roster are a little more familiar but a little sadder and quieter too. For the most part there is little of the bold, union sense of belonging left in their attitude. That must have been a product of the old, booming economy too. It is much easier to feel important and proud when you are in demand. There is pride still, but it is so tempered…

So, thank you for your good wishes. Thank you for your concern and kind words. I know some of you are holding on for dear life to a job or a home or a dream as well. I have friends who are on the road now because their homes have vanished like dreams. I have friends who are working now-but barely holding on. I have friends who are looking for work hopefully and friends who are losing hope. From one who is now working and who celebrates with all his heart the Sabbath that allows me the peace of mind to sit here and write this note, Thank You and Love.

What Are You Looking For?

Looking for Something

The shelves of the pantry, sometimes appear, like a jigsaw puzzle or, No! a pinball machine. My eyes are like the round, chrome ball bouncing from can to can to bottle to box. Unable to find the object of my search, they ricochet off of the colors and shapes in there…

With her head bent over the morning papers or the coffee cup in her hand she says “what are you looking for?” And I am a combination of half asleep, bothered that I can not find it for myself, that she has to ask me the same question every time I stand here like I do, and flattered that she will take the moment to even want to know. It is such a common question and so predictably offered up that while I looked for my breakfast in there this morning I thought I heard her talking to me. But then I thought, maybe not! Did she just ask me ‘the question’? Or was that my imagination? So, I said to her, “did you just say something?” and she said “No! But what are you looking for?” And I smiled and said, "the matzos" but in my heart what I was really looking for was the question.

...except for the generators!

October has morphed into November without the punctuation of Halloween. The ‘holiday’ was bumped by the Nor’easter that dumped heavy wet snow on the fall display of leaves. The overloaded branches bent the trees over the power lines. The power lines and falling branches and trunks bowed to the ground and snapped. The power went out in a million homes. One more example of Nature’s utter lack of concern for the made-up holidays, daily routine, and puffed up self-importance of mankind. Following the storm Nature brought weather magnificently Autumnal and temperate. Some will see that as a sign of disdain. I stick to my theory that Nature is devoid of emotion and logic, reasonable or otherwise.

Meanwhile, the inhabitants of the dark, cool houses dealt with the lack of electricity in a variety of ways. There were some people who found somewhere else to go. Someplace where the coffee maker still worked and hot water came out of the shower head when one turned the knob. The power went out in ‘pockets’ and it was possible that a friend, relative, or neighbor who still had juice and might take you in. Calling around to my friends I found there was a great deal of that sort of shifting.

Some people stayed at home and used the Home Depot approach to survival. It is well known that almost any disaster or natural ‘situation’ can be overcome with a gasoline engine. Why use a rake when a leaf blower is available? A shovel or hoe when a roto tiller is only a few dollars away? Lawn mowers, weed wackers, power washers, etc. all take the place of some quieter way to get the work done. I have noticed that many of the homes in our neighborhood have two car garages that are so filled with these types of petrol-powered tools that there is no room for cars. The eighteen horsepower riding mower with the power-take-off and leaf bagger sits inside while the BMW 325i sits outside. And in the very back of the garage sits the ultimate security blanket…the back-up generator!

The back-up generator can be an elaborate built-in unit that has a complex control panel (automatic transfer switch- that will automatically change over from permanent to temp power mode) or, it can be something more akin to a lawnmower without a blade that has a couple of receptacles to plug extension cords into. More expensive installations are quiet and have wonderful sound attenuation insulation. The cheapo lawnmower types have poor exhaust mufflers and no sound insulation. Needless to say most people own the latter type and when the power goes down the crappy generators go on.

In principle these little bangers are great to plug your refrigerator or freezer into for a few hours a day, or to allow you to run the heating system and warm up the house, or have the lights on so the family can read for a few hours before bedtime. But that is not the way they are used. Most people crank them up and run them 24 hours a day until the power comes back on. All night. All day. This essentially turns a minor electrical inconvenience into a disturbing noise fest. Instead of enjoying the quiet of the pre-industrial world (with an additional bonus that includes a brilliant, undiluted display of the stars and the night sky) you get to see your neighbor’s dimly lit homes and experience the irritation of listening to the cacophony of dozens of lawnmowers all night long.

I am sure there are codes that are in place to deal with this, but who is going to be out there enforcing them? No one. And who will be the one to drop a dime on all of their neighbors? The only ones who would do that are the same ones who are uninformed, unreflective and uncaring enough to use these ‘petro-tools’ in this disturbing manner.

