Raucous Bemusement

Salty Laughter

2010-07-04T07:41:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite listening experiences of the last month has been to This I Believe II: More Personal Philosophies of Remarkable Men and Women, an audio collection from the NPR program of the same name. Some authors are famous, most are not, and all have riveting stories to tell about their fundamental guiding life principles. They range from strikingly serious to hilarious, with little schlock in between. It's important to note that I'm not a fan of manufactured emotional outpourings of preachy nonsense. They waltz with my gag reflex and drop it on the dip. The Chicken Soup for the [fill in the pandering noun here] Soul series is not only not my bag; it's my anti-bag. I find them particularly offensive because they cheapen stories that are compelling if simply told by the person who experienced them, which is why I'm drawn to the This I Believe series. If I've learned anything from my father or husband, it is that the fewer the words are spoken, the more attentive the audience, and the deeper the message resonates. While I admire that idea, I have to admit it was/is their guiding principle. It is not mine.

Soooo, what is mine? I've given this a lot of thought in the last week since I listened to these personal stories. If I have kids, who then have their own children, who then raise little ones of their own, what valuable message do I want passed down when they hand over great grandma's wedding ring? Is it that your word and integrity is irreparable? Is it that kindness doesn't always feel good to the giver, but is always necessary? Is it that we're no better or worse than anyone else? Somewhat. On all levels, these truths guide my day-to-day interactions because I heard Mom and Dad when they said or demonstrated them to us kids. But again, these are theirs. I needed to identify one that is uniquely mine. And as I was talking to a friend who is having marital problems and helped her giggle through her sobs, I named it: Not everything is funny, but there is something funny about everything.

When I think back to the most painful moments in my life, I not only remember the jolting phone calls or mind-hobbling revelations, but I remember the laughter that arose from the morbid humor someone dared to reveal at what seemed like a most inopportune time, but what in hindsight was the most opportune time of all. These vivid moments are usually provided by my brother Matt. Standing at the graveside of our dad, my sister asked where our grandma was buried in that same cemetery. Matt promptly replied, "Why don't you ask Russ? He's the Whitman's Chocolates map of death for this place." Three weeks later when our brother-in-law lost his own father, Matt wrote his version of condolences on the back of butcher paper he had lying around his restaurant's kitchen because he was disgusted by the sentiments Hallmark and American Greetings offer in situations such as what we'd just been through.

The best sympathy card I've ever received was a Christmas card someone used to carry their heartfelt message of consolation, even though Dad died in June. The personal message from our friend meant a great deal, especially when it was hilariously set against the background of a polar bear and small sheep communing together in holiday peace. It was probably the only card the person had on hand to get in the mail as quickly as they wanted their message to get to us, and God bless them for that, because it brought not only comfort, but a much-needed chuckle.

For me, a clear equation to live by is that the more a person insists "It's not funny!" the more ridiculously out-of-hand hilarious the situation tends to be. For those of us who've been to church, it's akin to what we know as the holy giggles. There was no clearer example of God's dark sense of humor than when I was a little kid sitting in the pew minding my own business with the priest droning on about unspeakable biblical horrors, and then it happened. The funniest thing I'd ever thought of in my young life would creep up from some profane place and overtake my little self with violent giggles. It didn't matter that my mother would flash me the most withering "pull yourself together RIGHT NOW, Lady Jane" look, or that my brother would elbow me in the ribs. If anything, they made it worse. Insist as they may, it WAS funny. Funny as the flashing fires of hell for which I was bound if I didn't stop it.

My healing and growth would be utterly stunted if I were robbed of the ability to laugh at my challenges and trials. This, I believe.

Back With A Sputtering Vengeance

2010-07-03T07:38:00.000-07:00

While on a bit of a hiatus from the blog world, I've rediscovered the joys of audio books and the freedoms they offer me to learn and enjoy the written word while doing the activities that previously impeded my reading time. Driving to work? No problem. Pop in the CDs and enjoy the ride. Doing the dishes and dusting? Not to worry, Mamie. Give the swiffer a good workout while listening to Alan Alda's latest tome. Working out the bills and grocery lists? Ahhhh go on with your education, Darling. The pen flies across the page to the rhythm of David Sedaris' hilarious accounts of his travels and self-loathing.

So here we are again, you and me. I've missed you. What have you (re)discovered in our time apart? I'd love to hear.

Wedding Day Delights

2010-01-09T11:38:00.000-08:00

Pictures from the wedding day.

DVD Released

2010-01-09T11:21:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately, this blog will only allow me to upload a certain amount of video at a time. Our DVD wedding is eight times the limit, so the next three blogs will include two (the third is too big in and of itself) original slideshows from the movie.

This clip is the slideshow of our dating life together entitled "The Story is Ludicrous".

Matt Got Older

2009-10-22T10:03:00.000-07:00

Fair Enough

2009-09-06T09:15:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I had the pleasure of accompanying my brother's family to the Oregon State Fair. This was a new experience for me in that it was much larger than the other fairs I'm used to attending. The paths were paved. The people were relatively clean. The familiar childhood fair scents of diesel gas from the rides mingled with the sweat of weathered carnies gave way to delicious aromas from the food booths and late summer wind.

Growing up, I would begin to feel the excited butterflies start to flutter around late June in anticipation of the third week in July when the quiet fairgrounds in Fowlerville would burst to life with vendors, rides, food booths, games, church lady bake sales, and animal exhibitions. It was important to remember to wear close-toed shoes and socks to avoid the cow bullets and poky sun-burnt hay that was strewn throughout the grounds. Carnies who bore a striking, disconcerting resemblance to One Day at a Time's Schneider milled about in search of their next beer, cigarette dangling precariously next their last well-worn tooth. Their broken grins couldn't shake my enthusiasm for the homemade potato chips and freshly squeezed lemonade I was determined to enjoy first thing. I'll always be grateful to Bill Carr for showing me that if you press your straw just right against the bottom of the cup and tilt it just so, you'll be sure to scoop up a lump of sugar that couldn't be convinced to dissolve with the rest of its kin.

Mom would give us our allowance for the day and find her position in the bingo tent where each game was a quarter, whether you played one card, or set up sixteen in the shape of an H below your four trolls (multiples of your cards were your best luck, you know) and two dachshund figurines that were sure to help the player rake in the bucks, provided one dachshund faced east and the other was on its hind legs to "reach for the stars." Mom relied on no charms of the sort, but did well through sheer perseverance. She would sit there for hours at a time while we tested gravity on the rides and dared the giant hogs to look us in the eyes. She would sit through slow calls of B8 and O72 to get her golden numbers that formed postage stamps or an X on her cards. Eventually the house had to give it up. She knew the odds and rather than goosing her luck with trinkets and superstitions, she wrestled her winnings using old-fashioned mathematics and time.

Armed with these experiences, I took a step back to a different time with my brother last weekend where we could be little kids sharing a sweet treat, but this time we also shared it with his little ones. The way their eyes lit up when a horse reared back, or when we took a gondola ride over the fair was well worth the admission.

Next time we go, I'll have to show them the lemonade trick. It's a doozy.

The Flower Anniversary

2009-07-03T13:40:00.000-07:00

Four years ago today, I moved across country to the place I now call my hometown. It was a transitional time in my life made even more complicated by losing Dad just two weeks prior to the move. I had already planned on coming out before we lost him. In fact, the last Father's Day gift I ever gave him in person was a set of stationary and two books of stamps he could use to write me after I'd headed out west. He was no stranger to letters to and from Oregon, as his brother had lived in Salem over half his life, and both his sons had settled in the northwest in the '90s. So, to say goodbye to his youngest and see her off to a different life didn't carry with it any alien expectations.

He died two days prior to Father's Day. A rather nasty last practical joke, really. Now, every June I endure elated pitchmen screaming about the latest golf and hunting accoutrement that is "sure to bring a smile to Dad's face this year on his special day." I wouldn't be so sure there, Mr. Popeil. That tinny crap wouldn't have made him smile when he was alive, and your chances of bringing a grin to his face now have significantly lessened, I'm afraid.

So, it was with an angry, heavy heart that I set off in the Buick to a new home and a future that would be so happy there was no way at the time to have predicted it. My brother's family kindly opened their home and lives to me to help me get on my feet. I wasn't in any stable place to appreciate their sacrifices at the time, but distance and much healing work has sharpened my hindsight and brought some poor choices into focus. Most have been rectified, others were lessons hard learned, including an affair with a rather nasty individual who had the looks of a Playgirl centerfold and the proclivities of a snaggletoothed pimp in a C-grade Jack the Ripper movie. Ahh well, who would we be if we weren't the product of our more interesting mistakes?

