Vanishing Point

I recently had a genius idea for a post.

I was at the gym on the elliptical, simultaneously gazing at (and thru) my image in the semi-reflective window when I realized I had a tree for a nose.

Yes, that's right.

A tree for a nose.

Allow me to explain:

When dusk hits and the light outside begins to fade, you see more and more of yourself in an otherwise transparent window. But you can still see the outside world — as I did — and what you see depends entirely on your point of focus.

So you see yourself for a second. And then, instead of seeing your reflection, you notice the world outside.

But this transition, contrary to popular belief, is not altogether instantaneous. Rather — for me at least — there was a central point of transition where my field of vision would confuse the outside world with my reflection.

For example: when focusing on myself, I noticed my nose was unusually large... and yellow. I focused on my nose to try and determine the cause... only to lose focus on myself, and instead see a row of trees just above the horizon.

Where I imagined my nose to be was one tree with a few remaining yellow leaves (most other trees were bare).

But about this time — when I realized that tree was acting as my nose in this reflection — I was back to seeing myself again.

(I have to imagine I looked rather cross-eye during much of this).

This exchange of focal points continued until a train went by and swallowed my mouth whole. And by that I mean: as it went past, its image through the window was transposed over the reflection of my mouth... such that steel replaced my lips, and I waxed poetic with notions of Shakespeare's Lavinia trying to speak.

This all struck me as being rather profound at the time. So profound, in fact, that I endeavored to write my observations "first thing" after returning home. But instead I showered... ate... and then went to sleep. And then Friday passed. Then Saturday, and Sunday. And I kept thinking to myself "I really need to sit down and write about that."

And then finally, today, I turned to my computer with that very intention — only to since find myself repulsed by the very idea. Whatever poetic notions I had last Thursday have since faded, only to be replaced by inner-chidings.

I mean... what was I thinking?

However ridiculous, and however pathetic, the truth is... I do wish I could go back there again.

And We Drown

Murder & Intrigue

Murderball has a near perfect rating on Rotten Tomatoes, where many reviewers tout it to be one of the best films in 2005.

While I wasn't nearly as excited by it as were the "professionals," I can — at least — see their point. It is compelling, and I would even wager to say that the things I didn't like about are reflections on myself rather than the film itself.

You see, Murderball is a documentary about the America rugby team for the Paralympic Games. The rugby players are all quadriplegics with varying degrees of paralysis.

But how, on earth, could someone paralyzed from the neck down play rugby?

Good question. Or I would say "good question," because I went into the film wondering the exact same thing. And so what happens throughout the course of the documentary is this miraculous thing that American schools could use a little more of:

You learn something.

I learned that many quadriplegics can use their arms and hands, though the degree to which they can depends on their injury. I learned a valuable lesson in the difference between the Paralympics and the Special Olympics (two very different games one should never confuse in the presence of paralympic athletes).

"We go to the games to win," says one rugby player. "We don't go there for hugs."

(I'm paraphrasing, but you get the idea.)

The lessons continue from there, almost by happenstance. And by that I mean: this film doesn't overtly teach the "walking" public about spinal chord injuries but, in the course of interviewing/filming the athletes, the knowledge just... happens.

What you see in the interim is one of the most brutal teams sports I've yet to witness: it really is rugby in that the players slam their chairs into each other to "tackle." Chairs overturn, players bleed. There's screaming, yelling, and a lot of practice involved in winning the gold. It was actually "fun" to watch the fractions of games we see, and I couldn't help but think I'd like to sit in on one as a spectator sometime.

But I also felt tremendously uncomfortable watching players dangle upside down, waiting for referees to flip them right side up. And sometimes seeing them struggle off the court to dress, eat, open cards, etc... made me want to jump in and help (which is precisely the sort of response that offends them... since they know, in time, they can manage to do just about anything without assistance).

Still, it's the same thing I feel when I see someone with an armful of bags struggling to open a door. You open the door for them because you know, if you were them, you'd like a little help.

Ditto with seeing someone in a parking lot, lifting their parent or grandparent from a chair and putting them into the seat, then struggling to fold the chair and throw it in the back. The last time I saw this happen (within the last month, I'm sure)... I actually turned to walk towards them. Stopped. Sort of hesitated. And then turned and walked to my own car.

Murderball confirmed what I've heard so many times... that people who step in to help don't understand that the person in the chair wouldn't go out if they couldn't handle getting back in. But, man, if that isn't sometimes difficult to walk by without at least offering.

And I think that's what bothered me about the film — the thing that says more about me than it does the documentary. I want to help people but, sometimes, you've just got to realize...

you can't.

I've Heard about Her

Urban Oasis

The Lonely One

Neologisms VI

What the Newscaster Meant to Say
Homophobia

What I Heard
(And what I'm fairly certain he actually said)
Homofurbia

Definition
An irrational fear of gay furbies

Sample Sentence
The human resources director was fired for refusing to promote countless furbies, despite their superior communication skills and immaculate grooming habits.

"Let it be noted that this firm will not tolerate that sort of senseless homofurbia," the company's CEO told reporters.

The former HR director was unavailable for comment.

Neologisms V

What I Meant to Say
Recommended Daily Allowance of Vitamin C

What I Said
Recommended Daily Violence

Definition

1. A level of violence that at once relieves the day's stress without inflicting pain or harm on either oneself or others.
2. A value to be issued by the MPAA and/or the FDA at some point in the future. Will likely denote the amount of violence "safe" for kids from day-to-day, as in two episodes of Tom & Jerry and one Spongebob.
   

Sample Sentence
After a marathon of saccharine Hollywood romances, Drake took his young bride to see Saw III in hopes of achieving Daily Recommended Violence levels.

Quote of the Day

Today someone said something to me that — given the context of the conversation, and the tone in which it was spoken — struck me as being the loneliest thing I have heard in an era... Or at least thus far this week.

"We all make our own choices in life, now don't we?"

Sounds innocuous enough now that I'm typing it. But. Still. It was the "now don't we?" that really hit me.

(Not to mention the context, which I haven't the energy to discuss.)

Nemo (or, "My Life's Amibition")

In this squalid life of waning ambitions, I determined today to add "see own word included in dictionary" to my "Do Before I Die" list.

This aspiration occured to me quite suddenly when I began to daydream during someone else's conversation. I "woke up" just in time to mishear the latter part of the dialogue.

What was said: Should we send it to [some guy who's name starts with "N" and ends with "O"].
What I heard: Should we Nemo him, then?

I was about to comment on how clever it was that this woman had just used the name "Nemo" as a verb when I realized... she hadn't (rather, she had just misspoken someone's name as such).

So while the conversation continued without me, I defined "nemo" as a verb and wrote a few sample sentences in my head. I waited until it was my turn to speak.

"So, what you're saying is, the meeting I just went to — where no one was there but me — that meeting was unoffically cancelled without any notice? OK. Gotcha. Hey, what do you think about using the word 'Nemo' as a verb? You know, like with 'finding Nemo,' only letting 'Nemo' stand on its own? As in, 'I'll try to nemo my boss and see what he says?'"