How did I deal with the outage, you ask? I work through it. The snow itself was a key element in my survival. I packed up and compacted a dozen buckets of snow and used it to keep my refrigerator and freezer cold for five days. I lost some ice cream but nothing else. I also piled up some snow in a shady place in the driveway as a ‘back up’ supply. The melting snow was also a supply of water to flush the toilets. I set up a rain barrel and the melting snow off of my roof furnished me with a hundred plus gallons in a few hours. We used candles for light and we had flashlights/head light style for reading, and a supply of books is always around this house. My wife’s little transistor radio gave us NPR and some music. I was very happy with the arrangement and would have thoroughly enjoyed the calm five days—except for the sound of the generators.

DVDs From the Library-Whatever Works

There it was in the bin-the perfect evenings entertainment. A film written and directed by Woody Allen. Some great performers including Larry David. It touted itself on the DVD case "No Kidding: this is the feel-good movie of the year and a cinematic soul message."

I am an Annie Hall fan. I have watched it (and some of WA's earlier movies) many times and still enjoy it now. I think WA is an intelligent writer and film maker. But! Whatever Works only works 'part time'. It makes me squeamish to criticize Woody Allen but somebodies gotta do it.

It is so obvious that this play is WA's character from Annie Hall all grown up...From the opening scene it is also clear that Larry David is a stand-in for WA and the problem is he is incapable of delivering the lines with the same nebbishy, staccato style that WA used in Annie Hall. I am sure Mr. Allen couldn't deliver these lines like he used to either but that is why he is behind the camera now and he had the chance to pick someone who could! Or maybe he did and he didn't give Larry David the chance to do it, right? Nah! LD just couldn't and WA accepted the mediocrity. I can see it now. The whole cast and the lighting guys and the sound guys with their eyes rolling back in their heads and sick to their stomachs at the sixth grade quality of the acting. And WA (eyes firmly on the budget and the shooting schedule)saying "Cut! Print! that's a wrap!" or "Get me one of those tuna wraps off the catering table!"

There is entertainment value to this movie. It has a great cast and characters (I really liked Evan Rachel Wood as his nearly underage girlfriend. Woody still likes to think young girls are attracted to him!) and the (sometimes implausible) twists of plot are funny and compelling. There is a symmetry and logic to the story that is appealing. I want to like this movie. It just doesn't ever quite jell. Mostly I blame Mr. Allen. He was willing to accept dreck. I sense dollar $igns are the reason. If he had just kept his mind on the title of the story -Whatever Works- it could have...but it doesn't. If Mr. Allen had done his job and pushed this great cast to have done theirs this would have been a very good flick!

I give this film one cheap beer and I am going to watch Annie Hall as soon as possible to get the taste of tuna out of my mouth.

DVDs From the Library -City Island

City Island
Staring Andy Garcia, Julianna Margulies and Alan Arkin

I had seen this movie once before and forgotten it completely (that should say something about it right there!) Some friends visiting our house for dinner one evening raved about it and Lizzy asked me to find it for her. I searched through the dreaded Library bin. There it was!

I am sure this film will become a staple of the Lifetime Network in the future so I could have waited. It has all the earmarks of the films that play on that basic cable channel. A little skin, a little confusion, fundamentally wacky and lovable people who screw up every thing but eventually get it right and end up with the right mate.

Andy Garcia plays a corrections officer who wants to become an actor. He hides his acting lessons from his wife who believes he must be having an affair. The balance of his family-wife, son and daughter-also have secrets which they harbor from the rest of the family. They all smoke and hide it. The son loves fat women and views them on porn sites. The daughter is a pole dancer/college drop out. Oh! and did I mention that Garcia fathered a son out of wed lock who just happens to show up in his jail? Just like real life, Huh? Actually it is more like a Marx Brother’s plot. Strangely it works and is entertaining-in the Lifetime Network sense of the word.

I like City Island. The place, not the movie. I think it could have been a better movie with the simple addition of more of the actual City Island. It wouldn’t have taken much to include more of the scenery and flavor of the homes and the views that this unique island/village within a city has to offer. The movie was ok. Enjoy it, but don’t go looking for meaningful messages or, for that matter, much of the Town of City Island. The acting is fair and the writing is ok too. I had a few good laughs. It would have been funnier with a couple of cans of Cheap Beer. That is what I rate “City Island”-two cans of cheap beer.