And so it is, four years later and a complete turnaround of fortunes. Four jobs, two boyfriends, one husband, one stepdaughter, five music concerts, gallons of coffee, and countless new friends later, it's a good place to be. Not just Oregon, but the big HERE. Here is where I want to be, with the people I want to be with, doing what I want to do. And that's sure to bring a smile to Dad's face....

Cultured Feelings

2009-04-22T07:16:00.000-07:00

For the last few weeks I've had several emotions bubbling close the surface, both positive and negative, but all of them jolting and powerful. Most of them stem from an identifiable event or conversation, but some of them don't have parent catalysts at all that I can easily identify. They're just there. Since I was little I've rarely been able to process my feelings without some link to popular culture. Sad, I know, but oh so true. Each time I've sat down to write, I'm overwhelmed by one of these emotionally charged creeping tentacles and just sit back in the chair overwhelmed, and eventually walk away from the computer and think "I'll deal with it later and then I'll be able to write." Well, that hasn't worked out so well, so I'm going to do some pop therapy and do the blogging equivalent of an interpretive dance of my feelings, silly as that may seem. Maybe this dam can be broken yet.

Grief: John Cleese delivers the eulogy for Graham Chapman

Faith: Charlene and Julia church it up

Empathy: Jackson Browne performs "For a Dancer" live in '76

Forgiveness: Gary Oldman's Beethoven showcases the conception of "Ode to Joy" from very unjoyful childhood circumstances in "Immortal Beloved"

Healing: Richard Farnsworth's last movie, "The Straight Story"

Elation: Wall-E and Eva's dance

Contentment: Navin R. Johnson finds his special purpose

Loved: Trent + Kirk + Spock = Magic (NSFW)

Newly Old Love

2009-03-08T09:50:00.000-07:00

Recently with my own wedding safely tucked to bed, I looked back on a reading I wrote for the 2004 wedding of our friends Crystal and Ptahmb who have been integral to the joy of our ceremony and celebrations. At the time I wrote it, I was thinking of them and their lovely union, but upon the re-reading, it's nice to see where it applies in J and my lives, too.

Have a look and see if you recognize yourself and your relationships. This is a living piece and I would love to hear your own spin on it.

Here goes:

"David Sedaris refers to two types of love. There is new love, which many experience. And there is real love, for which there are only a chosen few.

New lovers look deeply into each other's eyes and savor every word that escapes their dear one's mouth.
Real lovers look deeply into each other's eyes and whisper "Could you shut up for maybe five minutes?"

New lovers notice when the other has taken out the candles or champagne for a night of bliss. Real lovers notice when the other has taken out the trash or the hair from the bathtub drain.

New lovers hold hands to enjoy the good times.
Real lovers hold hands to see each other through the rough times.

New lovers live for the next time they will see each other.
Real lovers live for the next time they will listen to each other.

Today we have come together to witness two Real lovers who have lived enough to know the difference between these two types and were smart enough to embrace a lifetime together."

That passage more accurately sums up how the wedding ceremony went far more than if I bored you with a description of my dress, or Jason's wedding hat, or the cake, or who said what to whom. Just rest assured that what was supposed to happen happened. And now we've joined hands to play, laugh, and work our way through this delightful marriage.

I'm Just Waiting On A Friend

2009-02-11T21:29:00.000-08:00

"Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it." ~~Mark Twain

Rarely am I given the opportunity to truly atone for my own sins of the past (lo there are many to choose from), or witness as someone close to me does so, much as I would like to be there. But in the last two weeks that's exactly what's happened. A person who means a great deal to me and who has been a source of my lowest lows and privy to my loudest belly laughs seems to be coming out of a very dark place.

As I grieved for my dad, so did I grieve for this fellow. It seemed that he was always on the shaded side of the street, head down and dragging his feet. He'd lost faith in the world and in himself, which was a true shame because that's the only person he felt he could be around for any length of time. I wanted nothing more than to hug him and help him smile like he did before, but knew nothing could be more wrong than to follow that instinct. I knew I couldn't make him feel happiness or force him to engage. He had to want it. He needed help. And the help couldn't come from me or any of my kind. For us I thought there would be no chance of healing. Where I longed for kind encouragement or playful banter, there were only awkward stutters and angry exchanges. In place of smiling eyes and wide grins, I was met head on with gazes of pure despair and unfettered, wild grief.

Years passed. Years.

I grew hard.

I moved on.

I left him to fight his demons alone. I never expected him to win. But he is. He is winning.

He's found a great worth inside himself that has triggered him to see what most everyone around him has seen. He's had tools and help, and I wouldn't have it any other way. No one should be expected to deal with that kind of crushing sadness alone. I admire the tremendous amount of work he's done, and continues to do, to open up the branches a little for the light. Even if it's just a little, by God it's something.

Good Times Are Here Again...

2009-01-24T14:31:00.000-08:00

In my never ending quest to see all of the major Oscar nominees prior to the Academy Awards telecast on February 22, I am woefully behind, I fear. Christopher Nolan wasn't the only person the Academy shafted on Thursday morning. I thought I had tied up at least two of the likely Best Picture nominees when I saw "The Dark Knight" and "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button", and possibly even three with my viewing of "Wall-E." But no. It was not meant to be. Currently I'm 1 for 5 in that category. After all of the nominations were made available, J and I determined the order of the rest of the BP nominees we'll head to see at the theater, as they are all still in wide release, and not yet available on DVD (thanks for THAT, Hollywood). Fortunately, we live in a town that still subscribes to the idea of movies as little pieces of celluloid magic, so all of the films are available to us at a theater nearby. We have about 27 movie houses in our close vicinity, most of which are independently owned, and we do not take that treasured state of affairs for granted, believe me. As sick as it might sound, I chose this apartment based on not only how close it was to my dear Polish friends, but also its proximity to the greatest indy video store in the nation, Movie Madness, where my favorite video tech looks exactly like a hot version of Mama Firefly and is endlessly helpful.

We commemorated Oscar Nomination Eve (ONE) on Wednesday with a 7:00 showing of "The Wrestler." As unpredictable as the Best Picture and Best Actress categories have a tendency to be, the Best Actor nominations are historically closely linked to the Golden Globe nominees for male in a dramatic leading role, so I was pretty confident we could count on a Mickey Rourke nod, if not win. I still haven't seen "The Visitor", "Milk", or "Frost/Nixon", so my apologies to Richard Jenkins, Sean Penn, and Frank Langella for such presumption. And Brad, well, Brad. As much as I love you in the deep loving bits of my heart, the movie wasn't about you, but more about the people around you reacting to your steadfast portrayal of an odd character, so I'm pretty sure this isn't your year just yet.

Heath Ledger's performance as The Joker (if you have not seen it yet, stop reading this and do so) has earned him the last nomination he will ever have. Alive or dead, his performance is striking and he's going to win--sentimentality aside, the guy's talent is hard to overlook (though the Academy managed to do so in 2005, much to their lame chagrin these days). Philip Seymour Hoffman is yet again pitted against Heath, and while I've not yet seen "Doubt", I would swear a blood oath that his performance is Oscar-worthy. I mean, let's face it. He's Philip Seymour Hoffman and he rules. He just does. But because he had the misfortune of being the guy who beat Heath in 2005, he will not win. Nor will Robert Downey, Jr.'s freakishly comedic turn in "Tropic Thunder," though I wouldn't cry in my bowl of Total if he did. Josh Brolin, whose bodily proportions never fail to remind me of an overgrown midget and give me pause every time I see him in a movie, has the only genuine shot at slicing through Heath's juggernaut of glory because he plays a psychotically homophobic killer and that makes the Academy ooooohhhh and aaaahhhh with squishy-panted delight.

Every year it seems the nominees serve up at least a dollop of misery in one or two overwrought dramas, and this year is no exception. "The Reader" is set with the backdrop of a WWII tragedy and a love story, because apparently nothing says "get it on" in Hollywood more than the tragedy of the Holocaust. Ralph Fiennes has dug out quite the niche for himself with this type of film by starring in not one, not two, not even three, but FOUR Holocaust pictures. Check my math: "The English Patient", "The End of the Affair", "The Reader" and of course his horrifying turn as Nazi Amon Goeth in "Schindler's List." While I abhor sitting through this kind of movie, I'll do it for Kate Winslet because she is the female answer to Philip Seymour Hoffman. She rules because she does. Circular or not, the logic sticks. She is a brilliant actress and can make even the most repulsive movie (suck it, "Little Children") watchable. Oh you'll feel it in the morning, but at the time you're watching it all you can focus on is how she spins disgusting story arcs straw into mesmerizing gold. For too long, six nominations to be exact, she has been snubbed, overlooked, and forsaken for the likes of Helen Hunt. That's right. I said it. Fucking Helen Hunt, who graduated summa cum laude from the Gwyneth Paltrow School For Wooden Expressionless "Acting" beat our beloved Kate. I say NO MORE will we stand for this kind of shenanigan voting practice on the part of the Academy.

