Taco Bell for dinner for us four, gotten by Dad and Meridith on the way home from work.
Cheesy double decker taco.
Mexican pizza. (For nostalgic reasons, since I had it sometimes when I was in school, though I'm aware it's obviously not the same.)
Part of a burrito that location offered for free in honor of Cinco de Mayo.
No tequila.
I'm good.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Gone with the Wind: 75 Years Old
NPR posted an article featuring Pat Conroy's preface for a new edition of Gone with the Wind, published to commemorate 75 years: http://www.npr.org/2011/05/04/135990428/pat-conroy-marks-75-years-of-gone-with-the-wind.
My exposure to Gone with the Wind was not as expansive as Conroy's, but it's been no less special to me. I was in 6th grade at Pompano Beach Middle in Pompano Beach, Florida, 1995-1996. I loved the library there because it felt cloistered from the rest of the school. It seemed to vociferously reject the thunder and noise of students' voices simply by the vast silence it contained. But most importantly, its shelves were always inviting. Whatever you found on the shelves would gladly invite you in. If you didn't like what you had, then that book's neighbors would always offer up what they had.
I remember most fondly a yellow-colored edition of Gone with the Wind that had the title in that famous font, and Tara shown below it. Years later, I looked for that edition, because I loved the heft of it, all that promise within its pages, promises that continue to be delivered flawlessly today. The epic scope, the drama, the traits of each character so vividly revealed, and the Civil War rendered so personal through Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. In 6th grade, I could have all this? School was always made better because of that kind of offering.
A few months ago, I went searching for that particular edition. I found it on abebooks.com, but a July 2007 trade paperback edition from Scribner attracted me more because it had a preface by Pat Conroy. I had just read extensively about Pat Conroy's early life with Gone with the Wind through his mother because it had been included in his book My Reading Life. And even though my fond memories lie with that edition from 6th grade, I much preferred an edition essentially blessed by Pat Conroy.
Now Scribner has the 75th anniversary edition out, and thankfully, that NPR article has Conroy's new preface, so I don't have to buy it again. I wouldn't want to. I want to make a new history with this edition. It has the heft, it has the promise. And it has me, at 27. That's how it should be.
My exposure to Gone with the Wind was not as expansive as Conroy's, but it's been no less special to me. I was in 6th grade at Pompano Beach Middle in Pompano Beach, Florida, 1995-1996. I loved the library there because it felt cloistered from the rest of the school. It seemed to vociferously reject the thunder and noise of students' voices simply by the vast silence it contained. But most importantly, its shelves were always inviting. Whatever you found on the shelves would gladly invite you in. If you didn't like what you had, then that book's neighbors would always offer up what they had.
I remember most fondly a yellow-colored edition of Gone with the Wind that had the title in that famous font, and Tara shown below it. Years later, I looked for that edition, because I loved the heft of it, all that promise within its pages, promises that continue to be delivered flawlessly today. The epic scope, the drama, the traits of each character so vividly revealed, and the Civil War rendered so personal through Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler. In 6th grade, I could have all this? School was always made better because of that kind of offering.
A few months ago, I went searching for that particular edition. I found it on abebooks.com, but a July 2007 trade paperback edition from Scribner attracted me more because it had a preface by Pat Conroy. I had just read extensively about Pat Conroy's early life with Gone with the Wind through his mother because it had been included in his book My Reading Life. And even though my fond memories lie with that edition from 6th grade, I much preferred an edition essentially blessed by Pat Conroy.
Now Scribner has the 75th anniversary edition out, and thankfully, that NPR article has Conroy's new preface, so I don't have to buy it again. I wouldn't want to. I want to make a new history with this edition. It has the heft, it has the promise. And it has me, at 27. That's how it should be.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Hey, How 'Bout It?
Want a total, inescapable, completely twisted mind fuck?
Read about Richard Nixon's presidency. I just did, and I'm still recovering. All for research, but holy....shit. I knew the basics, the reasons he resigned, but wow. As is occasionally said somewhere in the world, "Who needs fiction?"
Read about Richard Nixon's presidency. I just did, and I'm still recovering. All for research, but holy....shit. I knew the basics, the reasons he resigned, but wow. As is occasionally said somewhere in the world, "Who needs fiction?"