Full Moon-

It is a full moon again.
Don't tell me there is nothing to a full moon.
If there is nothing to the full moon
why does it pull at me so?
Why do the emotions
fill up
as if they were laddled out
of a silver cauldren
in the inky sky?
The images
of the black road
of the forest green wilderness
of the cold dark lake
are illuminated so boldly
that I ache from the contrast.
I believe in old wives tales
in fact
every twenty-eight days
I believe in nothing else.

I confided in a workman on the job
the other day
that I never walk under ladders
and , I told him,
I never get out on my wifes side of the bed.
These are, I thought,
the only two superstitions
that I believe in.
But sitting here
In the electro-magnetic spin
of the lunar gyroscope
it is quite obvious
there are other superstitious powers
that are, perhaps,
more compelling.
I believe in the pull.
I believe in the dark, cold side
of the unseeable universe.
I believe in free will
especially when
it is noticably interupted
by powerlessness.
I believe in crackling energy
and lay-wasted lethergy
in the same man
in the same moment
in the same place
unseeable and unknowable
by those all around him.

I believe the moon,
when it's full,
is wired to our souls
and it is broadcasting
with a high frequency.
in a wide band
and it covers me with a blanket
of power
of hate and lust and indecision
and panic and illogic.
Full, full , full
and as the phases
are drawn and quartered
the loosened grip
darkens.

In Times of Stress (The Peekskill Library)

It was all I could do to keep myself from killing the woman with the kid in the Library yesterday. Her toddler was pulling books off of the shelves and laughing while the fat bitch, in a voice that could be heard in the coffee shop four blocks away, kept warning the child not to play with the books. What the fuck was she doing in a library if she didn’t want the kid to ‘play’ with books? Why in the fuck weren’t they in the children’s library just across the hall? And meanwhile, how in the hell can they call this a library anyway when there was only one book by John D. Macdonald? F’ Christ’s Sake the man wrote about a hundred books and they only have one. And it is a small one. I searched all the shelves around the M’s just in case they were misplaced or in case the librarian’s couldn’t spell…I just needed one but it would have to be a heavy one so I could hit that fucking kid and her mom in the head and kill them. No JDM.

I changed my socks this morning. That is a good sign. It is a sign of my good grooming habits. Sometimes I just get up three or four (or five) mornings in a row and pull on the same pair. Usually sock wear like that coincides with shirt-inside-shirt wear. That is when I take off all my shirts and sweaters at the same time when I go to bed at night. So when I wake up in the morning they are inside one another and I can put them all on with one action. Really, this has nothing to do with grooming (neither does the socks) it is just laziness associated with a lack of direction and a touch of depression thrown in. I am seeing a lot of little signs like this (killing mothers and babies with heavy books and bad wardrobe habits). Here are some more.

When I woke up this morning I noticed the skin around my cuticles is chewed off on my thumbs. I am pretty sure I didn’t do this while I was asleep but who knows? Now that I have noticed it I will keep an eye out for my chewing and I think I will find that I am eating myself all day long. When I was five or six I used to chew my finger nails but my mother put a stop to that. She used a pepper potion that is sold just for the purpose of breaking people of the nail chewing habit. It worked. It burned my lips and mouth horribly but I am completely cured of nail chewing. In fact I can’t even stand to see someone else chewing their finger nails. The sound of a bit of finger nail bitten off (you know that little “click” that it makes?) turns my stomach over. I still have a habit of chewing off the skin around the edges of my thumb nails though. If my mother was alive she would know what to do but she’s dead so I just struggle with it myself. It starts when I detect a tiny, little bit of calloused skin near the nail and I try to get it off with my teeth. Skin is not easily removed by teeth and it doesn’t come off neatly. It comes off raggedy. It leaves a little raggedy bit that turns hardish when it dries out and then I have to take that off too and pretty soon I have largish, red patches of raw flesh near my finger nail. They hurt and it isn’t until they hurt that I realize that I have been eating myself and then it is too late to repent. The damage has been done.

Similarly, I used to eat the soft tissue on the inside of my mouth. Nip off little, tiny bits of it with my teeth. I am not sure I still do that. I will have to keep on my toes and see. I know that smoking stopped that cold for a long time. Smoking stops a lot of these bad habits but a long time ago I heard that smoking is a bad habit all by itself so I stopped. It wasn’t easy but I am actually very strong (except for wanting to kill children and mothers with books and chewing on myself) and I am proud to say that I have not had even a puff of a cigarette in more than twenty-five years. It must be a very, very strong habit though as I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t see someone smoking and want to go over and bum one.