So at this most sacred time of year in my warped little world, I make a nightly wish and throw it to the south where the majority of Academy voters reside to ask that you do your jobs, Voting Elite, and cast your ballot (for once) on the merits of the performance without the distraction of studio campaigns, sentimentality, insider politics, nepotism, or profiteering interests. Shhhhhhh. Just do it.

And Oscar Goes To... Not So Fast, Mr. Penn!

2009-01-22T07:53:00.000-08:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, the full list of Oscar Nominees. Read it. Learn it. Live it.

Best Motion Picture of the Year
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Frost/Nixon
Milk
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Directing
David Fincher, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Ron Howard, Frost/Nixon
Gus Van Sant, Milk
Stephen Daldry, The Reader
Danny Boyle, Slumdog Millionaire

Performance by an Actor in a Leading Role
Richard Jenkins, The Visitor
Frank Langella, Frost/Nixon
Sean Penn, Milk
Brad Pitt, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Mickey Rourke, The Wrestler

Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role
Josh Brolin, Milk
Robert Downey Jr., Tropic Thunder
Philip Seymour Hoffman, Doubt
Heath Ledger, The Dark Knight
Michael Shannon, Revolutionary Road

Performance by an Actress in a Leading Role
Anne Hathaway, Rachel Getting Married
Angelina Jolie, Changeling
Melissa Leo, Frozen River
Kate Winslet. The Reader
Meryl Streep, Doubt

Performance by an Actress in a Supporting Role
Amy Adams, Doubt
Penélope Cruz, Vicky Cristina Barcelona
Viola Davis, Doubt
Taraji P. Henson, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
Marisa Tomei, The Wrestler

Best Animated Feature Film of the Year
Bolt
Kung Fu Panda
Wall-E

Original Screenplay
Dustin Lance Black, Milk
Courtney Hunt, Frozen River
Mike Leigh, Happy-Go-Lucky
Martin McDonagh, In Bruges
Andrew Stanton and Jim Reardon, WALL-E

Adapted Screenplay
Eric Roth and Robin Swicord, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
John Patrick Shanley, Doubt
Peter Morgan, Frost/Nixon
David Hare, The Reader
Simon Beaufoy, Slumdog Millionaire

Best Foreign Language Film of the Year
The Baader Meinhof Complex (Germany)
The Class (France)
Departures (Japan)
Revanche (Austria)
Waltz With Bashir (Israel)

Original Score
Alexandre Desplat, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
James Newton Howard, Defiance
Danny Elfman, Milk
A.R. Rahman, Slumdog Millionaire
Thomas Newman, WALL-E

Original Song
"Down to Earth," Peter Gabriel and Thomas Newman; WALL-E
"Jai Ho," A.R. Rahman and Gulzar; Slumdog Millionaire
"O Saya," A.R. Rahman and Maya Arulpragasam; Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Art Direction
Changeling
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
The Duchess
Revolutionary Road

Achievement in Cinematography
Changeling
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
The Reader
Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Costume Design
Australia
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Duchess
Milk
Revolutionary Road

Best Documentary Feature
The Betrayal (Nerakhoon)
Encounters at the End of the World
The Garden
Man on Wire
Trouble the Water

Best Documentary Short Subject
The Conscience of Nhem En
The Final Inch
Smile Pinki
The Witness—From the Balcony of Room 306

Achievement in Film Editing
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Frost/Nixon
Milk
Slumdog Millionaire

Achievement in Makeup
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Frost/Nixon
Milk
Slumdog Millionaire

Best Animated Short Film
La Maison en Petits Cubes
Lavatory—Lovestory
Oktapodi
Presto
This Way Up

Best Live Action Short Film
Auf der Strecke (On the Line)
Manon on the Asphalt
New Boy
The Pig
Spielzeugland (Toyland)

Achievement in Sound Editing
The Dark Knight
Iron Man
Slumdog Millionaire
WALL-E
Wanted

Achievement in Sound Mixing
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Slumdog Millionaire
WALL-E
Wanted

Achievement in Visual Effects
The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
The Dark Knight
Iron Man

Room 1009

2009-01-03T11:17:00.000-08:00

Some families are Muslim. Some families are Jewish or Catholic. Our family is Rolling Stonish. We have followed the goings on of Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, (Bill Wyman, Brian Jones, Mick Taylor, and Ronnie Wood) the way normal people watch their favorite baseball team or coolest uncles' antics. From an early age I can remember setting up a war fort or space scene in the basement while I created my own unfilmed videos to "Paint It Black" and "2000 Light Years From Home".

My brothers and I each have a favorite Stone, mine and Matt's being Charlie, the silent drummer who looks like he's putting up with the stage shows more than living them up. He's the anchor of the band, literally and figuratively. His drum set establishes the center of the stage around which the other players orbit like drunken comets, while his stable demeanor has helped see his band mates through cracked marriages and almost admirable, if it weren't so copious and destructive, drug and alcohol abuse. If bodies are temples, this group is a rain soaked, smoldering tent city.

On a night in 1984 after Mick and Keith had gone out boozing (surprise!), Mick came back to the hotel, rang up to a sleeping Charlie's room and reportedly said, "Is that my drummer? Come on then and get your arse down here for a drink." Charlie hung up, shaved, put on a decent outfit and headed downstairs to meet the boys. He greeted Mick with a great punch to the jaw. As Mick was reeling from the blow and picking himself up from a plate of smoked salmon where he'd landed, Charlie said "Don't ever call me 'your drummer' again. You're my fucking singer." Yes, Charlie is far and away my favorite Stone.

Russ' guardian Stone angel is Keith. The abandon and freedom with which Keef lives his life brings joy to Russ in a way I've not seen anything else do the same, outside of family. Keith was on the "Most Likely To Die This Year" list for 10 years in the #1 position and admitted disappointment when he wasn't included one year. This is a man who joked about having snorted his father's ashes and no one knew if he was kidding. He was, by the way. Keef is a loveable old lush who gives Death the silver skull-clad finger with one hand and lights his ciggie with the other, all the while kicking ass on stage (or falling out of trees in the tropics).

So it was with great anticipation that I finally watched "Shine A Light", the Rolling Stones and Martin Scorsese collaborative rockumentary released in early April '08. I hadn't seen it in the theater when it came out because I was saving for a trip back to Michigan. When I came back, the Pixie was in town and it wasn't a movie she felt the urge to see. By the time September rolled around, the movie was out of the theaters, even the second runs, and I would have to wait for the DVD. I told J I wanted it for Christmas and he delivered the goods with glee last week.

When I first heard of the project, I was ecstatic that Martin Scorsese was the director. Not only because he rules as a director, but because he has a great history with the band and wouldn't treat them as just some rock oddity who's managed to struggle their old bones through a performance. He relishes and uses their music to form a girder on which he builds the often harsh stories he tells about the underworld. Next time you're watching "Casino" or "The Departed" or "Goodfellas", have a listen. He's subtle about it, but their gritty tunes are what he wipes the used knives on after the gruesome mob retributions explode. This movie was going to be that of a friend's perspective, rather than a snuff exploitation of an aging rock band.

I did have a bone to pick with Marty, though. I was disappointed with the title "Shine A Light" for completely selfish reasons. That is in my top 3 favorite Stones songs and I didn't want to share. It killed my soul a little to think about some ignorant college freshman dumbass grooving to my song without understanding the full scope of its awesomeness. That it was conceived from the pain of two broken souls losing their dear doomed friend in the throes of addiction and it was birthed on, in my opinion, the greatest rock album of all time, Exile on Main St. three years after said friend's death. But then I took a step back. Maybe this song would be sacrificed on the altar of rock education and teach that kid something about what real music should sound like. Maybe that song would move her to set aside (or better yet smash under a bulldozer) her Ashlee Simpson CD and delve into the history of the song and the band. And I could live with that.

As I watched the movie last night, two moments stood out. During a fantastic rendition of "Far Away Eyes", a song with a fun country twist, Mick and Keith come together to sing a bar of the chorus and Keith casually, and seemingly instinctively puts both arms loosely around Mick's shoulders, as if that's where they were meant to be. It was made more beautiful by the pure incidental nature of the gesture. Keith may have been just trying to hold himself upright, but to me, it was an easy comradery reserved for musical spouses celebrating their union in the only way they know how.

The second, and most moving moment was in the Behind the Scenes featurette which showcased both Martin Scorsese's mastery of images, and the essence of the band. It was before the show, after sound check and the meet and greet of the VIPs (that included President and Senator Clinton). Mick is glad handing some guests off to the side, Charlie is off the scene, and Keith is sitting on the farthest stool from the Mick crowd, alone with his guitar and working through a song that sounds nothing like the Stones genre of music. He's content and playing, his fingers gnarled from overuse are plucking at the strings of an acoustic guitar. He looks up for a moment to smile at the camera man, and then looks down to lose himself in the music.