As I walked away, I realized the flaw to these semantics: I mean, "find" is one syllable, where as "Nemo" is two. So we're not saving time by substituting "find" with "Nemo," but darned if it doesn't add a little flavor to this dry language.

(And people at work think I'm "strange"!)

Peptoabysmal

I often compile lists. So often, in fact, that the mere habit borders on compulsive behavior. Here's what I mean: I've not even finished a paragraph, and already... a list of my lists.

• To do lists
• Grocery lists
• Miscellaneous shopping lists
• Must read lists
• Must watch lists
• Do before I die lists
• See before I move lists
• Funny things people say
• Weird things I saw
  
• And so on
  

I don't always have the previous list handy and so will start a new one, oftentimes intending to add it to the previous docket once it is found.

This results in a pile of lists, which can become a tad overwhelming. As with today, when I opened my faux leather padfolio (think: an adult's Trapper Keeper) only to find a fountain of papers spilling over the edges. So I set about to go through the lists and make a NEW list of all the things not yet purchased or done.

In the process, I came across a few "notes to self": my way of saying "add this to the list of things to eventually write about" — the longest list of all and, most definitely, the list that seldom sees items crossed off.

The first was the word "canswer" which, I swear, was the way I accidentally typed the word "cancer" when writing something for work. This happened, unintentionally, several times in a single day, and I remember thinking of all the possible therapeutic uses for such a word.

But that is not the purpose of this entry (not that I intend any purpose, but that I hope to find one).

No, no... the "note to self" that really got me thinking was — you guessed it — the title of this entry.

Peptoabysmal.

A word which occurred to me one day while nursing a sick stomach. Not a flu or cold or food poisoning sort of sickness, so much as an existential squeeze in one's abdomen. I was experiencing a sustained tug of nothingness, for lack of a better word, and the single, discernible thought that occurred to me was this:

I wish I had some Peptoabysmal.

From there, I wrote in my head potential taglines for such a product ("Feeling Empty? Drink Plenty!" or even "Relief for every existential crisis!")... and even had some fledgling ideas for commercials and magazine ads. I imagined characters from a Bosch painting wandering in to their nearest pharmacy, demanding bottles of Peptoabysmal... and walking away with smiles on their pink-moustashed faces.

But revisiting that note today, I was reminded instead of a poetic obsession I once harbored for words like ennui, weltschmerz, and even oubliet. They made frequent appearances in my writing, once upon a time, but now I hazard to think they may very well be realities. I often find myself with nothing to say, even in those rare moments when I have the time to say it.

But this, too, is not the point of this post.

I hope.

Instead, let us discuss another word: the first verb I ever invented.

Skepticulate

I was 14, maybe 15. However old one is in the ninth grade. We'd been studying Shakespeare and talking about some of those words he created, when we were asked to come up with our own.

Skepticulate occurred to me without pause. So I said as much, and offered a definition.

1. To be lied to so much, you doubt anything anyone says to you.
2. To cause others to lose faith in someone, or something
ant., gullibulate

As in, "The Boy Who Cried Wolf spent so much time skepticulating the villagers that no one believed him when a crisis was near."

There's also the obvious noun form, skepticulation:

1. The process by which a person gradually begins to question something or someone.
2. The act of skepticulating.

As in, "She would have trusted him, had it not been for his prolonged skepticulation."

But this post isn't so much about skepticulation, either.

***

I was at the gym last night, re-reading the first section of W.G. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn (which I have been trying to read for six months, but have been unable to finish because all previous reading was done either on the train, at lunch or while riding an exercise bike — none of which I have been able to do for quite some time, due to the lack of a free gym or a need for public transportation at my current abode... and the complete and utter lack of actual breaks at work) when I revisited this passage about a man who saw crystalline shapes everywhere. And then I thought of Leonardo Da Vinci, and that circle he drew around man.

It was about then that I realized the power of cliches: that everything really does come full circle. That everything is somehow connected, even if by chance. That sometimes words that piqued our poetic sensibilities once upon a time are very much alive and well... in the most parasitic, ineffable way.

I'm reminded now of high school geometry. I'm reminded of those postulates and hypotheses... and how all of our theorems were just a few steps away from "living" proof (or in a word: conclusion).

Which begs the question: when did I get into this mess? And how, on earth, does it end?

Diary of a Crazy Cat Lady

Pet ownership is not at all what I remember it to be.




But this may have something to do with the fact that the only indoor cat we ever had growing up used my father's head as a litter box early some mornings (and so the era of "indoor cats" was substantially short-lived).

Most of our cats lives were short-lived, for that matter. We lived in a rural area replete with racoons, possums, coyotes and even foxes (not to mention, the usual dangers posed by man: speeding cars, drunken hunters, etc). I hate to say it, but I don't recall a single cat living past three years of age. And even that may be stretching it.

Our dogs usually got a little better treatment. We did have one get shot by a hog farmer (I was only seven or eight at the time and was TERRIBLY traumatized by that). After that, we started to tie them up, a procedure which inflicted an entirely new degree of horror on a girl with an almost unhealthy degree of empathy for animals. Shortly thereafter, we got our first "strictly indoors" pooch... a cocker spaniel who enjoyed life well into her teens.

But somewhere in-between, I witnessed all varieties of pet tragedies; one cat, for example, died defending her kittens from a predator (a tom cat or a possum — hard to tell for sure). I spent that summer bottle-feeding her litter, only to lose the runt (who was also blind) early on to an end I'd rather not mention; and still another to a local boy my mother gave two of the kittens to one day while I was at softball practice (they still needed to be bottle feed at that point — something he was not prepared to do). I cannot even begin to express how angry I was with my mother when I returned home to discover the missing kittens... and how nauseous I felt when he brought one of the kittens back several days later... she was emaciated and sickly, and weighed less than half what she had when she was in my care. It took great attention to get her back into shape.

[Which I did, only to later have her get run over when my parents refused to let me bring her indoors.]

I was maybe nine at the time. And the incident was just enough to transform my empathy for animals into an almost disheartening sense of despair for life in general. Suffice it to say, that was not a good summer.

Aside from incidents such as that, pet ownership was generally "easy." You fed and watered them, and you snuck them inside when your folks weren't looking. But predators were always a stressful concern.

So when Maude came to live with me, I thought having an indoor cat would be a veritable peace of cake. Aside from the inevitable concerns associated with big city landlords, there are no predators in my apartment to speak of. I keep the place clean, so there's unlikely to be a bottle of poison enticing her on the floor, and I'm careful to only leave out "safe" toys when I'm not at home.

But I've since determined that I may very well be cursed when it comes to pet ownership. Though Maude is alive, healthy and well to this day... she's in such a state despite herself.

Regular readers likely recall the ponytail holder incident that cost me just over a grand. And while I don't want to jinx myself by admitting that nothing so awful has transpired since then, we haven't been without close calls.