Just One Goal
There are many things I love about being a former film critic and also a former member of the Online Film Critics Society. For one, I don't spend hours on one movie anymore because I used to watch a movie and then write a review, and that took a while, too.
I don't have to be so plugged into the awards season which is pretty much just the same shit every year. The same hype, the same "serious" themes, the same feeling like I have to watch every single film that's sent to OFCS members lest I feel so out of the loop. It took me three years before I began to question what use this had for me. It doesn't. I enjoyed the occasional camaraderie in that group, but I wasted a lot of time towards the end of the year, time I could have used for myself, time that I am using now as my own writer. However, I'm still waiting for an award-winning film about a one-eyed, one-legged hooker who reads to children and also helps her pimp learn to read. It'd be like Stanley & Iris, but with a lot more sex scenes.
That's not to diminish the pride I felt for the independent films I reviewed. I loved a lot of them. I was quoted on the DVD cases of a few of them. When I started reviewing movies, I wanted to be Ebert. Who wouldn't in that line of writing? But I realized two things: First, I would never be Ebert. There is only one Ebert. After the film critic for the Chicago Sun-Times left in 1967, he was there at the right time. But most importantly, he loves movies. I think I was only obsessed with movies. I didn't have that awe-inspiring love he has for them.
Second, there are many film critics who are quote whores. They'll give a fawning review to anything to be in Hollywood's good graces, to get that swag and those interviews, and to feel that they're in the rarefied circle, even for only a few minutes. I never operated like that. When I was quoted on those DVD cases, I was happy that those were films I truly loved and supported, that I hoped would be seen by a lot of people. Funnily enough, the first DVD case I was on was for a documentary called Cinemania, about obsessive movie buffs, moreso than I was at that time in 2003.
When you're young, make sure you get as close as you can to what you want to do. I didn't entirely know at the time, and it's possible you won't either. I was toying with the notion of working in commercial aviation, and that became the hope of working at McCarran International in Las Vegas, on the ramp, next to, and possibly inside, those planes. This was when I was also writing movie reviews. That and aviation were the two major things in my life. And without those movie reviews, I would never have gotten the opportunity to co-write What If They Lived?, because Phil Hall and I wrote for Film Threat (separate reviews and features, but we were there at the same time. He's still there), and we served on the Governing Committee of the Online Film Critics Society at the same time. All those years I spent writing movie reviews from 14 years old on were never a waste, because they led to that book. And it's because of that book that I realized what I want to do: I want to continue being an author. At last count, I have ideas for six books, three of which I'm doing research for right now, and two novels. All I truly seek now is a decent job to pay the bills (and I know I'll enjoy that job, too, as a campus supervisor, because I've got the experience), because I'm doing what I want now and what I love. Every day I get to read about the lives and administrations of these presidents while searching for the information I need for those three books. And it's going to take some time before I'm even ready to write any of those books, because my research has to be solid. I've found now that I love reading a lot more than watching movies, and that's really as it should be, since I started reading when I was 2, and I was 7 when I had an inkling that I might really like movies, when I copied by hand onto a sheet of posterboard a review of Bebe's Kids from the Orlando Sentinel, when we lived in Casselberry. For me, this is as it should be.
Compared to 12 years ago, up until I decided I was done with writing movie reviews when I finished writing What If They Lived?, my movie-viewing goals have become much simpler. I only have one. I want to see every single movie that Maury Chaykin has been in. I've liked him ever since I saw him in Entrapment smoking that long, thin pipe, completely unselfconscious in being bare chested, letting it all hang out. I saw a few episodes of Nero Wolfe, and plan to watch those again along with the rest I haven't seen (It also inspires me to try that series of novels again), but I want to see everything else, every guest-starring role, every supporting role, every major role.
After that, I don't know. I'll probably go back to seeing every opera I can on DVD that has English subtitles.
I don't have to be so plugged into the awards season which is pretty much just the same shit every year. The same hype, the same "serious" themes, the same feeling like I have to watch every single film that's sent to OFCS members lest I feel so out of the loop. It took me three years before I began to question what use this had for me. It doesn't. I enjoyed the occasional camaraderie in that group, but I wasted a lot of time towards the end of the year, time I could have used for myself, time that I am using now as my own writer. However, I'm still waiting for an award-winning film about a one-eyed, one-legged hooker who reads to children and also helps her pimp learn to read. It'd be like Stanley & Iris, but with a lot more sex scenes.