Nipping off bits of my mouth is not something that someone else would know I am doing while eating my thumbs is quite noticeable. I don’t want people thinking I am crazy or self destructive or anything so there is one other thing I do when I am stressed-Canadian muscle exercise. In phys-ed they used to call it something like “dynamic tension” or maybe it was Charles Atlas who called it that??? Supposedly the Canadian Air Force uses it to keep in shape. I use it to get out the tension in my body without anybody seeing that I am all messed up inside. I do it by tensing up a group of muscles in my neck or jaw or arm or leg and keeping it tense until a count of ten and then letting it loose. I move the tension all over my body and then, when I am done, I am loose. I think this is invisible to everyone around me but sometimes I am not sure. Maybe they can see it happening-especially in my face and neck when the tendons sort of push out like the strings of a tennis racket. And I think the neck thing might make my ears wiggle too. Sometimes my feet and hands might jump around a bit but I think most people would just think I am just a little bit nervous or a little bit spazzy, which is OK. That is what I did at the table at the library yesterday and when I was done the woman with the kid moved away from me and left the library. I felt good and she and the kid were gone so I didn’t have to kill them with a book.

Long Island

The old ladies (Mutti and Great Oma) are inside with Elisabeth. I am out on the front porch bathed in the Long Island breeze, beneath a cloudless sky. The shuffling sounds from within are a combination of Elisabeth’s attempts to attain domestic order and the competing geriatric chaos. It is an endless loop of forgotten moments. It is Elisabeth’s persistence. It is the squabble of retreaded motions of love and strain and concern. The “white noise” of the traffic on Stewart Avenue is punctuated, every fifteen minutes or so, by the wail of the Long Island Rail Road at the nearby crossings.

Mutti is complaining that she does not want a bath. She cannot be heard clearly from the porch but I can tell (mostly from Elisabeth’s end of the conversation) that that is the problem being worked on at that moment. Mutti doesn’t believe she has a problem with hygiene. It is not her fault but it is still a problem. She can not remember five minutes ago. She can not remember if she has had a shower or bath today or yesterday. Bathing is not among the small group of biologic urges to which she will automatically respond, those being-eating, urinating, defecating , sometimes sleeping and , of course, breathing and maintaining a flow of blood trough her veins and arteries. She might forget that she has prepared four variations of lunch. She might take out bread and cheeses for sandwiches, and then forget the sandwiches and begin to defrost three or four casseroles within one hour’s time…That is behavior you expect when she becomes hungry. But one need never fear that bathing will be overdone-or done at all. It is not one of the biologic imperatives and is, therefore, never done without the aid and urging of others. Even the smell of the body “aroma” is insufficient impetus for her to bathe. (It is overpowering when one first enters the sealed up atmosphere of the house. They insist that all the windows be closed, and all the doors locked). She is immune to her own odor, whether by acclimation or mental defect, but she is not without opinion on the matter of taking a bath when urged on by her daughter. She believes that she continues her life-long habit of cleanliness and she fights and complains when Elisabeth begins to prepare a sudsy, warm bath. She chafes at the thought (however fleeting) that she is dirty. That she needs her daughter’s aid in keeping clean. That she has not attended to her own most basic functions and maintenance. Just as she “knows” that she shops daily at the Key Food (she has not been to the Key Food in years). Just as she keeps the laundry clean and stacked neatly in the dressers for both herself and her mother (her daughters-Kathy and Elisabeth-shop and do the laundry and clean and scour every square inch of the house each week) and if she feeds the cat seven or eight times a day or forgets to feed it at all (the daughters take the cat to the ‘vet’ and it is to them that it owes it’s skinny little life!) Mutti’s life is one long illusion of self-sufficiency.

Come the afternoon on this gift-from-God day the windows of the house and basement will have been opened and the air exchanged, the sour for the fresh. The shelves of the refrigerator will have been cleaned of the rotten and fetid leftovers that Mutti and Oma cannot bear to discard. In place will be fruit and new bread and cake. In the freezer there will be fresh casseroles for the week, labeled Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, all the way to Saturday when fresh ones will magically appear again. The two old women will have emerged from their fragrant baths renewed and dressed in fresh clothing.

Elisabeth comes out and sits next to me on the porch. I noticed she has been limping a little bit. She “shooed” me out of the house a half hour ago while Mutti complained loudly from inside the little first floor bathroom where the water was filling the tub. Elisabeth loves to sit on the beach on beautiful days like this one. Instead she attends to the raving needs of the two blood relatives for whom she is named. Sitting for a moment in the sun, on the porch, she lays her head back and the rays strike her face squarely. She drinks in the warmth. She doesn't need me to remind her that a few more times around the earth and the sun’s slanted, weak rays will have given up their warmth to another winter. There will be ice and snow but Elisabeth will still be making the trip to Long Island.