Here's a snapshot of Maude's day-to-day:

• Maude regularly sneaks into my shoe closet, and my clothes closet, when I'm selecting the day's wardrobe. She does this quickly, and unnoticed, which has resulted in her being shut in the door once, and repeatedly locked inside for 5-10 minutes at a time (luckily, she loves being in there, and I always look around for her after a sustained period of silence)
• 
• Ever since the ponytail incident, she refuses to drink water from a bowl. She now only drinks from the faucet or — if I don't leave that on for her — a water fountain made especially for weird cats like her
• As a result of this quirk, she's taken to jumping up on my kitchen counter to catch water dripping from the faucet. Clean freak that I am, this grosses me out and has resulted in a substantial increase in the amount of time I spend cleaning the kitchen
• One night I woke up to this awful screeching sound. I ran into my living room, only to discover one of Maude's toys in the water fountain; it had soaked up ALL OF THE WATER, and so the engine was in the process of burning out. (She throws her toys in the air, sometimes for great distances... I imagine she was attempting to disembowel her stuffed polar bear when the incident occurred)
• Because of some unusual post-op behavior, we suspected Maude had a touch of taxoplasmosis, and so I spent the last month giving her an antibiotic, twice a day (turns out she probably was NOT a carrier, but with my sister being pregnant, I didn't want to risk it). Ever given a cat a pill? Not fun at all.
• While I keep the number of "treats" to a minimum, since they're mostly for adult cats, I was giving her the occasional treat as a thank you for swallowing the pill. One morning I didn't do this, and Maude contested by disappearing for over 30 minutes. I searched my closest and under the bed before leaving (I ALWAYS make sure I know where she is before I leave), only to later find her just sitting in her covered litter box. She refused to come out until I opened the bag of treats.
• Last week I returned home only to discover three piles of vomit on three different rugs. I immediately panicked, wondering if she'd discovered a stray ponytail holder again. She seemed OK... but then vomited again an hour or so later (again, on three separate rugs). I made an appointment with the vet, but then cancelled after she successfully ate (and digested) food.... much to my relief.
• I discovered a possible cause for her upset stomach a day or two later when my stereo delivered deplorable reception. There were little bite marks up and down the wire antennae, and she'd even succeeded in gnawing all the way through one part of it (not to mention the speaker wires — only one works now). I must've forgotten to spray these wires with Bitter Yuck, because I doused all other cords with the stuff several weeks ago (when she first showed an interest in electrical things)
• This week I awoke to the sound of her playing noisily in the hallway; I decided I was thirsty anyway, so I got up and went into the kitchen... only to see a beloved post card (previously on my fridge) sitting on my dining room floor, the corners of it chewed away. The magnet that had been holding it there was in the hallway upside down... it had a few teeth marks in it, but apparently didn't meet with her tastes and so was otherwise unscathed.
• When I mop, Maude does one of two things: sticks her head into the mop bucket and displays a level of curiosity that borders on "Hey, I wonder if I should try that water!" OR she runs across the freshly mopped floor, slides... and then licks the cleaning agent from the pads of her feet. Maude now hates it when I clean, as I have to lock in various rooms as I mop elsewhere... I'm not sure, but I suspect Murphy's Cleaning Oil isn't good for kittens.
• She weighs less than five pounds, and yet takes up half the bed. She gets right up next to me, and I'm terrified of rolling over her. So I remain in the same position, pushed to the side, before she gets up after her "cat nap," starts making a ton of noise playing with things that aren't toys... and gets kicked out of the room (at which point she entertains herself for awhile, but then comes back to my bedroom door and paws at it — no claws out, luckily — until I let her back in).

I could go on, but this post has already overstayed its welcome. Essentially, I'm starting to see an entirely new world of dangers in my comfy little apartment, and I'm terrified Maude is going to succumb to an untimely end I had previously assigned only to outdoor cats.

For this reason, I now check my floors multiple times (for ponytail holders and such) before I leave for work or go to bed; I sometimes walk back into my apartment after locking up because "I can't remember" if I shut the closet door; and I regularly rearrange furniture to minimize the number of exposed electrical cords.

In short: I've become quite OCD, compliments of Maude.

And to those of you out there who encouraged me to get a cat — to those friends, family and co-workers who said indoor cats were "easy" to take care of, and too smart to cause any real trouble —

I'm holding you all responsible for this. Your bill is in the mail.

Stop Looking Down

Sleep Perchances a Dream

While I did look up The Science of Sleep's overall "rotten" rating before watching it... I didn't read any of the reviews. Suffice it to say the 69% rating it received had me expecting a mild to moderate disappointment. And the very anticipation of disappointment was, well... disappointing.



Michel Gondry's previous feature film, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) is among my favorites (I know, I know... I've already made that known countless times on this blog). And if I had the impression there'd be any use in a Top Ten list, Sunshine would most definitely be on there (though, to be fair, my "top ten" would likely include no fewer than 20 films). So the mere thought of a D+ average for Gondry's newest had me crestfallen.

Much to my surprise, then, I actually enjoyed The Science of Sleep (2006). I wouldn't put it up there with Sunshine, though it is the sort of film I'd recommend to my friends. It's whimsical and charming. And the stop motion animation throughout is the sort of imagery that leaves a smile on your face.

But that's not to say it's altogether flawless, and I can see why some critics are hesitant to dish out heaps of praise: it lacks the depth of plot that made Sunshine so compelling (perhaps Gondry could've used Sunshine co-writer Charlie Kaufman on this project as well). And it's difficult to pinpoint an actual "purpose" for the film. Is it about a man recovering from his father's death? Is it about his reconciliation between his French and Mexican parentage? Is it about a dreamer at odds with a cubicle world?

Or is it, as most of the trailers lead us to believe, a movie about a boy who likes a girl who doesn't like him back even though they're clearly meant to be together?

Before I hazard a guess, it may be worthwhile to note that the one thing I hate about writing fiction for a critical audience is the assumption that everything must have a point... that there must be a central focus; rising action; falling action; etc. While it's true that, at any given point in our lives, we may be preoccupied with a particular event, said event is seldom the only thing that drives our thoughts. Rather, every day is a compilation of catalysts and consequences that propel us further towards (in-) action.

It always struck me as unfair that a story, then, could only have one purpose. Or even that it should have any purpose.

Am I saying the The Science of Sleep is without focus?

No. I'm just saying I wasn't so much concerned with finding, dissecting it, and pinning it to a wall. Not to mention, a movie that deals so much with the variegated nature of dreams should, itself, be a patchwork of sorts.

And so The Science of Sleep paints the dreamworld of its main character, Stéphane (played by Gael García Bernal). Stéphane is a 20-something artist who falls so deeply into his own dreams that he often fails to distinguish them from reality. The end result is a film that, itself, switches between dreams and reality, often transitioning so fluidly that even the viewing audience is unable to tell one from the other (this, in part, because Stéphane has painted a reality for himself that somewhat imitates his dreams — where water is made of cellophane; cities are made of cardboard; and trees ride freely aboard ships).