That's not to diminish the pride I felt for the independent films I reviewed. I loved a lot of them. I was quoted on the DVD cases of a few of them. When I started reviewing movies, I wanted to be Ebert. Who wouldn't in that line of writing? But I realized two things: First, I would never be Ebert. There is only one Ebert. After the film critic for the Chicago Sun-Times left in 1967, he was there at the right time. But most importantly, he loves movies. I think I was only obsessed with movies. I didn't have that awe-inspiring love he has for them.
Second, there are many film critics who are quote whores. They'll give a fawning review to anything to be in Hollywood's good graces, to get that swag and those interviews, and to feel that they're in the rarefied circle, even for only a few minutes. I never operated like that. When I was quoted on those DVD cases, I was happy that those were films I truly loved and supported, that I hoped would be seen by a lot of people. Funnily enough, the first DVD case I was on was for a documentary called Cinemania, about obsessive movie buffs, moreso than I was at that time in 2003.
When you're young, make sure you get as close as you can to what you want to do. I didn't entirely know at the time, and it's possible you won't either. I was toying with the notion of working in commercial aviation, and that became the hope of working at McCarran International in Las Vegas, on the ramp, next to, and possibly inside, those planes. This was when I was also writing movie reviews. That and aviation were the two major things in my life. And without those movie reviews, I would never have gotten the opportunity to co-write What If They Lived?, because Phil Hall and I wrote for Film Threat (separate reviews and features, but we were there at the same time. He's still there), and we served on the Governing Committee of the Online Film Critics Society at the same time. All those years I spent writing movie reviews from 14 years old on were never a waste, because they led to that book. And it's because of that book that I realized what I want to do: I want to continue being an author. At last count, I have ideas for six books, three of which I'm doing research for right now, and two novels. All I truly seek now is a decent job to pay the bills (and I know I'll enjoy that job, too, as a campus supervisor, because I've got the experience), because I'm doing what I want now and what I love. Every day I get to read about the lives and administrations of these presidents while searching for the information I need for those three books. And it's going to take some time before I'm even ready to write any of those books, because my research has to be solid. I've found now that I love reading a lot more than watching movies, and that's really as it should be, since I started reading when I was 2, and I was 7 when I had an inkling that I might really like movies, when I copied by hand onto a sheet of posterboard a review of Bebe's Kids from the Orlando Sentinel, when we lived in Casselberry. For me, this is as it should be.
Compared to 12 years ago, up until I decided I was done with writing movie reviews when I finished writing What If They Lived?, my movie-viewing goals have become much simpler. I only have one. I want to see every single movie that Maury Chaykin has been in. I've liked him ever since I saw him in Entrapment smoking that long, thin pipe, completely unselfconscious in being bare chested, letting it all hang out. I saw a few episodes of Nero Wolfe, and plan to watch those again along with the rest I haven't seen (It also inspires me to try that series of novels again), but I want to see everything else, every guest-starring role, every supporting role, every major role.
After that, I don't know. I'll probably go back to seeing every opera I can on DVD that has English subtitles.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
These Movies are Mine.
Two weeks ago, for the second time, I Netflixed The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, the one with Martin Freeman, Mos Def, Zooey Deschanel (Who's very nice to look at throughout the whole thing), and Alan Rickman as the voice of the clinically depressed robot, Marvin.
I'm not a Douglas Adams purist. In fact, I've only ever read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, though I suspect I should read perhaps all of his works one day. I became hooked on the movie because of the absurdist comedy, particularly when the improbability drive is activated on the stolen ship, and the characters are all yarn figures, with Freeman's Arthur Dent vomiting multi-colored threads into a trash can. I love that before he does, after Marvin announces that the "Earth man" is going to be sick, Zaphod exclaims, "Hey, hey, do it in the trash can, Earth man, this ship's brand new."