The Cost of Fido

After reading an article on the Fidelity.com web site ( ), I am modestly self satisfied that I have never purchased one of the five items spotlighted as “five things you spend on and then never use…” That is unless you count the treadmill that technically I did buy but only because- technically- Lizzy and I buy everything together-even if it is for her! OK! I might have said I was going to use it too but we all know that I was lying. There is no way I would ever willingly use a treadmill. If I did use a treadmill it would only be as a prelude to a steam bath or if someone held a gun to my head.

The article highlighted five items that people foolishly spend their hard earned money on and then never get around to actually using. They were 1) exercise equipment, 2) swimming pools (in ground), 3) wine cellars 4) outdoor kitchens, and 5) espresso machines. I would not argue with any of the selections discussed in the article but (after a few moments with Benny) we have come up with a lot more examples. Tools (in general, and socket sets in particular), musical instruments (especially pianos), boats of all types, gym memberships (Absolutely!!), bicycles (we have five that no one rides), food processors and bread-makers, and pets.

The last one is a little more difficult to document as people continue to feed and walk a dog and probably take it to the vet once in a while to keep it ‘legal’. But there is not a shred of doubt in my mind that for many pets in the typical household the meaningful relationship quickly and absolutely ends not long after puppyhood or kittyhood. To define the word “use” with regard to pets I am not talking about hooking the dog up to a sled and mushing it to the store (although that sounds like fun and Fido would probably enjoy it too). I am thinking more of enjoying, playing with, training and, most importantly, loving the pet as one would love and engage a family member. As much as it is a shame to invest in a possession such as a treadmill and then not use it, it is a much greater loss to ignore a living thing. A pet becomes an extension of yourself and of your family. If it is ignored it may develop behavioral problems. It will likely be unhealthy in mind and body. It will surely make the owner question his/her desire to continue ownership and might cause them to put the pet up for adoption. In short, there is a cost of ownership for everything…not just swimming pools.

DVDs From the Library -The Soloist

The Soloist
with Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr.

Jamie Foxx never really becomes a ‘soloist’ in this flick but he does wear some pretty outrageous outfits! I mean it…Who thinks of this stuff? Were the designs taken from the descriptions in the book (by Steve Lopez)?? I don’t know as I didn’t read the book. Actually Mr. Foxx plays a pretty convincing homeless person who is unable to fulfill his passionate dream of performing Beethoven even after a couple of years of study at Julliard… ‘Cause he is nuts! Clinically speaking, that is, and hears voices and can’t conform to any societal expectations. Mr. Downey Jr. discovers the homeless man’s talent by accident and mentors the musician. RDJr. plays the part of the real-life newspaper columnist who wrote the book upon which the movie is based. They both are believable characters and the script is kinda real-ish. It might be a little bit preachy but not distractingly so.

I love movies with musical themes. Mr. What’s His Names Opus, Amadeus, Yellow Submarine…Yankee Doodle Dandy, etc. (obviously it doesn’t take much to fit into my ‘classifications’) and I got a kick out of the music. The psychedelic interpretation of a schizoid’s rapture while listening to Beethoven-not so much. So I just closed my eyes during that part of the movie and dug the philharmonic. Not bad. Many of the depictions of homeless people and the conditions they live in reminded me of Shawn of the Dead (Zombie=Homeless) but, again, not too over the top.

I wish I could be a little more positive about this movie. Jamie Foxx and Robert Downey Jr. are good actors but dressing Foxx up like Elton John made it difficult to take the unwashed, homeless man real seriously. The script tried to handle too many social and personal issues all at once. Homelessness (the cops, the politicians, the social workers…), dwindling newspaper readership, RDJr’s personal problems with commitment, etc. It all got a little muddled, but it was still entertaining. I give this movie two cheap beers.

DVDs From the Library -Revolutionary Road

On this one I took the bullet for all my dedicated readers. I will spare you all a long review and distill it down to two words-Don't Bother.

Six stinky socks doesn't even begin to cover it.