For this, Stéphane reminds me a bit of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Amélie. He's inventive and creative, and does just about every beautifully imaginative thing to capture the attention of his next door neighbor. He evinces the sort of childlike charm that most of us abandon with time: and this charm appears in his dreams; in his reality; and his sometimes painful struggle to separate the two.

In fact, as the film progresses the very thing that makes Stéphane so appealing bears the unfortunate side effect of bordering on mental illness. That is to say, Stéphane seems perfectly normal in the beginning — just a bit quirkly — but we eventually (and subtly) come to realize there's more to it than that. He ultimately suffers for his 'beautiful affliction.'

The end result: a string of surrealistic images that could have benefited from a bit more glue to hold them together (yes, I admit, this film is missing something). But, man, if it wasn't pretty while it lasted.


NOTE: About 1/4 of the film is in French; be prepared to read subtitles.

Tristram's Shanty

Though I wouldn't necessarily nominate it for any awards, I enjoyed Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (2005) substantially more than did my movie-watching companion. I found it to be clever, and witty, though at times difficult to follow (this likely owing to the fact that I watched it over the course of four different meals, spread throughout a week).

This "mockumentary" isn't so much based on the early 18th century satire, Laurence Sterne's The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, as it is a pseudo-documentary about the process of filming a movie based on the book (HUH?!). I appreciated this technique insofar as it underscores all that can go dastardly wrong when compelling novels are adapted for the big screen. And by that I mean: this film takes you "behind the scenes" in the faux-filming of an adaptation.

I should add that Tristram Shandy, the book, is one of my favorites from the 18th century. It's up there with Henry Fielding's Shamela in terms of anachronistic comedy (both novels were well ahead of their time). And, as the "actors" in Tristram Shandy, the movie, frequently lament... Tristram Shandy, the novel, is so complex — and so full of time jumps — that it's nearly impossible to film. The mockumentary setup, then, is perfect for the material.

Rather than attempt to condense a 700 page novel into 2 hours — or bowdlerize it at will to make it Hollywood-savvy — the film "adaptation" of Tristram Shandy is done with the same sort of wit and craft that made the novel such a joy to read. But it does this, of course, without really telling the story of Tristram Shandy.

Oh, mockumentaries. They're so very difficult to explain. Allow me to try again:

Tristram Shandy, the movie, is the fake documentary about the filming of an adaptation of Tristram Shandy, the book. It makes no attempts to imitate the novel, per se, but somehow derives from the same sort of humor the original text is known for. In other words: the film exercises a degree of charm and wit that sufficiently recreates Sterne. It does this by satirizing the very attempt to turn the novel into a film, and frequently jumps to the "behind the scenes" lives of the actors (playing themselves) playing the characters in the novel.

You know those "Making of..." special features on all the DVD's these days? Tristram Shandy, the movie, is like that... the whole way through. It's the main feature, and it's all fake. Get it? No?

I don't blame you.

Also of note — for those of you unfamiliar with British film — I should caution that they're much more, um, forthright when it comes to "tastefully" showing various anatomies you rarely see in American cinema (not the kind you'd watch with your folks, anyway). It was for this reason that the aforementioned movie-watching companion threatened to not finish the film — unless they started giving women equal "screen time."

(A protest which seemed to only further my amusement.)

Sigh. No matter how many times I attempt to explain, I can't quite seem to capture the film's raison d'etre. Watch it... and you'll know what I mean.

I Know Why the Caged Mule Neighs

Study of the Midwest in Motion

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXVI)

on taking my second lunch break in three months

this is what i call
the quiet before the maelstrom
breath found and then lost

---

on seeing three cop cars arrive at wal-mart just before midnight

this is contrary
to everything he stands for
elmo says be nice

---

people around here have too much money

when i think 'rolls royce'
i don't think 'bumper stickers'
that looks tacky, man

---

nothing screams irony quite like a missed photo opportunity

i stand with george bush
(sign beneath an advert for
'annihilation')

Portrait of a Dry Erase Board

Hero

"And that's your father when he was a police officer," she said, pointing to a newspaper cutout of her son.

"Why was he in the paper?" the four-year-old asked.

"Well, you see that girl?" She points to the teenager standing awkwardly next to her son, decked out in his blue uniform.

"Yeah."

"Well. Her house was on fire, and your daddy got there before the fire department. So he climbed the tree outside of her window, pulled her out of the window and carried her down the tree."

The four-year-old gasps, smiling so big his eyes almost shut. He sucks in a gutful of air and tries to speak.

"My dad's a SUPERHERO!!!"

He jumps up, does his best Mr. Incredibles impression, and then sits back down, putting his hand on his grandmother's knee.

"Show me more pictures, Mamaw."

Turtles an Oscar Oversight

If you allow that we went into Iraq too late, too clumsily, and for all of the wrong reasons...

That still doesn't detract from the fact that Saddam Hussein is responsible for some terrible atrocities. I remember the first time I saw a photograph from Saddam's 1988 "campaign" against Kurdish Iraqis. It looks a little like this: a baby, maybe 6 or 7 seven months old, wrapped tightly in a pretty blanket. Mouth frozen open, head thrust back. And the body of his/her mother extended atop. As residents in Kurdistan, they'd been victims of poison gas attacks orchestrated by Saddam's regime.

But that was one of the more "peaceful" deaths afforded to this ethnic minority during the 1980s. In many instances villages were raided, civilians were slaughtered, and the children left standing were generally orphaned.

And that's what Turtles Can Fly (2005) is about. Kurdish children displaced by Saddam's army (though if we are to believe the chronology, much of the inciting action took place in the late 1990s); most of them without parents and many, even, without aunts, uncles or even grandparents. They're alone at a refugee camp near the Turkish border, and so build a network wherein they look after each other. The oldest of these kids, Satellite (Soran Ebrahim), is essentially the leader of the pack.

He's bossy, a braggart and generally quite annoying for the viewing audience. But the younger kids look up to him and, when you get right down to it, he genuinely cares for them and even risks his life, on more than one occasion, to save one of "his kids."

You can't help but like Satellite as a result. Even as he insults the armless boy or lies to the village elders... even as he shouts for the little kids to help him build bunkers, and barters for weaponry. You see all of this and remember that he, himself, is just a boy in his early teens.

And because this movie focuses on Kurds in Iraq, I appreciated being able to see the American invasion through their eyes. I mean, when you consider the sort of torture (both literal and metaphorical) the Kurds had been subjected to because of Saddam, wouldn't the Kurds in Iraq thus anticipate the arrival of American forces?

Iranian writer/director Bahman Ghobadi provides a subtle answer to this delicate question. Americans are neither demonized nor glorified in Turtle (this movie isn't about them, remember... it's about these children). And it's true that many Kurds were so eager to see Saddam removed from power that, yes, they were excited to see the American tanks come
rolling in.

But that excitement was tempered by a much harsher reality: there were still American-made mines buried by the hundreds (thousands) around the Iraqi countryside... all remnants from previous conflicts. And these mines were often "discovered" by Kurdish children. So what does this "welcome" invasion mean for them?