Fade to black, but not fade away....

At Jess' Request...

2008-12-28T21:52:00.000-08:00

1. Do you like blue cheese? I do. I would eat it on my cornflakes if it weren't so expensive.

2. Have you ever smoked heroin? Not since my stint in the Brownies. Those bitches run rough.

3. Do you own a gun? Nope. Neither of us wants one in the home. The cats are way too volatile.

4. What flavor do you add to your drink at Sonic? I have never been to Sonic, though commercials make it look like shake nirvana.

5. Do you get nervous before doctor appointments? Not anymore, but I used to pass out at the lady doctor. They love that.

6. What do you think of hot dogs? I think they've been marginalized for far too long. Give them the vote, I say. It's time for the othering to stop.

7. Favorite Christmas movie? Three-way tie: Scrooged, Bad Santa, Home for the Holidays

8. What do you prefer to drink in the morning? Cristal, but if that's not available, I'll take tea, I guess.

9. Can you do push ups? Can, youbetcha. Do, ohgodno.

10. What’s your favorite piece of jewelry? The crown jewels. Or my blue sapphire ring from Trace.

11. Favorite hobby? I like to pour myself a nice glass of wine, turn on some Tiny Tim and get to the business of building doll house furniture out of sausages, barley, and spit. You know, the usual.

12. Do you have A.D.D? What? Sorry, I was just about to...can you hold on a second? Thanks. What were you saying? Oh, I was? Well shit. I guess I --look at the pretty lights...

13. What is one trait you hate about yourself? I'm a huge judger and have very little empathy for people who allow themselves to be kicked around by their partners.

14. Middle name? Ellen. After my dad's first wife's sister. Would you like to set up my appointment with a therapist, or shall I?

15. What is your favorite TV show or movie? TV Show: Bret Michael's Whorific Circus Sideshow, er, "Rock of Love" and all its endless derivations. Movie: "The Right Stuff"

16. Name 3 things you bought yesterday. Draino, mayonnaise, and cat litter. Hey! It's the holidays. You celebrate your way...

17. Name 3 drinks you regularly drink. Tea, juice, and unsettled jell-o

18. Current worry? That it's wrong to still have a thing for Heath Ledger, considering he's, well, you know

19. Current hate right now? OH GOD. That terrible commercial with the rabbit that horrifyingly morphs into a running robot dog thing. FUCK YOU, YOU CREEPY RABBITTY BASTARD

20. Favorite place to be? In front of Jeff Bridges' zipper

21. Where would you like to go? To your house. Say, Thursday around 6?

22. Name three people who will complete this? Mickey Rourke, Don Rickles, and Duff McKagan. They're huge followers of this blog. I mean, who isn't?

24. What shirt are you wearing? My Keith Richards for President shirt. Pictured here.

25. What year would you go back in time to? 1988. It was Designing Women's best year.

26. Can you whistle? Not even a little.

27. Favorite color? 1970s orange

28. Would you be a pirate? Wait a second, Survey Writer. Are you asking if I would like to be a real pirate or a movie pirate? The reason I ask is that Johnny Depp's Jack Sparrow would have been passed around a real pirate ship like a lollipop in Oliver's orphanage. None for me, thanks.

29. Favorite girl’s name? Maude Margaret

30. Favorite boy’s name? David Discretion

31. Last thing you dreamed about? Flikka could talk. She was still a cat, but she had a lot to say about how we run the household. I made myself wake up.

32. What’s in your pocket right now? Nothing. I have only the wish for pockets on my pajamas at the moment.

33. Last thing that made you laugh? Clayton's status message that reads: "Thanks to peripheral vision & the breakfast food aisle, I thought for a moment that Post came out with a new cereal called 'Just Bitches'." Beautiful.

34. Best Halloween costume? My personal best was this year's Marge Gunderson from "Fargo"

35. Worst injury you’ve ever had? Broken heart

36. Do you like where you live? I do. I could live without the self-congratulatory smugness this area lends itself to sometimes, but overall Portland kicks booty.

37. How many TVs do you have in your house? 2

38. Who is your loudest friend? Oh hands down. Terry. Jesus wept. His "whisper" makes my eardrum shake its head in disgust.

39. How many dogs do you have? I have three in my head. In reality, though, they're cats.

40. Does someone have a crush on you? Man, I hope so. The wedding could get awkward if he doesn't.

41. What is your favorite book(s)? "I Like You" by Amy Sedaris, "1984" by George Orwell, and "James and the Giant Peach" by Roald Dahl

42. What is your favorite candy? Snowcaps, and for some reason the movie houses around here are major Snowcaps bigots. It makes me sad.

43. Favorite Sports Team? Detroit Red Wings

44. Favorite Sports? Hockey, gymnastics, lion taming

45. What were you doing 12 AM last night? Reading my new book from Turbo

46. What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up? I would like to continue reading my new book from Turbo.

Roles of a Lifetime

2008-12-28T18:17:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I get off the beaten path and tend to lose focus about where I'm headed or what I'm doing to get there. I say sometimes when I mean yesterday, today, and tomorrow I do that. I live in the haze with blasts of clarity. Always interesting. Always motivating. One of the things that jars me back to center is my family and relationships. So, I took a moment to do an exercise this afternoon that helped jog my perspective back into joint.

While I don't know who I will be, let me tell you who I am:

I am Sooze, Matt, Russ' sister.
I am Tracie's sister by spirit.
I am Janel and Dave's sister-in-law.
I am Janice and David's daughter.
I am K's stepmother.
I am J's fiance.
I am Oscar, Lillian, Ruth, and Rupert's granddaughter.
I am Dawson, Ababu, and Lily's godmother.
I am Tim, Dawson, Violet, Ababu, Genevieve, Emma, Lily, Sierra, Dakota, Helena, Micah, Noah, Cabe, Quinn, Laura, Leah, Monkey, Devon, Colin, Kenny, and Tessa's aunt. So far.
I am the NPF's employee.
I am Jill, Lissa, and Crystal's moon sister.
I am NPR and Alzheimer's Association's contributing supporter.
I am Nicole, Ron, Christine, and Tracie's old roommate.
I am Silkie Madge, Rascal Reverend Jim, and Flikka's hairless monkey companion.
I am Craig, Rich, Terry's, and the Academy Awards', biggest fan, unashamedly.

It's easy at this time of year to begin to evaluate what happened in 2008 and what circumstances are leading to in 2009, but for me, I find a great deal of comfort in the immovable relationships that shift and grow, but remain fundamentally cemented in the mirror reflection, always at the ready to look back at you with a nod and a wink.

In honor of the Golden Globe Nominations...

2008-12-23T15:18:00.000-08:00

This is a fun little game my friend posted on Facebook. I thought it would be a nifty and timely entry, considering the recent announcement of the Golden Globe nominations.

Here's how it works:

1. Pick 20 of your favorite movies (not necessarily nominated or released in the last year).
2. Go to IMDb and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them for everyone to guess.
4. Strike it out when someone guesses correctly, and put who guessed it and the movie.
5. NO GOOGLING/using IMDb search functions.

My selections follow.

1. Monkeys? You think a monkey knows he's sittin' on top of a rocket that might explode? These astronaut boys they know that, see? Well, I'll tell you something, it takes a special kind of man to volunteer for a suicide mission, especially one that's on TV. Ol' Gus, he did all right.

"The Right Stuff" by Sooze

2. The suspense is terrible... I hope it'll last. "Willy Wonka" by Armisteads

3. You look so beautiful and peaceful, you almost look dead. And I'm glad, because there's something I want to say that's always been very difficult for me to say. "I slit the sheet, the sheet I slit, and on the slitted sheet I sit." There. I've never been relaxed enough around anyone to say that.

"The Jerk" by E

4. How do I look so young? Quite simple. A complete vegetable diet, twelve hours sleep a night, and *lots* and *lots* of makeup.

5. You've got a program featuring America's favorite old fart. Reading a book in front of a fireplace. Now, I have to kill all of you.

6. Then one day I hear "Reach for it, mister." I spun around, and there I was, standing face to face with a six-year-old kid. Well, I just laid down my guns and walked away... Little bastard shot me in the ass! So I limped to the nearest saloon, crawled inside a whiskey bottle, and I've been there ever since.

"Blazing Saddles" by Armisteads

7. Hey, nice marmot!

8. It's a crystal. Nothing more. But if you turn it this way and look into it, it will show you your dreams. But this is not a gift for an ordinary girl who takes care of a screaming baby.

"Labyrinth" by E

9. What? You pooped in the refrigerator? And you ate the whole... wheel of cheese? How'd you do that? Heck, I'm not even mad; that's amazing. How 'bout we get you in your p.j.'s and we hit the hay.