But most of all, I always go back to this movie because of the scenes toward the end, when Slartibartfast (the truly unique Bill Nighy), who works for a firm that designs planets, takes Arthur to the site of Earth II, and we see a workman spray-painting some rock formations red, and another holding a large hose, filling the oceans. It's also the scenery that stuns me, being so high up in those man-made heavens, all that construction equipment about, and just whooshing through an experience that, had this movie been more popular, I think those special effects sequences would have become as important as the stargate sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
A gross of $51 million dollars throughout its run doesn't make The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy a major hit. It doesn't matter to me, because if I come to love a movie, that's enough for me. But that relatively minor gross, coupled with some of the gripes I read online about the comparison between the book and the movie, makes me embrace this movie even more. It's mine. I know there may be other fans of it, but it belongs to me.
I have the same feeling with Swing Vote, starring Kevin Costner, and My Blueberry Nights, starring Norah Jones. I love Swing Vote because of my passion for presidential history, and it's interesting to see Kelsey Grammer as the President of the United States. There's an especially affecting scene where Grammer's President Andrew Boone and Kevin Costner's Bud are sitting on lounge chairs, across from Air Force One on the tarmac, and Boone talks quietly about legacy, how he'll eventually leave office, build a library, and Bud will fade back into the crowd. It leads to a moment in the midst of all the craziness of attempting to get Bud's vote (since he's the one whose vote will decide who is the next President of the United States, with Dennis Hopper as the Democratic candidate Donald Greenleaf), in which Boone talks about his uncertainty about all of this with his advisor Marty (Stanley Tucci, continuing to make each role truly different). With that, and Madeline Carroll as Bud's daughter, who votes in his place when a drunk Bud can't make it to the bingo hall to vote, it's no wonder I kept checking the Wal-Mart site for two weeks, waiting for the wonderful news that my copy was ready to be picked up at that Wal-Mart that overlooks Six Flags Magic Mountain, since it wasn't sold in the stores. Every time I watch this, it feels like it's mine. I'm always enamored with the screenplay, impressed at how Kevin Costner still remains one of our most formidable actors, and I love imagining this fictionalized version of our country under a Boone Administration.
My Blueberry Nights reaches into my world. It's low-key, and even though it doesn't get into the Las Vegas pushed by tourism bureaus and newspaper articles and TV ads, that is Las Vegas. The Strip feels like that at times, despite all the lights and the shows and the blackjack tables and the slot machines. Jones and Natalie Portman go nowhere near it, but it does feel that ordinary. It's just another day in Las Vegas. And that's the Las Vegas I love.
My favorite shot, however, involves none of the actors, not those two, nor David Strathairn or Rachel Weisz or Jude Law. Well, not Jude Law in a moment of dialogue, but rather when he sprays the glass case where the pie is kept, and co-writer/director Wong Kar-wai has the camera positioned behind a pane of that glass so it looks blurry, and then it becomes clear again as Law wipes the glass.
What movies do you feel belong to you only?
I'm not a Douglas Adams purist. In fact, I've only ever read The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, though I suspect I should read perhaps all of his works one day. I became hooked on the movie because of the absurdist comedy, particularly when the improbability drive is activated on the stolen ship, and the characters are all yarn figures, with Freeman's Arthur Dent vomiting multi-colored threads into a trash can. I love that before he does, after Marvin announces that the "Earth man" is going to be sick, Zaphod exclaims, "Hey, hey, do it in the trash can, Earth man, this ship's brand new."
But most of all, I always go back to this movie because of the scenes toward the end, when Slartibartfast (the truly unique Bill Nighy), who works for a firm that designs planets, takes Arthur to the site of Earth II, and we see a workman spray-painting some rock formations red, and another holding a large hose, filling the oceans. It's also the scenery that stuns me, being so high up in those man-made heavens, all that construction equipment about, and just whooshing through an experience that, had this movie been more popular, I think those special effects sequences would have become as important as the stargate sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
A gross of $51 million dollars throughout its run doesn't make The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy a major hit. It doesn't matter to me, because if I come to love a movie, that's enough for me. But that relatively minor gross, coupled with some of the gripes I read online about the comparison between the book and the movie, makes me embrace this movie even more. It's mine. I know there may be other fans of it, but it belongs to me.