You sort of get a sense that these people are the victims of dictators and "peace keeping" forces alike. They're in the middle of a conflict that is exacerbated, rather than mollified, by a seemingly endless cycle of wars.

There's also a fairy tale subplot to this story, as rumors circulate about a boy who can see the future. But this subplot is so beautifully woven into the main story line that it actually becomes believable. Add to that this film is oftentimes charming - even comical - and you can't help but think that a film about children should be for children.

But there's much more to this story, and Turtles Can Fly emerges instead as a message for the rest of the world.

Last Kiss Needed More 'Scope'

The Last Kiss (2006) wasn't awful but, given my current time crunch, I don't exactly feel compelled to dedicate much energy to reviewing it, either.

It was... OK. Not as good as Zach Braff's previous film, Garden State (2004), but not as bad as some of the other piffle I've reviewed here. I'd put it up there with The Break-Up (2006) in terms of movies that offer a semi-accurate portrayal of relationships (which compares to most romantic comedies), but I also enjoyed The Break-Up more than I enjoyed The Last Kiss.

So what's missing?

Retribution.

I don't mean fire, brimstone or any other such dark force of vengeance. Just... a sense that, much as in reality, things cannot always be mended.

And so while I appreciate that this film shows what many people "do," I don't like the implication that everyone "does" it (ergo: everyone ultimately deserves to be forgiven).

I suspect many other females will be likewise annoyed, in which case I'd caution less-than-blissful couples against watching this together. It's better reserved for movie night alone at home whilst adorning your voodoo doll with shiny, multicolored pins.

The (Not-So-Great) Pumpkin

After four years of tranfsferring Pumpkin (2002) from one "Movies to Watch" list to another (I tend to carry such lists in a notebook, which gets quite tattered over the course of time), I was a bit disappointed to find it full of stock characters and humor that, while dark, preyed a little too much on annoying stereotypes.

Sure, I can handle the occasional I.Q. joke. But when you take a group of mentally handicapped young men and turn them into caricatures of indiscernable ailments, my stomach turns a bit. One of the biggest "gags" in this movie, for example, consists of a photograph of the title character looking - for lack of a better word - "goofy" (hair tussled, crooked grin, exaggerated features, etc.). Every time that 8 x 11 close-up is on the screen, you want to laugh. And I hate that.

Ditto with Reese Witherspoon's character, Carolyn McDuffy. She was such a cardboard cutout of everything that's wrong with sorority girls that I almost felt sorry for decent sorority chicks out there fighting against the perky, unintellectual materialist stereotype represented by Carolyn.

But, wouldn't you know it... Carolyn has to work with Pumpkin for a sorority house "charity" project, and she falls madly in love with this "creature" she can't understand.

At which point Carolyn rebels against her sisters as she starts sees them for who they "really" are. She then - GASP! - expands her horizons all the while making otherwise poor decisions.

I actually like the idea of this movie; add to that Pumpkin qualifies as a dark comedy, and it's not hard to understand why I've maintained such an interest in seeing it. But the actual experience of watching it did not meet with my expectations. That is to say: it's not so much a "smart" comedy, as it is an annoyinhg parody of itself. An exception to this is at the very end, where Pumpkin almost redeems itself with a simple glance over a shoulder. If you've seen the film, you know what I mean.

So is this a case of a horrific film, or an OK film at odds with high hopes? It's somewhere in-between, though if you - like me - are the sort of geek who keeps "Movies to Watch" lists... don't fret if you forget to add Pumpkin to the updated version.

In Search of Zerzura

"But nothing's lost. Or else: all is translation // And every bit of us is lost in it... " ~James Merrill, "Lost in Translation"

---

If I had had my camera while jogging tonight, here is what I would show you:

A twenty-something couple out walking their dog:

When they stopped on the grass for a bit, they sort of reached in for each other and embraced while the dog ran circles around them. The dog was on a leash and every so often I'd think the couple was about to find themselves lost in a mess of rope... but then something would happen and they'd somehow spin themselves, in unison, right out of the mess. The dog kept running around them.... And they never stopped holding on.

At the risk of indulging too greatly in the saccharine, I must admit: that was one of the most beautiful things I've ever witnessed between two people. So much so, in fact, that I had to look away.

Shortly therafter -- as I took a break midway through my jog to stretch, think, and observe -- I saw five people, all of them elderly, looking out over the water. Two were in wheelchairs, which afforded the moment a supplemental degree of poetics.

I mean... I'm watching these people watch (really watch) the water. And I'm watching as two of them push the others back onto the path, their thin white hair stirring as they twist away from the tide.

That's when it hit me.

When I finally leave this city, I'll miss the lake most of all.

Sometimes watching it -- and observing city-dwellers gather around it like nomads in search of Zerzura -- I'd swear it were the ocean.

There's something to be said for that. Something to be said for finding a momentary oasis in this city of smoke, steel... and cold shoulders.

The Naming of Children

A conversation between my 4 1/2 year-old nephew and my sister, as relayed to me by the latter.

Nephew (Leaning onto a Counter): So. What are you going to name the baby boy?

Sister: We don't know yet. Do you have any ideas?

Nephew (Deep in Thought): Well, I'd say "Luke," but that's what I named my lion. So that's definitely out of the question.

Sister: Yeah, I suppose so. Any other ideas?

Nephew (Deeper in Thought): How about "Obi Wan"? That's an honorable name.

Sister: That is a very honorable name, but I'd worry the other kids might make fun of little Obi Wan.

Nephew (Sighing): I guess you're right. Some kids make fun of little babies.

Study of a Rainy Afternoon

Portrait of a Dining Room Wall

Potty Till the Cows Come Home

Senator Lincoln Chafee won the Republican primary in Rhode Island, which has some folks very excited. You see, Chafee has a history of not supporting President Bush, which generally upsets his fellow Republicans.

But I mention this not to continue the string of politically petty posts I've added to this blog in the last week or so. But, rather, because I first heard about this news on NPR this morning, when a Chafee supporter slipped into his thick Rhode Island accent and — I swear — said something to the effect of "Chafee cuts through the potty lines."

Now, I realize he actually said "party," and it's very un-p.c. (not to mention juvenile) of me to find humor in someone's accent.

...But I'm doing it anyway. It made me laugh. I can't help that.

Trafficking

By far, my commute home from work is generally the worst part of my day. And my commute to work is usually the second worst part. There are, at times, horrible exceptions to this. But this is almost always the case.

As a result, I generally arrive to work irritated, and I return home angry. What happens in-between fluctuates day-to-day, but has been especially chaotic the past 2-3 months.

But back to the issue at hand: trafficking. The ordeal that bookends my day, raises my blood pressure and generally robs me of any remaining shred of faith I might hope to harbor for the human race.

A city-to-suburb commute is generally an awful experience. And I'd strongly urge all of you to never regularly engage in such a dehumanizing ritual.

Think I'm exaggerating? Maybe I am. Below I'm recounting actual encounters from the last 24 hours. Tell me what you think.