10. After my divorce from Luther I scraped by with baby-sitting gigs and odd jobs - mostly the jobs we call blow.

11. She had a Mount Rushmore t-shirt on, and those guys never looked so good. Especially Jefferson and Lincoln. Kind of bloated but happy.

12. Listen up, maggots. You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

13. Except my name. I'll give up all that other stuff, but only if I get to keep my name. I've worked too hard for it, your honor.

14. Now finish up them taters; I'm gonna go fondle my sweaters.

15. I guess you think I'm kicking you, Bob. But it ain't so. What I'm doing is talking, you hear? I'm talking to all those villains down there in Kansas. I'm talking to all those villains in Missouri. And all those villains down there in Cheyenne. And what I'm saying is there ain't no whore's gold. And if there was, how they wouldn't want to come looking for it anyhow.

16. Uh, I could do that sir, yeah. Yeah, I could do that I suppose. What I was thinking was I was going to ask Him if He could make me a bit lame in one leg during the middle of the week. You know, something beggable, but not leprosy, which is a pain in the ass to be blunt and excuse my French, sir.

"Life of Brian" by Armisteads

17. Yes. Yes, I did it. I killed Yvette. I hated her, so much... it-it- the f - it -flam - flames. Flames, on the side of my face, breathing-breathl- heaving breaths. Heaving breath...

18. That's pretty dangerous building a road in the middle of the street. I mean, if frogs couldn't hop, I'd be gone with the Schwinn.

19. Listen, if you didn't know you're bein' scammed, you're too fuckin' dumb to keep this job. If you did know, you were in on it. Either way, you're out. Get out! Go on. Let's go.

"Casino" by E

20. Neighbors bring food with death, and flowers with sickness, and little things in between. Boo was our neighbor. He gave us two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a knife, and our lives.

"To Kill a Mockingbird" by Armisteads

Captain Quirk

2008-12-23T11:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was my nephew Dawson's 15th birthday. While that number gives me the dry heaves, it's also a testament to my memory that I'm able to recall things from 15 years ago with utmost clarity. He was my first godchild of many to come. Tim was a novelty because he was my first niece/nephew type person, so he had broken me in on the baby lovins front, but Dawson came with his own brand of untamed cuteness in an entirely too small package. He wasn't born prematurely, but may as well have been. He lost a pound from the time of his birth to when he was allowed to come home two days later. For those of us without kid experience, that's about a Load.5, metrically speaking. We were worried.

Regardless of how small and fragile he was, I was able to hold him while my mom entertained Tim in the hallway and my sister underwent some ghastly (no doubt) procedure behind drawn curtain. So, it was just him and me. I could feel his tiny spine in my left palm as I turned him to look at me. He was so light and pale that I wanted to pack him away inside my coat to make sure he was warm enough, regardless of his little hospital issue baby blanket burrito and beanie. When I told him that we had been waiting for him and we loved him, he opened his eyes. His giant eyes. I know that kids that young have no control over their smiling equipment just yet, but I would absolutely swear that he did. He smiled crookedly and with intent. Apparently he'd been waiting for us too.

I'm close with each of my nephews and nieces in our own ways, and I love them deeply and without reservation, but this one. Well, this one. Let's just say I'm glad he came to the party and brought the sass punch...

The Tree

2008-12-14T17:36:00.000-08:00

Every December from the time I can remember, I would ask when we're going to get the tree. Without fail, Dad would answer "We're not getting one." No explanations. No excuses. No context whatsoever. Just "Don't get your hopes up." On and on the begging would go. It was like some kind of primitive torture you would use on a POW Christmas elf you kept in the cellar. "No No, Elfie Saggins, we're not getting a tree this year. Maybe next. Keep your tiny fingers crossed."

He was completely merciless. He even told people outside the family that we weren't getting a tree. If a neighbor stopped by on December 20th and noted the conspicuous absence of evergreen cheer, Dad would say "No, we decided not to get one this year. Too much trouble." I could feel the color drain from my face when the neighbor would reply "What a great idea! I wish we could get away with not getting one." I would recoil in horror at the Scroogey condoning of this tree bigotry and slowly retreat to my room, making sure to never turn my back on these Christmas poo-pooers in the process.

How could we not have a tree? To me, the tree was a visible symbol of our whole family. I was born 14 years after my sister and 10 years after my oldest brother, so the only sibling who was a constant in my life and in the house was Matt, and we managed to make Sibling Rivalry cower in the corner and cry itself to sleep at night with our vivid fighting and relentless teasing. For two weeks out of the year, the tree stood there with all four of our sibling ornaments that meant we're brothers and sisters, David and Janice's children, regardless of age or location.

We had to have a tree.

Every year he did this. Every single year. And every time I felt the sincerity in his voice when he said no and wondered if this would be the year he would go through with it and we really wouldn't have one. But each December 23rd or 24th, he would go out to the garage and bring in the most beautiful, carefully chosen, tall and mighty tree he could find that year. I could see the marks where he meticulously cut the branches off the bottom so that there were still plenty of prime ornament spaces, but just enough room for me (the smallest) to belly crawl to the holder each morning and keep the water at a safe level.

After we let the tree get used to the temperature in the house and open up a bit, Russ would string the lights on it while I brought up all of the ornaments from the basement. There were four things that had to happen in a set order before we could declare game on and hang ornaments at will. First, Russ would put the angel Mom made of her ribbon roses on the highest branch that Dad had whittled to a safe perch for her . The second order of business was the first item of decoration on the body of the tree: a small paper Jesus that was from our grandma's tree who would sit front and center nestled in the branches. The first official ornament was a Michigan State Ornament that Bill Carr hung as near the angel as possible. We didn't quite revere MSU as much as little Jesus, but it was up there. And the final step in the tree ritual would be the official sibling ornaments. When each of us were born, Mom had an ornament made, a large metallic ball with our name on it, in different colors. Sooze's was blue, Russ' was green, Matt's was silver, and mine was gold. Matt's was the biggest. Every year we heard that his was the biggest. Whose was the biggest, you ask? Matt's. It was with great care that we picked out our spots on the tree. They would hang in descending birth order, which was cool because mine usually ended up next to Jesus, and that was prime real estate as far as I was concerned. Once the sibling balls were placed, all other ornaments could then be hung.

The finishing touch of the tree was the tinsel. Mom showed me that while you could fling the tinsel with abandon, it might be better to hang each strand one at a time--best to avoid looking like the Christmas tree at the Bunny Ranch that way. She and I would finish what had been a long journey of wonder and worry. We had a Christmas tree. And it was perfect.

After Dad died, we all made incredible adjustments to our holiday celebrations and traditions, and just now seem to be settling into a groove that makes sense and keeps the joy alive. J and I go to Matt and Janel's family to celebrate, Russ flies to Michigan to be with Mom for the season, and Sooze's family keeps Christmas their way in Maine.

It's been three years since I've had an evergreen tree. I say it's because I don't want the kitties to get at the ornaments, or because it costs too much, or we don't have enough space, but the truth is that I'm still not ready for it. In an effort to make sure I can still show off our wonderful family ornament history that Mom carefully preserved, we display them in a different sort of way that makes sense to us. J creates an incredible "tree" on the wall where I can hang my ornaments. It still means a great deal, and it's sufficiently unique enough to allow me to keep Christmas in the present while acknowledging Christmases past.

Last week I was in my office when one of my co-workers stopped by to ask if we'd already put up our tree this year. Inexplicably I heard myself saying "Oh, we're not going to have one this year."

"Really? Why not?"

"Too much trouble."

"Wow. I don't think we could not have one for the kids. But you're right, they are a lot of trouble."

"Yeah, they are."

And I have to admit there was a little bit of satisfaction when they walked away with a perplexed expression of surprise wondering if I was really serious or not.

I was not.

All aboard the Friend Ship. Wooo Wooo!

2008-12-07T18:36:00.000-08:00

J and I were talking at lunch this afternoon about some plans that I made tonight to watch the terrible, yet delicious, "Rock of Love Charm School" with my friend Turbo, when J made the sweet, but seemingly offhand comment, "You have nice friends". And it struck me. I do. I do have wonderful, kind, good-hearted, funny, considerate, delightful friends. They're all shapes and colors on four different continents and each one is a character in his or her own way, but they are all "nice friends".

This was not always the case.

The friendships I'm so fortunate to have are products of hard work and lots of deep belly laughs. They've seen me through the darkest, scariest times of my life, and I try my best to be there, at least in spirit and in words when they need a love crutch to lean on. In some cases, love interests have turned into deep platonic friendships that would never have blossomed if they were just part of a long line of failed dating attempts. But others who could either not keep their drama in check, or who intentionally worked at being really awful, if entertaining, people have gone by the cold, muddy wayside with haste.