DVDs From the Library -Red Doors

In the library there is a bin full of DVDs. One may take up to five and keep them for a week. Don’t forget to return them on time or you will pay a hefty over-due penalty, or worse, they will develop a terminal mold and eat your furniture, flooring and, eventually, your brain. Join me now as I take a look at one…

Red Doors-a film by Georgia Lee

This film had the obligatory row of laurel-leaved awards across the top of the packaging but, unlike the last Chinese film I watched (Taking Father Home), this one, for the most part, deserved them. The characters were likable and believable enough to possibly exist on Earth. More importantly the plot was engaging enough to keep me awake. I like films that delve into family dynamics and this family was one I could easily relate to. A self-absorbed Mother who refuses to allow the husband or the daughters to relax and find their own way. Three daughters-one a young professional on the threshold of marrying her stogy boyfriend, one a closet Goth in high school, and one a doctor who was trying to sort out her sexual orientation. The first eventually abandons her plans for marriage in favor of following her heart to true love. The second wakes from her childish dreams and negativity to realize that the world is not out to get her and she can enjoy her family and her new boyfriend. The doctor comes out of the closet and everybody, it seems, is happy…except the Dad. Surrounded by over bearing females, recently retired and purposeless he is lost. He is consumed by video tape images of his lovely daughters when they were young and his little girls and now there is no place for him in their lives. He runs away.

As I have said the plot is very believable and contemporary. The backdrop is a modern suburban home, a modern high school, a modern hospital. The Red Door alluded to is the front door of the family’s home and that is the portal that links the old world with the new and the old culture and traditions to the new. It also signifies, to me, maturing of the family from the young mom and dad with dependent daughters to a family where the daughter have become independent and, unfortunately, unobservant of the needs of both the mother and the father. The mother and father who have given them all the love, possessions, education, and opportunities with which to succeed are now forgotten and ignored.

I liked this film and I award it three cans of cheap beer.

How I Rate the Movies

This is the Key to my Scientific Movie Rating System
-Worst=six smelly socks,
-Torture but not the worst=4 smelly socks,
-I watched it but only because it was free=2 smelly socks,
-Not too bad but I wouldn't pay for it=1 cheap beer,
-Bordering on pretty decent=2 cheap beers,
-I'd pay to watch this one!=3 cheap beers,
-And the pinnacle of the Library DVD bin selection/and semi intoxicating, the coveted award !!!!=4cheap beers.

DVDs From the Library-Taking Father Home

In the library there is a bin full of DVDs. One may take up to five and keep them for a week. Don’t forget to return them on time or you will pay a hefty over-due penalty, or worse, they will develop a terminal mold and eat your furniture, flooring and, eventually, your brain. Join me now as I take a look at one…

“Taking Father Home”
A “film” by Ying Liang- in Mandarin w/ English Subtitles.

I qualify my review of this “film” (it was actually shot on video with a borrowed camera)-I usually only review professional cinematic projects but in this case I got fooled into thinking this was a real movie because it was in a plastic case (just like a real movie) and mixed in with a bunch of other plastic cases in the bin. That’s how the Library can fool you!

On the plastic case it had the usual accolades “A triumph of vision and talent.”-Variety, “A stunning introduction to a rare new talent”-The New York Times” and as usual these quotes are lures to get you to watch what is essentially a student film with Ying Liang and a bunch of Ying Liang’s friends running around looking much like a slow version of a Benny Hill episode without the Yackety Sax. Oh, and the landscape/cityscapes are nice so I take a Smelly Sock off for that. Similarly, I got a great nap during the last half hour, so I take one more Smelly Sock off for that. Some of the music was good too but I refuse to take off any more Smelly Socks.

If you are still interested I will give you a capsule shot of the storyline. YL is a peasant boy living in the flood plains of a rural village. His father has abandoned the family and moved to the big city and taken a new wife/life and YL goes out to find him. Having no money YL brings along two ducks to sell (?? Jack and the Bean Stalk-ish). He gets lost, he meets people, he chases people, people chase him…etc, etc. The ducks are the only constant in the film and out of the four still photos on the back of the box the ducks are in three so I don’t understand why they get no billing!

I will admit that I feel I got a real taste of modern China from this “film”. Mr. YL will, someday soon, translate that wonderful ability to capture the soul of his country into an entertaining and thought provoking movie, but this wasn’t it.

I give this film my “DVD from the Library” rating of---
Four Smelly Socks.

DVDs From the Library-TransAmerica

In the library there is a bin full of DVDs. One may take up to five and keep them for a week. Don’t forget to return them on time or you will pay a hefty over-due penalty, or worse, they will develop a terminal mold and eat your furniture, flooring and, eventually, your brain. Join me now as I take a look at one…

TransAmerica

Felicity Huffman is a wonderful actress. I am not particularly attracted to her but in this film I loved her dearly. I know, I know, it is not her I loved but the character she played but still there is some part of me that loved her. Perhaps it is the guts it took to play this part. A she who plays a he who needs to be a she. Confusing, right!