To Work

• A woman attempts to cross at a crosswalk where she has the right-a-way. A man in a truck waiting to turn left determines man law trumps traffic signs and proceeds to honk at her. She begins to run. He flips her off and squeals his tires the moment he has enough room to get by.
• A cabbie decided to park in a lane that doubled as the right lane of traffic. I was in this lane. I see the cab in enough time, I think, to signal and get into the left lane. The car some four car-lengths behind me in the left lane sees my signal, speeds up, and prevents me from getting over.
• One lane on a major city street is closed down for sidewalk construction during the mourning [SIC] rush hour. I wait quietly while some honked and gestured, as though that would get us anywhere faster. It took us 15 minutes to travel three city blocks.
• A big part of this delay, for the record, is that cars in the right lane waited until the last minute to get over — despite repeated warnings that the lane was going to end
• Just before the expressway exit, while still on a city road, I'm stopped at a traffic light in a lane that is both for those going straight, and those turning right. I'm going straight. The man behind me wants to turn, and so honks his horn for me to go. Mind you, the light was red.
  
• I'm in the right lane just before the exit to get onto the ExpressWay. The lane to the left of me is NOT an exit lane — it's for those continuing straight on the city street. During mourning [SIC] rush hour, that lane moves considerably faster than the one I'm in. And yet cars in the left lane will speed ahead of the line, and then cut in front of others who had patiently waited in the right lane. This happens daily. Today was no exception.
• Much closer to work, I wait five cars behind in the right-turn lane for those folks in the left-turn lane in the opposite direction to no longer have the green "turn" arrow. My light turns green, which means theirs is red, and yet people continue to turn left as though traffic had suddenly become a game of follow the leader. This continued long enough that I did not get to turn on the first green light.
• Between the time I left for work, and the time I arrived, 65 minutes had passed (in all fairness, the construction really put me back — generally the mourning [SIC] commute is closer to 50 minutes]. If you're keeping score, I live 20 miles from where I work. I averaged, then, about 18.5 miles per hour.
  

In-Between
An exception to the 24-hour rule, as this happened Saturday but is nevertheless vital to understanding my daily frustrations with traffic mentality.

As I entered a parking lot, a man's car stalled in front of me. I stopped and waited. He started his car again, continued forward, and it died again. He motioned for a woman to go ahead (she was exiting from the direction opposite him). She motioned for him to go ahead. He was visibly frustrated and motioned again, then pointed to his car. Just when she finally caught on, a guy in a white Jetta behind me honked for me to go. Mind you, with this oblivious woman in one lane and the stalled man perpendicular in front of me, I couldn't go. And because I felt badly for the guy in the shoddy car, I wasn't about the honk at him. My stomach burned with an immediate distaste for some anonymous guy in a white Jetta. The guy in the stranded car looked at me — probably thinking I was the one who honked. I looked back and sort of waved to try and let him know I hadn't. His car started, and he sputtered out.

From Work

• They started work on the ExpressWay yesterday, and reduced three lanes to two. They don't say how long it's expected to last, but for the two miles prior to the construction, I was moving at about 5-10 mph. Luckily, traffic picked up considerably after the third lane opened up.
• During this insufferable jam, I became obsessed with a hideous mural on a bus: the caricature of a train conducter, with his big cartoonish face smiling at me from the backside. He looked like a demon-possessed nutcracker that may very well come to haunt my dreams.
• City side streets that are two way are often very crowded with parked cars. When someone approaches from the opposite direction, both generally slow down and pull in closer to the parked cars. Occasionally, someone decides to not obey that etiquette, and you're at risk for a reasonable side-swipe. Yesterday I had a close call.
• It's also generally accepted that, when you park in the city, you check your side mirror and peer over your shoulder before you exit the car (I sometimes sit in my car for a considerable period, just waiting for the opportunity to exit). Some people don't get this and, shortly after the aforementioned, a chick in a parked car decided to open her car door WITHOUT checking. She did this just as I approached her. Luckily, no one was coming in the opposite direction, and I was able to swerve to miss her.
• This city is replete with roundabout intersections. These are tricky when turning left because, legally, you are supposed to go AROUND the roundabout to turn and NOT cut in front of it. I obey this rule, but I'm starting to realize that most don't. Not to mention, most are so ignorant of this that they'll even cut me off as I go around it to turn left. Yesterday as I searched for parking, I was cut off twice.
• Parking in my neighborhood sometimes means either parking three blocks away [three blocks away of the direction I need to go in the morning OR three blocks in unsafe territory], or driving for 5-15 minutes until a space opens up. Sometimes I get lucky and find something on the first shot. But often, as with yesterday, I'll turn around in an alley when I see something open up, only to have someone "beat me to it."
• Remember, this commute is 20 miles. And yet my return trip, including the search for parking, took 85 minutes (or 14 miles per hour). That's about average, though sometimes the trip takes considerably longer.

Once Home
Once I find parking and go inside, I try my darndest to not leave again — not in my car, anyway. It's more difficult to find a non-meter spot as the night wears on and, even though parking on the main thoroughways becomes free after 9 p.m., you have to move your vehicle by 6 a.m. when they (claim to) "clean the streets." This lesson cost me $50.

"R & R"
Generally when I return home from work, I spend a few minutes catching up on blogger while tending to an attention-deprived cat. If I didn't workout in the morning (which seldom happens these days), I do so after work. This helps work out any aggression, but at times my efforts are halted by other "obstacles," shall we say.

Yesterday's obstacle: after coming into my apartment three times in the last week and a half (once without asking permission), my landlord had sent someone again to address (and re-address) the same two issues: a broken lock on my back door, and a window that was broken when I moved in. When I returned home yesterday, I was met with the following:

• My front door was unlocked
• Assuming someone was there, I called out. No one answered.
• I noticed the blinds were askew in every room, which meant they'd been searching for the broken window (I told them exactly where it was)
• I proceeded to the living room, where the cracked window was, and noticed it wasn't fixed. Not expecting, then, for there to be glass on my floor, I moved in to pick up a piece of broken wood.
• I then stepped, barefoot, in glass.
• Maude approached me. I shouted for her to get back, realizing then that there'd been broken glass on my floor for possibly 2-3 hours. She'd been loose the entire time, and I started to panic that she may have walked in it as well.
• I locked her in my bedroom and proceeded to clean up the mess while on my (now sandaled) tip toes.
• Why my tip toes? — Because I had glass in my right foot. That's why.
• After sweeping up the bigger pieces, and then running a damp cloth to try and pick up the smaller specks, I let Maude back out and proceeded to the bathroom, where it took me 30 minutes to extract a very small piece of glass from my foot. I actually wish it'd been bigger — would've been much easier to remove. In actuality, I'm not sure I got all of it out — I heard a crunch and assume I broke a majority of it.
  
• I grabbed Maude, who kept licking her paws, and inspected the pads on her feet. She didn't cry when I touched any of them, so I assume (hope) she's all right.