I don't find it upsetting that a lot of my friends live far away from the possibility of a kitchen table tea date. Each time I talk to them on the phone, or hear from them in e-mail, it's just like we had lunch that afternoon and are catching up on our evening plans. No gaps. No sadness. Just connection and warmth.

The only time I feel funky twinges is when I see pictures of their kids. For instance, it's uncool that I don't get to give my Micah (oh there's a story there) a hug every day and read him a bedtime story, or have him read me a story with all of his reading prowess these days, but I get regular updates from his mom and know that he still loves his Aunt Sheila as much as I love his wee self. When I moved to Oregon, his goodbye was my hardest to give. He didn't make it any easier when he said "Aunt Sheila when you come back and see a big boy behind my mom, that boy will be me, okay?" Ouch. All I could muster was "Okay, Monkey. I'll look for him."

And he was right. Last May when I visited friends and family, there was a giant kid where my little Monkey used to be. But we hadn't missed a beat. He was still my Micah friend.

This spring it's looking promising that I'll be able to speak to one of my dearest friend's college organization, and I couldn't be more excited. She has two gorgeous girls, the youngest of whom I've yet to smother with Auntie lovins, and while we haven't seen each other in far too many years, I know it will be like we're still sharing a room and all our secrets at college all over again.

I have nice friends. I hope they know they have me, too.

My Christmas In Five Senses (if I had my druthers)

2008-12-04T17:16:00.000-08:00

Hearing

from

Taste

Busche de Noel cake

Smell

Incense at Midnight Mass

Sight

George C. Scott's Scrooge is foretold of three visitors

Touch

Warm fuzzies

Happy Christmas Decoration Eve

2008-11-29T08:41:00.000-08:00

I walked in my friends' home last night and saw they had already decorated for the holidays, and I felt the butterflies in my tummy because it's not December 3rd yet.

In a family of four kids, my parents tried their best to preserve the identity of each child and make sure they felt special and cared for individually. My brother Russ was born on December 2, so Mom and Dad would adamantly disallow any Christmas decorations to be up in the house or out in the yard until December 3rd. Until that day we were welcome to submit our wish lists to Santa and talk about what we wanted, even underscore our points with pictures we cut out from magazines, but under no circumstances were we allowed to put anything that was red, green, silver, gold, gold-plated, or in any way jingled and/or jangled in a manner fit for a holiday spectacle where the general public could see until the day after we celebrated Russ' birthday. Not the night of the 2nd. The morning of the 3rd.

Once our family started decorating, we also had mandated placements and decorations that were not up for deviation. Mom would arrange the cardboard cutouts of the Christmas ice skaters on the double closet doors in the main hallway, Matt and Russ would decorate the main pine tree in the front yard. I would put up the plastic stained glass cutouts on the big front window, and then we would all bring up the Christmas books and puzzles Mom kept on the ping pong table that served as the year-round groaning beast of burden for her holiday hoard.

Overnight, with a little help from the kids, Mom turned our ordinary house into a magical wonderland that was sure to make Santa blush. I lived for that time of year. I think Mom did too. She was so busy taking care of everyone else all year, whether they were her kids or her parents or siblings or husband, that I think this was a time she could call her own. She takes care with everything she does and Christmas calls for meticulous methods. She taught me how to hang tinsel one strand at a time to make the tree look like we harnessed a moment of winter and brought it inside to enjoy for ourselves. She could tell you every ornament she hangs on her miniature tree and where to find it. She not only believes in Santa, she makes sure others know he is real, too.

I still keep this tradition every year, though I've lived on my own for quite some time now. Even in the dorms when I was in undergrad, I explained it to my roommate who was completely understanding of this hold the 3rd still had on me and we waited until that day to set up our little tree and Christmas lights around the room we called home.

I haven't mentioned the family tree yet. I'll save that for another time. In the meantime, I'm going to make my wish list and wait with quiet anticipation until after we've wished Russ a very happy birthday to hang our stockings by the chimney with care.

Dog Bless You

2008-11-26T16:47:00.000-08:00

I miss dogs. Dogs are funnier by trade. Even the jokes about dogs are funnier. We have three cats and they're cool. They're cool because they act like dogs. I don't tell them this because I don't want to hurt their little non-dog feelings. I do love them. I do. They are good inside friends. But they are not dogs.

I grew up with a dog who was the same age as me. His name was Ben and he was a beagle/basset. I really really hated him when we first got him. He scared the living shit out of me, to be accurate. I was six and I was teeny for my age. Skinny, short, slow kids make for awesome dog toys if you're wondering what to get your furry best friend this Christmas.

For the first two weeks of "adjustment" as Mom called it, I spent my time on the back of the couch with the coffee table pulled flush against the seat part so that it made it harder for Ben to scale to doggy victory. Every time I left the safety of the couch, he would chase me down and wrap his two front legs around mine and trip me. I'd lay there in a heap while he jumped around like a loon. I figured if I didn't move too obviously, he'd get bored and become distracted by something shiny or loud. No luck. He'd sit there while I cowered and listened to Mom say "Oh you don't have to be scared. He's just playing with you. He's not used to little girls." I may not have had to be scared, but I volunteered for it. His teeth were big and my hands were soft, yet crunchy and fun to chew if he were inclined to do so. After a while the jumping would stop and he'd lie down next to me. I liked him then. He was my level and I could look him in the eye.

We made peace on Halloween after weeks of trippage and couch anxiety. I don't know if it was my Lemon Meringue costume that made him see me as a force to be reckoned with, or if he just found more pleasure from my pets and lovins than from my fear and crying spells. I know I did. We lived in harmonious peace and mutual adoration until May 20, 1992 when he committed suicide. Yes, he killed himself. He laid down behind the truck so that a driver couldn't see him and then waited for someone to back over him. It was quick and he was 15, and while sad, it was how he wanted it. We had to respect his wishes.

I live next to a very busy main drag and still believe car + animals = suck. With that in mind, the kitties are inside only and we compensate with many many toys. J fashioned a virtual box city for Flikka out of different boxes we've collected from mailed packages and Costco visits. We have a fishing pole with a sock on the end of a shoelace that makes The Reverend literally jump for joy. We also have several toys in shapes that mostly please them, like a small cloth sandwich and a little burger. Madge only requires a secluded closet where no one will bother her. Especially if the someones aren't legally allowed to vote yet. She's very patriotic. And hates kids. One exception to that rule is The Pixie. Madge would allow K to throw her from the balcony if she wanted to. Madge worships her. She was so distraught when we took her back to Canada that she didn't come out of her closet for three days except to use the facilities. We brought her room service to see her through the ordeal. They are righteous familiars, the kitties.

But I still miss dogs.

Don't Name The Lambs

2008-11-20T18:51:00.000-08:00

We grew up next to a farm, a few farms, really, and always looked forward to the Easter lambs--so named because they were born in the spring just in time to be a succulent feast to celebrate the big day. They knew it, too. I'd go to pet their fuzzy little heads and they'd look up at me with a hushed desperation that said "I heard them talking. They're going to eat me." Little did it know I was part of the treacherous They. By the time I was about 7 I'd learned not to name the baby animals on the farm, especially the lambs. Recipe for tears and teeth gnashing, that.

It was a lesson I'd carry into my adult life when I took a stab at the corporate world. I'd worked in restaurants from the time I could spell h-a-s-h s-l-i-n-g-i-n-g sleepily at 5:30 in the morning and had seen some mad staff turnover, but never could I have possibly predicted the revolving door of haggard, spent souls that make up this living compost heap of our industrial society. Every six months or so, they'd spritz us with poo water and turn us over for a whole new perspective on how we'd managed to take the path of the damned and had given the pretty path that was covered in flower petals and butterfly whispers the big throbbing finger when we accepted our position where the only benefit was that they weren't legally allowed to poke us with real pitchforks.

The jewel in this crown of thorns was a small company whose main (READ: only) client was a hulking bitch of the corporate master race. They had to have seven people sign off to decide what size the font would be on something the size of a cigarette box. Guess how many times all seven folks concurred on the first go. Go ahead. Guess. I'll wait. How did you know? Were you listening to the seventeen conference calls where you're huddled around one of those weird Trekkie reject tri-sided speaker phones next to the boss who makes you wish you were sliding down a banister made of buzz saws and ice cream headaches instead of sitting shoulder to shoulder with Screwella De Shrill and her Fawning Band of Seven Eejits?