I have the same feeling with Swing Vote, starring Kevin Costner, and My Blueberry Nights, starring Norah Jones. I love Swing Vote because of my passion for presidential history, and it's interesting to see Kelsey Grammer as the President of the United States. There's an especially affecting scene where Grammer's President Andrew Boone and Kevin Costner's Bud are sitting on lounge chairs, across from Air Force One on the tarmac, and Boone talks quietly about legacy, how he'll eventually leave office, build a library, and Bud will fade back into the crowd. It leads to a moment in the midst of all the craziness of attempting to get Bud's vote (since he's the one whose vote will decide who is the next President of the United States, with Dennis Hopper as the Democratic candidate Donald Greenleaf), in which Boone talks about his uncertainty about all of this with his advisor Marty (Stanley Tucci, continuing to make each role truly different). With that, and Madeline Carroll as Bud's daughter, who votes in his place when a drunk Bud can't make it to the bingo hall to vote, it's no wonder I kept checking the Wal-Mart site for two weeks, waiting for the wonderful news that my copy was ready to be picked up at that Wal-Mart that overlooks Six Flags Magic Mountain, since it wasn't sold in the stores. Every time I watch this, it feels like it's mine. I'm always enamored with the screenplay, impressed at how Kevin Costner still remains one of our most formidable actors, and I love imagining this fictionalized version of our country under a Boone Administration.
My Blueberry Nights reaches into my world. It's low-key, and even though it doesn't get into the Las Vegas pushed by tourism bureaus and newspaper articles and TV ads, that is Las Vegas. The Strip feels like that at times, despite all the lights and the shows and the blackjack tables and the slot machines. Jones and Natalie Portman go nowhere near it, but it does feel that ordinary. It's just another day in Las Vegas. And that's the Las Vegas I love.
My favorite shot, however, involves none of the actors, not those two, nor David Strathairn or Rachel Weisz or Jude Law. Well, not Jude Law in a moment of dialogue, but rather when he sprays the glass case where the pie is kept, and co-writer/director Wong Kar-wai has the camera positioned behind a pane of that glass so it looks blurry, and then it becomes clear again as Law wipes the glass.
What movies do you feel belong to you only?
Monday, May 2, 2011
Dead Terrorist, Dead Bird
I'm relieved that bin Laden is dead. We're safer in our part of the world. The international implications are still to be sorted out, but we've got a handle on ourselves. We can breathe a little easier.
It reminds me of the scene in From Russia with Love after Kerim Bey (Pedro Armendariz) kills Krilencu, the gunman that has tried to kill him, with one shot. He says to Bond, "That pays many debts." Obviously those two shots fired into bin Laden's head don't bring our fallen citizens and heroes back, but there can be a little relief within that terrible insanity wrought by those terrible men.
I don't feel like I'm making a whole lot of sense right now. Maybe first because it's 10:30 and I'm tired, but I still need to write. But most definitely because of what I saw on the gravel floor of our patio today.
Our dogs use the patio to do their business. Since there's dirt underneath, the first order of business is absorbed. The second order requires me to pick it up every few days. I didn't until yesterday and it was nearly its own field. I'm not waiting that long again.
But today, before I rolled the garbage and recycling bins to the curb, I decided to check the patio and pick up any new droppings.
I walked to the back end of the patio, and I saw a three-abreast stream of ants all over the body of a dead bird. A small bird. I don't know what kind it was. It might have been a sparrow because it was small enough. But how did it get there? Even though Tigger, our part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound, has the instincts for going after small animals, seeing how he plays so furiously with his toy squirrel, it wasn't him. Every morning, we hear a hawk or two in the trees nearby. Could it be that the hawk had grabbed onto this bird, done what was desired, and then dropped it on our patio? There have been instances when it has flown low enough for that.
I went back inside, taking two cans of Raid bug spray out of the cabinet below the sink. One was nearly empty, so I had to have the second. I also grabbed two plastic bags.
Back at the bird's body, I sprayed all over it and above and below it to quell the ants. Then after I sprayed enough, I fitted one plastic bag over my hand, tightened it, and then put the other over my hand, too, giving me a double shield. The most I could do for this bird was take it by the leg, hope that it didn't come off, and fling it over the right side of our patio, to hit the grass over there. It's all that could be done, and so I did.