I don’t pretend to understand any of the urges that lead to such radical requirements. I don’t even get it that there are people who have these urges and feel compelled to change their sexual orientation. I am so straight that I can't even walk around the block, so this goes way beyond anything I understand on a personal level. Still, in this film he/she has me convinced that he/she does have this need to change, that it is not something he/she can do anything about except to follow his/her needs to the logical, surgical conclusion, and I like him/her for it. That is the basic premise of his/her sexual story but only the start of the point of the film. On top of all the sexual confusion he/she has a son (Kevin Zegers) who he/she never knew about, a family that has less understanding of the workings of his/her brain than I have, all this set against the backdrop of a world that sees him/her as a freak and (especially medically) tries to deny him/her the right to express his/her preferences.

The film itself is unpretentious-and that is an accomplishment I ascribe to the actors and a pretty good script. It was gritty and tense most of the time but warm where it should have been warm. I especially liked his/her family-no wait, I didn’t like them much at all, actually. I just really understood them. They were everyone’s family! Mixed religion. Devoid of empathy and blind to the pain of those who should be most dear to them. They are materialistic and uncouth. And here comes the gentle, sensitive, transgender son with a heretofore unknown son/grandchild…Crash… Perfect!!!

I enjoyed this film and was glad it didn’t end in some catastrophic mess. The ending seemed real. The characters seemed spot on. The music and the camera work seemed right. Wow! And to think I got this out of the bin at the library.

I give this film my "DVD From the Library" rating of two cans of cheap beer.

DVDs From the Library-The Joneses

DVDs From the Library

In the library there is a bin full of DVDs. One may take up to five and keep them for a week. Don’t forget to return them on time or you will pay a hefty over-due penalty, or worse, they will develop a terminal mold and eat your furniture, flooring and, eventually, your brain. Join me now as I take a look at one…

“The Joneses”
Staring- Demi Moore, David Duchovny, Amber Heard and Ben Hollinsworth, with a cameo by Lauren Hutton.

This is one of those films that, if not for one small twist of plot, or one stand-out performance, I wouldn’t care if I’d never seen it at all. It would be wonderful if I could say it was a performance that made it worthwhile but it wasn’t-it was the plot. A number of years ago I remember reading about advertising agencies hiring young, hip, professional looking men and women to clandestinely promote their products. Wearing the ‘right’ shoes, shirts, skirts and jewelry these ‘shills’ would insinuate themselves into the culture of a club or popular bar and move the product. They would buy rounds of a certain beer, smoke a certain cigar or cigarette, eat a branded meal and popularize a branded handbag. I was fascinated by the concept. Gorilla advertising. Small firefights, wherein professional actors whispered into scores of ears attempting to turn the message viral and send sales north.

In this film a team of four of these ‘professional actors’ are formed into a sales cell and inserted into an upscale neighborhood by the agency. We learn that there are many such cells and Lauren Hutton plays the capo in charge of the whole effort. Demi Moore is the boss of the cell and David Duchovny is the ‘new guy’ who plays the husband. Amber Heard and Ben Hollinsworth play the daughter and the son. As a family they take the neighborhood by storm and sales (which are tracked like corporate batting averages) begin to climb.

As I said, the performances were not what kept me watching. The cast was OK but not great. Out of the four main players I thought David Duchovny was the best. It was his flip attitude (played against DM’s all business attitude) that I liked. He was, way down deep, kind of ‘beat’ in the 1950’s sense, and no matter how he tried, he just couldn’t do the job. He could sell stuff when he wanted to but in the end he couldn’t lie well enough. And when he did lie it tortured him and made him ineffecive. Ben Hollinsworth and Amber Heard were not believable as the ‘kids’. Both of them being sexually charged individuals and both obviously well past puberty. I wondered why the producers thought anyone, including myself, would believe that they could be high school kids? Demi Moore didn’t fit the part well. She was desirable and driven by the mission of the team. I just couldn’t believe her character like I could D.D.’s

The fact that this story took a real concept to a place just shy of Sci-Fi and made it seem possible (who knows maybe it is true!) is what made me like this film. I would have liked it more if the concept had been used to make a really hot porn film! Lord knows there are probably a ton of porn stars out there who could have done the acting as well (or better!) than this cast and there were a lot of points in the story that could have used the addition of some hot hardcore sex. Would'a helped a lot!