We weren't allowed to talk to each other about anything other than the utterly meaningless task at hand. I sat next to a guy for four months before I knew he had a kid. The only way I found out his last name was from an errant e-mail he accidentally sent me. We weren't allowed to have any decorations at our desk, lest they distract us from our miserable sluggery. All of the desks faced the wall. They blocked the windows for "confidentiality" reasons so that no lurkers at our rat maze of an industrial park would get a glimpse of the newest box. Yes, box. We made boxes. BOXES. Not pacemakers or canes for small children who lost a limb sifting through candy shaped bombs, or even the little carts dogs scoot around on when their hind quarters give out. Nope. We made boxes for completely useless unnecessary shit that people lived millenia without ever having near them.

And to these owners, those boxes were where they kept our self respect and estimated worth. That is, until the day the employee would remember that boxes are wildly lame and that (s)he has an actual life to forge, unencumbered by unrealistic expectations and cheapened earthly dealings. On that day, without exception, the employee would have a "fuck this, fuck you, and fuck boxes" moment and make their future their present. It was a good day. It usually didn't take long either. In the nine months I worked there, seven different people in an office of nine total employees had that special moment. In the interim two weeks (if the departing employee hadn't just simply thrown their keys on the boss' desk and bolted), they'd bring in some poor unsuspecting bastard for an interview and short of the walls bleeding and a voice in the distance screeching "GEEEETTTTT OOOUUUUTTTT", the present employees would try to deter the fresh meat from taking the job for their own and their family's sake. But they needed the money just like we thought we needed it at the time of our acceptance of the offer and they would come to work. After about the third time of watching this cycle play out, I just stopped trying to learning anything about the newbies. I didn't want to get attached. Easter dinner was coming and I didn't want to call it by name.

In the ninth month of my frustration gestation, I had that moment. And it was delicious. I could feel the earth righting itself under my feet the second I said "I quit. I'm done. And now I'm even more done than I was a second ago. You have two weeks to find someone for me to train." I didn't have a job lined up. I hadn't even sent out one resume on the search. I just knew it was over. Done. Done. Done. So then I sent out about thirty resumes a night. The day before the two weeks was up I got the call from where I work now offering me more money, job security, peace of mind, and a benefits package straight out of the 1950s (100% health, dental, optical coverage). Things work out.

My heart still stops for a second when I hear a door slam, or if I see one of the boxes we built on a shelf in the store, but then I take a deep breath and revel in the knowledge that it's over for me. They're now down to five full time employees. Two originals from when I quit two years ago are still there. They must be going for some kind of record. But the giant corporate client has dropped the company like a dribble glass of syphilis. For the people who chose to stay there, I say a little prayer every night and wait for the echoes of the lambs to stop screaming...

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, Lend Me Your Ears. Seriously. I'll give them back next week. Swear.

2008-11-14T22:40:00.000-08:00

For the last week I've not been able to hear out of my left ear. At all. My doctor is working on it and it's more than likely not a permanent state, but in the meantime this unholy suckage is unpleasantness' ugly step-cousin. Fortunately, it's not my phone ear (yes, I have one), so I can still work with our clients without interruption or distraction. So there's that.

Since I was a little kid I've had a particular fondness for my sense of hearing. Maybe it's because my eyesight makes Mr. Magoo look like he has the optical precision of a Navy S.E.A.L. Or it could be that I have a weird affinity for the nuance of different voices. For instance, some people's words get sticky when their mouths are dry (just listen to NPR host Michele Norris on "The World" to hear what it sounds like when a person hasn't had a drink of water in six months), or that certain accents are most assuredly not the person's accent of origin (a friend of mine moved to place known for its distinct accent about a year ago and somehow adopted the region's dialect in the span of a week. NOT POSSIBLE)? Have you ever been talking to a person who's telling you something important and completely lost the meaning of their words due to your preoccupation with how their thin, tiny lips are forming the sounds you're hearing? Because I have.

So, this week has been an exercise in adjustment to say the least. I'm grateful that it's just the one ear and there's no pain or balance issue, though it's proved to be troublesome in that I tend to sleep on what has become my good ear, so this morning Jason had to come in the room to wake me up because I couldn't hear the alarm. That was...strange. All of my usual "things" are fixations that I can indulge at will, except with this one, I may have to accept that I'll move forward with only half the tools to fixate on voices and music and weird outbursts this town makes from time to time. I can usually tell you what key someone's laughter is in. Joyful laughter tends to be a major while wry or ironic chortles hang in the minors. I can still hear that, but I couldn't tell you when I'm a D-sharp or a B-flat right now.

Oh well. I guess the important thing here is that I'm still laughing.

"There's more of gravy than of grave about you"

2008-11-08T22:14:00.000-08:00

I fought myself awake this morning. Literally. I have the skinned elbow and knuckles from decking/back-'bowing the wall to prove it. The subject matter is a familiar one to me. Apparently my subconscious isn't fed enough complaint material by J's kindness in my waking life, so it feels the need to compensate for this diligent lack of abuse with horrible nightmare scenarios where he's nothing but a dirty bastard whose sole purpose is to hurt and upset me. Dream Jason is a full on git who loves to see Dream Sheila crying and wounded by horrific words and underhanded actions. In essence, he's the culmination of the ungood characteristics of every selfish, scabby cockknocker I dated before I met him.

Dream Jason doesn't get lonely, though. One of my best friends lived with me for a while with my godson for about year while she pulled herself back on her feet after a divorce. We're very much like sisters in that we share everything and trust each other completely. Well, that just wasn't good enough for my dream generator gnome because that cranky fella turned Dream T into the most hurtful, conniving wench it could unleash in my dreams. I would wake up bitter and confused that I'd missed a key clue when I was awake that informed my dreams before anyone bothered to let my waking self in on the scoop. As I do with J, I tell her right away when it happens so that they could give me a little space to still the need to put together non-existent clues into a John Nash-style masterpiece of angsty delusion.

The only other person I've met who shared this flippy floppy phenomenon of creating alter-egos for their best friends was my old roommate/life brother Ron. And while it is true that he played host to a dream terrorist shaped like a confidante, the only person he manifested in this way was...me. He even named my evil dream doppelganger Esther so that we would have a reference point for his dreams.

I can't help but feel a little bothered by the fact that my psyche won't accept pure kindness, love and trust without exercising the need to use it against me by employing the face of the people with whom I've unquestionably bonded and then stuffing them full of cruelty like some sort of profane, grotesque animated scarecrow. It's also troublesome that in some way, a friend who only encouraged positivity in our friendship was plagued by angry Esther through no fault of his own.

The meaning is hidden to me. I do believe dreams mean something, but I don't know what, short of some sort of strange compensation. Maybe it's a reminder of what life could have been if I'd made different choices. Maybe it's part of the collective unconscious that demands balance. Or perhaps it's just a chemical process that will remain unknowable to me. Whatever it is, I'll continue to fight myself awake and thank God when I wake up that the negative compensation had to make itself known that way, instead of being forced to create an atmosphere of nurturing out of whole cloth only to be awakened not by my own violence, but by that of another.

A Rose Is A Rose

2008-11-05T20:45:00.000-08:00

There are certain people I think of when I need to remind myself that not all of humanity is comprised of bottom-feeding scumpuppies. I have an entire mental library of good souls. Each one is unique and perfect in their own ways. Five years ago one of these bastions of goodness was bestowed on our family. Emma Rose is the kind of kid who shocks me with her intensity of wit and reassures me that the future of the family is securely fastened to a star-bound messenger.

If you haven't met her yet, you should. She's an experience gift wrapped as a small brilliant child. She chews the scenery and spits out a stage for herself. And God help you if you divert your attention for even a moment. You'll miss something, guaranteed.

Emma has a knack for getting her picture or quote in the local newspaper. In fact, one day she turned to her mom and said "I would like to be in the paper again." The next week, somehow, she was. I think it was her fourth go. She manages to be in just the right place at the right time when the paparazzi strike in order to keep her public abreast of the goings on of Emma Rose.

She has a tight bond with each of her parents in a way that works for them. When her mom takes Emma to the library each week, they make sure to choose a "Daddy book" that is usually about a kid and their parent/grandparent. Only my brother is allowed to read it to her. When she was super teeny, he and Emma would have Daddy/Daughter days when Matt would take her to the coast, or out to breakfast just them. Matt and Janel both make sure their time with the kids counts. Emma, fortunately, makes for a fun adventure partner and storyteller when the adventure comes to an end.

Above all, she knows her mind, and if you stand still long enough, so will you. Especially if you've done her wrong, in her critical estimation. She has a future in the FCC. She'll let you know if the words "hate, stupid," or any curse words make it through your internal censors and in to her earshot. The fines are steep, so it's best to think before you speak around Tiny Tina, the Anti-Swearing Hyena.

This little friend of mine makes it quite easy to Remember Remember the 5th of November, and I'm purely delighted that I'm related to this sweet 5-year-old darling of Oregon.

Have a very Merry Birthday and a Happy School Year, Emma Rose!