Before that, I thought about this bird and that huge historical event. I thought about that huge crowd near the North Gate of the White House, letting those flags flutter, chanting "USA! USA!" and singing the national anthem, and here I was, looking down at this bird. Personal reflection doesn't happen often in this valley, or at least not often until you encounter this kind of situation and then you're flooded with it. In this valley, you just live. You go through day after day after day and do whatever you need to do and you move on just like that.
I thought about where the bird might have come from, what it was doing. It had to be local, since I doubt the hawk would fly all the way from Newhall to drop the body off here. I thought to myself, "All the excitement in the world today and here's this small moment, unassuming, and no one but me will ever know." Well, you know now, too, and that's fine, but I was just amazed yet again at the individual moments in the world, when we're just us, and the world is just as vast as it can get, and it comes to us in the smallest ways to remind us of what is also available here and how fragile it is.
I thought about that bird for the rest of the day. I still am. I heard more small birds chirping around the neighborhood a while after that, and I had the feeling that maybe those birds knew this one and were looking for it. I hate that, but you can't tell nature to be kind. It happens. That's just the way it is. Some things will never change.
It reminds me of the scene in From Russia with Love after Kerim Bey (Pedro Armendariz) kills Krilencu, the gunman that has tried to kill him, with one shot. He says to Bond, "That pays many debts." Obviously those two shots fired into bin Laden's head don't bring our fallen citizens and heroes back, but there can be a little relief within that terrible insanity wrought by those terrible men.
I don't feel like I'm making a whole lot of sense right now. Maybe first because it's 10:30 and I'm tired, but I still need to write. But most definitely because of what I saw on the gravel floor of our patio today.
Our dogs use the patio to do their business. Since there's dirt underneath, the first order of business is absorbed. The second order requires me to pick it up every few days. I didn't until yesterday and it was nearly its own field. I'm not waiting that long again.
But today, before I rolled the garbage and recycling bins to the curb, I decided to check the patio and pick up any new droppings.
I walked to the back end of the patio, and I saw a three-abreast stream of ants all over the body of a dead bird. A small bird. I don't know what kind it was. It might have been a sparrow because it was small enough. But how did it get there? Even though Tigger, our part miniature pinscher, part Italian greyhound, has the instincts for going after small animals, seeing how he plays so furiously with his toy squirrel, it wasn't him. Every morning, we hear a hawk or two in the trees nearby. Could it be that the hawk had grabbed onto this bird, done what was desired, and then dropped it on our patio? There have been instances when it has flown low enough for that.
I went back inside, taking two cans of Raid bug spray out of the cabinet below the sink. One was nearly empty, so I had to have the second. I also grabbed two plastic bags.
Back at the bird's body, I sprayed all over it and above and below it to quell the ants. Then after I sprayed enough, I fitted one plastic bag over my hand, tightened it, and then put the other over my hand, too, giving me a double shield. The most I could do for this bird was take it by the leg, hope that it didn't come off, and fling it over the right side of our patio, to hit the grass over there. It's all that could be done, and so I did.
Before that, I thought about this bird and that huge historical event. I thought about that huge crowd near the North Gate of the White House, letting those flags flutter, chanting "USA! USA!" and singing the national anthem, and here I was, looking down at this bird. Personal reflection doesn't happen often in this valley, or at least not often until you encounter this kind of situation and then you're flooded with it. In this valley, you just live. You go through day after day after day and do whatever you need to do and you move on just like that.
I thought about where the bird might have come from, what it was doing. It had to be local, since I doubt the hawk would fly all the way from Newhall to drop the body off here. I thought to myself, "All the excitement in the world today and here's this small moment, unassuming, and no one but me will ever know." Well, you know now, too, and that's fine, but I was just amazed yet again at the individual moments in the world, when we're just us, and the world is just as vast as it can get, and it comes to us in the smallest ways to remind us of what is also available here and how fragile it is.
I thought about that bird for the rest of the day. I still am. I heard more small birds chirping around the neighborhood a while after that, and I had the feeling that maybe those birds knew this one and were looking for it. I hate that, but you can't tell nature to be kind. It happens. That's just the way it is. Some things will never change.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Thanks and Goodbye, Superman.
Comic book Superman, don't bother coming back. We've got our own Supermen.
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