I look forward to seeing David Duchovny in a film some time in the future that gives him a chance to prove my hunch that he has talent. I hope I never have to watch another Demi Moore film. I look forward to seeing both Ben and Amber (perfect name for a pornstar) in a remake of this film due out in 2012 entitled “The Boneses”.

I give this film my “DVD from the Library” rating of---
Two Smelly Socks.

DVDs From the Library-Then She Found Me

DVDs From the Library

In the library there is a bin full of DVDs. One may take up to five and keep them for a week. Don’t forget to return them on time or you will pay a hefty over-due penalty, or worse, they will develop a terminal mold and eat your furniture, flooring and, eventually, your brain. Join me now as I take a look at one…

“Then She Found Me”
Staring- Matthew Broderick, Colin Firth, Helen Hunt, and Bette Midler

Looks good! You say to yourself as you pluck this one out of the bin. A good romantic comedy is what it looks like and in my house that is usually a winner. Unfortunately, after ten minutes into it I found my estrogen level had risen to a lethal level and my balls were beginning to fall off. If I had read the packaging closely I would have seen that this movie was brought to us by “killer films” (small k small f) and it was a killer in the most negative way possible. Also, and, more importantly, Helen Hunt’s name and photo were peppered throughout the credits (I didn’t really count) at least two hundred times. She played the lead, wrote the screenplay (she gave herself two credits for that!), directed and produced, conceivably did the camera work and catered the shoot. Helen Hunt is a passable journeywoman in the acting trade and by surrounding herself with a troupe of very established actors whose reputations are head and shoulders above hers in everyway one would expect a good film-NOT! This is a perfect example of a film reduced to its least common denominator.

Her husband in the film (Matthew Broderick) is a wishy-washy pussy who is obviously not happy with the marriage. It is not clear why, nor does the watcher particularly care. There are a couple of sex scenes which accounts for the ‘R’ rating but seem to do their best not to titillate nor make one crave either of the perpetrators. One, in the car on a city street, is not believable at all and left me wishing I was blind. I have seen Matthew Broderick do great things in a number of films but in this one the best thing he did was make enough money to make a couple of month’s boat payments.

Collin Firth is in every new film produced in Hollywood-Have you noticed? He is not really very good in any of them and in this one he is over-the-top mediocre. Playing H.H.’s newly found boyfriend, one sees no real reason for the attraction, feels no magnetism, and flinches every time he opens his mouth. For some reason she feels the need to have him and he, her, but at a party, I would avoid both of them at all costs. I do like his choice of clothing. I think he just wore whatever he came to the set in that day and he has a nice personal wardrobe.

Bette Midler is the only (slightly) shining star in this black hole of a story. She is an amazing actress/person and it will take more than a bad play, crappy input from her costars and lousy direction to kill her performance. But it came close. She has great delivery and presence. She plays the mother who gave H.H. up for adoption as a baby and has decided to make contact with her adult off-spring (god knows why!) and wants a relationship. Well, let me say that H.H. has aged horribly and appears to be older than her mom. Bette has a better body, preserved face, and would be a hell of a lot more fun in bed (I’m betting). The lines that are lobbed at her by this hyper herd of coconspirators are returned with Miss M’s typical homerun attitude (for the most part-given the dreck quality of the writing, she does what she can!) and I love her for the college try.

Allow me to quote the packaging as I sum up this film-“Smart, engaging, and funny”? Nope. Dumb, uninteresting and pathetic. I give this film my “DVD from the Library” rating of---
Six Smelly Socks.

Puzzle (deleted following a poor night's sleep during a full moon)

September 14, 2011
I have deleted this poem so if you didn't get a chance to read it too bad. Not that is was very good-it was OK-but I decided that there are some things that I will put up here for a while and then take off just for spite. I don't feel the need to explain more than that.

Natasha Paints Her Eyebrows On

Natasha paints her eyebrows on
It pained me a little when she told me
-A little slip of a thing, she walks
Like a soldier,
Carrying her wisp of a torso
Like a whip of spring steel-
I pointed out that I had no eyebrows either
Just a few springy hairs
We laughed
And she offered to paint mine on too.

Natasha has a ring in her lip
It pained me to look at it
And wonder what it is like to kiss
Lips like those.
Like barbed wire
Around a secret compound-
Is a ring like that meant
To test
To see
Who will overcome the metal?

Natasha thanked us over and over.
It pained me some
That she should feel the need-
But it was welcome
To see her beside my son
And a new voice
A new story
A fresh face
With eyebrows painted on.