In Sum
This final blurb may have nothing to do with honked horns and middle fingers... but it is a manner of soul trafficking. It's that proverbial "cap" to an experience that leaves an altogether nasty taste in one's mouth. Sometimes after a terrible commute, you just want to come home and relax. But then, sometimes, the city (the parking regulations, the tickets, the crowded streets, the dirty sidewalks, the traffic, the me-first mentality, the living standards, the anonymous landlords) has determined otherwise.

For the record, in the past 24 hours I didn't honk my horn. I didn't gesture or yell. I don't do these things. And even when I called the landlord to request that they just leave the window taped up, I like to think I wasn't mean about it. And later last night, I was gripped with the fear that something horrible had happened to the maintenance guy.

But somewhere, between the traffic yesterday, my experience last night, today's mourning [SIC] commute — and then writing about all of the above — my frustration has transformed into a sort of... embarrassing sadness.

Is writing catharsis, or does it propel us further into a melodramatic, self-righteous abyss?

I confront these questions, and then disregard them, returning to work. Hoping that somehow, somewhere, my doppelganger is smiling.

That makes one of us.

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXV)

on developing ocd after a near-tragic accident

check the bathroom door
and all floors for stray hair bands
twice before leaving

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elvis lives in my building

big tinted glasses
long black sideburns and suede shoes
surpisingly thin

---

on being redirected to one of those sites

ambiguous words
can confuse those search engines
type carefully please

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i swear i'm losing depth perception

vision needs distance
not four by four pink fabric
my days grow blurry

Pavlov's Political Doggerel

It doesn't take a genius to figure out what topic will ripple throughout the blogosphere today...

• Where were you when it happened?
• How were you impacted?
• Are we safer now than we were five years ago?
• What does Iraq have to do with 9/11?

And so on. And so on. And so on...

For now, I'm only interested in addressing those questions insofar as they relate to my experience yesterday morning. I was driving Washington to the airport — he was flying out of one of the biggest cities in the U.S. and into our nation's capitol. Suffice it to say he was originally set to fly into D.C. on the 11th, but opted to go a day early... in part to avoid the unease that comes with travel on that day. In part because he has friends in D.C. that afforded him a reasonable excuse to go a day early.

And while I find us both to be rational people (hold your snickering, please) — the sort who engage in that veritable contradiction of being anti-Bush, anti-war and yet simultaneously supportive of troops — I found it interesting that neither of us were thrilled with the idea of a 9/11 travel date. Did I think there'd be another terrorist attack on the five-year anniversary? Not really. Do I think the next terrorist attack will be a repeat of the last one? Not really. Not to mention, D.C. is possibly even one of the safest places to be today.

But to understand and rationalize these things doesn't necessarily negate inscrutable human response. The expression "fight or flight" comes to mind. I've determined that, as much as we may hate to admit it, the biomechanics of human nature tell us to get the heck out of Dodge long after the dust settles.

It's like that proverbial stove we're told, as children, to never touch.

"That's HOT" our parents say to deter any physical impulse. "Don't TOUCH" And what should happen if curiosity ever gets the best of us, and our little fingers make their way onto the heated surface?

We know to never touch it again. And not so much because our parents told us not to, but because we understand what happens when we do.

So that's what "hot" means...

And while I don't intend to downplay the horrific events of five years ago with such a silly, poorly-composed analogy... I do mean to say that somewhere inside of us, those old parental caveats (nurture) have intermingled with innate response (nature) to create a sensory overload of sorts.

Somehow the wires have crossed. And even as our rational mind determines the stove is turned off... somewhere inside of us, a synapse fires and we wonder: "What if..."

We keep our hands, then, safely at our sides.

But it's also unfair of me to rest all of the blame on unadulterated human nature. From Milgram's experiments to Pavlov's, to Skinner's... human nature is swayed — whether consciously or unconsciously — by external influences.

And these "influences" (television commercials, billboards, political rallies, news programs, etc.) somehow condition us to respond to stimuli in ways that often defy what we think about ourselves.

That's what bothered me yesterday: not the electronic readerboard itself, but rather my immediate response to it.

ORANGE ALERT

it said

EXTRA SECURITY IN PLACE. EXPECT DELAYS.

"Orange Alert," I said. "That's just one level below red."

That's when it hit me: I've often mocked and satirized that frivolous alert system and yet, suddenly, it meant something to me. And I was ashamed.

"Is that Bert or Ernie?" Washington asked, referring to the icon on my blog.

"I can never remember which is orange, and which is yellow. I know Elmo is red."

• He then slurped down the rest of his coffee, which he couldn't take on the plane.
• He then grabbed his carry-on (free of toiletries) from the trunk, and then his check-in.
• I looked at his shoes, and thought to tell him he should've worn disposable socks.

And then I wondered when on earth all of this would end. The terror alerts. The security increases. The liquid ban, the shoeless scans, the wire taps.

And then I remembered, a month or two ago, driving past a billboard that read "ARE YOU READY?"

It was a disaster preparedness message, catered specifically towards terrorist activity. Suddenly I felt like I was a character in Brazil (1985) or even V for Vendetta (2005). Here I have a government telling me to "be prepared" (i.e. Be afraid. Be very afraid.) all the while recommending I put on a pretty face and go about my business.

Talk about a mixed message. I heard yesterday afternoon that the federal government has spent considerably more money advertising and stumping airport security and this color coded "THREAT LEVEL" system than it has spent actually improving airport security (I've got to imagine it's considerably less for other potential targets... trains, busses, water supplies, etc).

Which then brings us back to the very beginning. Where was I five years ago today? Do I think we're safer now then we were before?

Five years ago today, I had just moved to the city where two of the planes left. And when I boarded public transportation to make the commute home — some six hours earlier than expected — all of the city was stuffed on to the train with me. Some families. Some students. But mostly business men with their heads down, and their laptops at their side. It was 10 a.m.; everyone was on their way home... and no one said a word. I didn't think I'd ever again experience something as surreal as that.

But as I saw that readerboard at the airport — as I mumbled the words "That's just one level below red" — I realized...

I was wrong.

A Pseudo-Political Rant about the War (Not-So-Cleverly Disguised as a Review of Syriana)

For the first 45 minutes or so of watching this, we couldn't get the subtitles to work. That meant countless "huh's" and "what'd he say's" that most assuredly frustrated my movie-watching companion.

When we continued the film later on a different DVD player, the feature started working and, at long last, I realized that we'd been watching one heckuva good film.

Essentially, Syriana (2006) is a movie about all of those things we don't want to believe. It's a "fictional" account of the goings-on in the Middle East: the makings of terrorists... the oil wars... and the American politics behind it all. It paints a picture of what we all "suspect" is going on... but that few of us are willing to believe.

That's the aspect of the film that scares me, and for two reasons:

•I generally take issue with any book, film or story that takes a very serious and very "real" issue, and fictionalizes it on a highly influential medium. It's scary what these things can do to sway the masses — sometimes appropriately so, but sometimes... also... blindly, or in the wrong direction
•I don't want to believe that everything I see in Syriana is true. But if this were an all-out documentary (just to clarify... it's not), it confirms my worst suspicions. And that's terrifying.

Here we have a movie that shows how an ordinary Islamic man becomes a terrorist. We see how American politics impact the Middle East. And we see the role oil companies — American and otherwise — play in it all.

And Syriana does this without painting all Americans in a negative light (on the contrary, the CIA agent George Clooney plays is an innocent pawn who tries his darnedest to rectify wrongs committed by his organization). And you don't sympathize with all Arabic men (there are two Saudi princes in this film, for example... one will essentially go to work for American oil companies; the other wants to do what is best for his people but is not necessarily anti-American).

The real beauty of this film: much like Thank You For Smoking (2006) — a movie about smoking in which no one ever lights up — Syriana brings to mind the workings of the Bush administration, and our current role in Iraq — without ever once referencing our current president.

My biggest complaint: with 4-5 story lines unfolding at once, I wasn't always able to follow along... but this may have resulted from the aforementioned "subtitle" issue.

But back to the pseudo-political rant:

Given the recent headline about Prime Minister Blair stepping down, at the bequest of his people, why on earth haven't we accomplished the same here?

I realize Parliament can actually "vote" someone out of office, and that realization likely played a role in Blair's decision. And I know that's not a feat as easily accomplished here. But, goodness, if we could impeach Clinton for his husbandly misgivings... what's missing from the equation here?

Portrait of a City Twice Removed

See

• A teenage girl in full Muslim garb (including a hijab) — jogging
• Old women convened at a park bench
• Walkers and wrinkles
• Two little girls, ages two and four, running towards a woman and her Yorkie, bouncing and laughing
• Grey squirrels scrambling to cross the path
• Love letters on tree bark
• The moon rising over Michigan
• An ant doing laps around my rearview mirror

Hear

• That little plastic "protector" (broken), rattling against tire spokes
• Quivering Russian and light laughter
• Two little girls, ages two and four, yelling: "Doggie! He-wo doggie! Eeeee!"
• Cat Power's "I Found a Reason"... three times before letting the iPod shuffle on
• Cicadas that grow louder from all directions
• Waves mistaking themselves for the ocean
• Crickets just audible over a passing train
• My neighbor counting to 12 through an open window
• His son shrieking just when he's been found

Taste

• Gnats that appeared from out of nowhere
• Citrus spit from xylitol gum
• Sweat from lip corners
• The sweet nothing of water after a long run

Touch

• An ache that comes from shins worn by hard pavement
• Sand that fell in my shoelaces
• Needles from the evergreen near my entryway
• The pedal against my knee
• A metal door knob pressing into my back
• The reverberations of a cat's purr

Smell

• Fresh water in motion
• Old food and mildew in a trashcan as I stretch to view the etchings on a tree
• Exhaust from a city bus that leaves passengers in pitch-black
• Toxins and saline accumulating on my shirtsleeves
• The faint hint of charcoal (a barbecue's last call)

Think
Stream of consciousness victim to the five senses. Perception dictated by failing vision.

On the Wrong Side

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXXIV)

on being mistaken for a store employee the umpteenth time

i don't work here but
my degree is in english
how may i help you?

---

cool painting, awesome headline

it's not often that
a lost scream is found again
i wax pathetic

---

thoughts concerning city life

part i - on driving

hummer cuts me off
jam speeds up to a snail's crawl
abandon all hope

part ii - on jogging

the skinny chick glares
bigger ones offer a wave
with a lone finger

part iii - in sum

i'm ready to leave
this city of cold shoulders
is your couch taken?

---

this is getting to be a little ridiculous

i'm glad you have that
cell for your emergencies...
but what about mine?

The Re-Appropriation of Art

Unfortunately, I don't know the names of the artists, or even the title of their artwork... only that I was fairly impressed with this outdoor sculpture park.

I also felt that the position of a particular piece, in terms of its environs, added to the display. A statue of a Native American raising his arms to the sky is one thing, for example. A statue of a Native American raising his arms to the sky — with a park bench behind him in the distance — is something else altogether.

This was not my first sculpture park experience. But I've not seen many of these around, which I suspect has something to do with artists not wanting their artwork exposed to the elements. Wind, rain, spider webs, lightning... these things can ruin a perfectly good work of art. But they also add to it.

And the thing that struck me most, in all of this, was the realization that every photograph I take is really just a catalogue — or even appropriation of — someone else's creation. Whether it's my reflection in a "Push to Go" button at a crosswalk (see left), a snapshot of my nephew playing like he's the Lone Ranger (see wall in my apartment) or a photograph of a Weeping Willow tree behind a statue of a man suspended by heart-strings (see below).

I so wish I actually knew how to take pictures. I mean, really take pictures. With every close of the shutter, I feel like I'm doing the world a tremendous injustice by failing to catalogue things precisely as I see them.

Study of a Fallen Bird

Anchorman (Movie Review)

I've been a tad pressed for time since the return from vacation. So pressed, in fact, that I'm not sure when/how I've even managed to find the time to post my last few entries (not to mention, the time to watch the movies I've reviewed). Though I suspect it has something to do with only watching movies while I workout and/or eat. At times, a single movie is watched over the course of 3-4 days. And reviews have been hastily thrown together on (now rare) lunch breaks, sometimes days after I actually watched the film.

This is just my way of explaining the less-than-grand quality of my last several entries... including this one.

[And, if asked, I'm sure I can craft another excuse for the lacking quality of prior entries, too.]

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Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy (2004) was perhaps the funniest movie I've seen since Elf (2003). And while I'd still say that unusual Christmas gem is the more entertaining of the two, I was nevertheless sorry that it took me so long to get around to watching this other Will Ferrell masterpiece.

OK, so perhaps "masterpiece" is too strong of a word. But in a film with lines such as "Look, Ron, I'm riding a furry tractor!" and "When there's weather to report... I report the weather" an oddball like me is laughing long after the credits roll. While I certainly wouldn't recommend this film for everyone, I do think it's quite a treat for those with a softspot for Ralph Wiggum (whose crazy one-liners always crack me up on the The Simpsons) or even Monty Python skits.

By this design, the humor makes little sense; and yet, it's so cleverly crafted and flawlessly delivered (kudos to Ferrell and Steve Carell especially) that, on more than one occasion, I had to pause the film until the laughter subsided. It draws from a sort of absurdism that — while not as refined or existentially aware as something like Waiting for Godot — underscores life's inanities.

This humor functioned as the ligament holding together an otherwise weak plot. While I suspect people who like Monty Python, as I mentioned above, are more likely to enjoy Anchorman, I certainly find the former to be the better crafted of the two. That is to say, Anchorman is not without its weaknesses... but, for me, the strong points more than make up for any shortcomings.

In short: Anchorman has a niche audience. If you're not open to humor that's as mindless as it is clever... best to leave Ron Burgundy on the shelf.

Otherwise, take it home and enjoy. It's far better than the awful "comedy," Benchwarmers, and it's even better than Ferrell's newest, Talladega Nights.

Study of a Cheap Motel