He's got the silver, he's got the gold

2008-11-01T21:57:00.000-07:00

I've never been a fan of traditionally defined romantic gestures. Roses and chocolates are great if that's your gig, and they've never hurt anyone, but I just don't respond to them the way I'm "supposed" to react. Fortunately, J shows his love and affection in ways that warm my cockles without feeling forced or prescribed. His overtures tend to be functional with a sweet crunchy coating. So, I'd like to thank him for his most endearing qualities and gestures that are cheese free and full of kindness. Or just plain funny.

He keeps the cars healthy, running, and registered even though he h-a-t-e-s that he was trained as a mechanic.

He volunteers to come with me on laundry trips (washer is still broken--it's a complete dick) even when he's tired after his shift so that I won't be bored.

He remembers what color game piece I like to use when we play Trivial Pursuit.

He talks to my mom and makes her laugh on the phone until I'm finished being up to my elbows in dinner preparation.

He makes my nieces giggle and lets the wee one pet his beard when she gets curious about it.

He always always always soothes the kitties after their monthly flea treatments, and sings to them. If they need to go to the doctor, he talks to them all the way there and all the way home when they're crying and scared.

He helps me remember the entire filmography for actors I can't quite place when we're watching a movie until we hit the character I saw them as.

He confuses Glenn Close with William Hurt without exception. No explanation has been identified for this phenomenon, but I love it.

He researches new movies that are coming out and takes his Netflix list order very seriously.

He loves his little girl much and shows his fatherly adoration sincerely and without pretense.

He doesn't make judgments about people unless they're actively trying to hurt him or his family.

His patience with my "things" knows no bounds.

He watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and reads Umberto Eco at the same time.

He treats my friends and family with genuine respect.

He researched places for our first date.

He works overnights so that he can read his books when there's a break in the work activity without interruption from co-workers.

So, Babe, with Frank's help, this one's for you. Mwah.

Submit Your Concerns In Writing

2008-10-29T19:03:00.000-07:00

Normally I don't talk about politics in public. I find it mostly just serves to bring out the foolish side of folks. A reasonable, intelligent person suddenly erupts into a frothing beast of fury and zealotry at the slightest mention of the issues or the candidates. I'll tell you what--I just don't have the stomach to watch as they whip themselves up into a self-righteous fit with little regard for handy things like facts or evidence. Those nuisances would just serve to get in the way of their inflated tirade. And that goes for voters on both sides of the fence. Smuggery is an ugly bitch in both red and blue.

Conversely, I don't really keep my leanings a secret either, and will engage in debates if they're handled respectfully and keep to the issues, but I don't wear pins or wave flags. I vote. I make sure my ballot gets to me on time, that all of my information is correct, that I've researched, read and understand the measures and positions at stake, and then I vote.

This nonsensical argument about "real Americans" and "serious patriots" just pisses me right the fuck off. You want to know who Real Americans are? They're the folks who vote in Oregon and Ohio and Texas and California and Michigan and Maine and Nevada and Florida and Georgia and Alaska and any of the other states and territories where they're legally counted. They vote when it's raining or snowing or 100 degrees. They vote when they didn't get enough sleep the night before and when they have a pile of work waiting on their desk when they get in. They vote by mail, or early, or after hours of waiting. They pay babysitters to watch their children, or they take their kids with them to watch and learn. Real Americans vote when they know their ballot might not be counted, but also know they have to at least try. Real Americans know that the only way their voice will be heard is if they raise it above the din of corruption in a sturdy yawp by casting their ballot.

I'm tired of being angry. I'm exhausted by waiting for the accountability that will most likely never come to Washington D.C., to my satisfaction anyway. I'm ready for logic and compassion to stop being side items on the political buffet. As serious as this election is, the humor has gotten me through it. I hope the following bits will bring a smile to your face as well-- right before (or after) we join together as Real Americans, and vote.

Lisa Nova as Sarah Palin (beats the timing out of Tina Fey, though also a good imitation):

Larry David on the Huffington Post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/larry-david/waiting-for-nov-4th_b_137029.html):

"I can't take much more of this. Two weeks to go, and I'm at the end of my rope. I can't work. I can eat, but mostly standing up. I'm anxious all the time and taking it out on my ex-wife, which, ironically, I'm finding enjoyable. This is like waiting for the results of a biopsy. Actually, it's worse. Biopsies only take a few days, maybe a week at the most, and if the biopsy comes back positive, there's still a potential cure. With this, there's no cure. The result is final. Like death.

Five times a day I'll still say to someone, "I don't know what I'm going to do if McCain wins." Of course, the reality is I'm probably not going to do anything. What can I do? I'm not going to kill myself. If I didn't kill myself when I became impotent for two months in 1979, I'm certainly not going to do it if McCain and Palin are elected, even if it's by nefarious means. If Obama loses, it would be easier to live with it if it's due to racism rather than if it's stolen. If it's racism, I can say, "Okay, we lost, but at least it's a democracy. Sure, it's a democracy inhabited by a majority of disgusting, reprehensible turds, but at least it's a democracy." If he loses because it's stolen, that will be much worse. Call me crazy, but I'd rather live in a democratic racist country than a non-democratic non-racist one. (It's not exactly a Hobson's choice, but it's close, and I think Hobson would compliment me on how close I've actually come to giving him no choice. He'd love that!)

The one concession I've made to maintain some form of sanity is that I've taken to censoring my news, just like the old Soviet Union. The citizenry (me) only gets to read and listen to what I deem appropriate for its health and well-being. Sure, there are times when the system breaks down. Michele Bachmann got through my radar this week, right before bedtime. That's not supposed to happen. That was a lapse in security, and I've had to make some adjustments. The debates were particularly challenging for me to monitor. First I tried running in and out of the room so I would only hear my guy. This worked until I knocked over a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down or get out!" my host demanded. "Okay," I said, and took a seat, but I was more fidgety than a ten-year-old at temple. I just couldn't watch without saying anything, and my running commentary, which mostly consisted of "Shut up, you prick!" or "You're a fucking liar!!!" or "Go to hell, you cocksucker!" was way too distracting for the attendees, and finally I was asked to leave.

Assuming November 4th ever comes, my big decision won't be where I'll be watching the returns, but if I'll be watching. I believe I have big jinx potential and may have actually cost the Dems the last two elections. I know I've jinxed sporting events. When my teams are losing and I want them to make a comeback, all I have to do is leave the room. Works every time. So if I do watch, I'll do it alone. I can't subject other people to me in my current condition. I just don't like what I've turned into -- and frankly I wasn't that crazy about me even before the turn. This election is having the same effect on me as marijuana. All of my worst qualities have been exacerbated. I'm paranoid, obsessive, nervous, and totally mental. It's one long, intense, bad trip. I need to come down. Soon."

Birthday, Observed

2008-10-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

Dad was born on October 26, 1926. Let me tell you a few things I learned about and from my dad.

He loved mincemeat pies and rutabaga. Both "foods" make me sad. Mincemeat is the kind of mixture you would conjure up at the middle school lunchroom table and then dare your weakest willed friend to eat it for a dollar--but they have to finish the whole thing. Rutabaga, on the other hand, tasted alright if you could get beyond the stench of cooking it. The wreak of that vegetable breaking down to baby food consistency used to wake us up on Thanksgiving with all the pleasure of the Harvest Clown sitting on our chests and stealing our breath.

Dad could draw Popeye in less than a minute. And not some crappy stick figure holding a cylinder shape with "spinach" written across it. No way. His Popeyes were publishable quality.

He was like the Pied Piper of Hartland without all the death. I'm pretty sure he liked little kids, but holy God did they love him. If there was a kid under 5 in a two mile radius of him, their little kid radar went off and they honed in on him. Some broke into a flat out run to get to him. Once they got to him, their reactions ranged from standing in silent awe to doing a Kerry Strugg vault straight up into his arms. However they reacted to him, he always had the same reaction. He'd look at them over his glasses and make his forehead wrinkle until they were giggggggling little balls of adoring jell-o.

He wore a black ambassador hat with a red and gold feather pin for dressing up, steppin' out occasions like church or weddings.

I saw him visibly mad once in my whole life.

He taught Driver's Education as a little extra income. I don't know how he taught the students he hadn't help make, but I can tell you that our first and only ride together before I earned my license ended with this direction: "brake. Brake. Brake! BRAKE! USE THE GODDAMN BRAKES!" My siblings tell similar stories.

He served in WWII. When "Saving Private Ryan" came out, I kept offering to take him, but he continually declined. He went to see it by himself and told me about it a couple months after the fact.

He had a belly laugh that started in his toes until he would roar with it. Tears would stream from his eyes and he'd almost stop breathing he was laughing so hard. Certain comedians could get him going, but usually it would be our neighbors who stopped in with tales about their kids or grandkids' shenanigans that would set him off the most.

He hated raspberries. We used to have raspberry bushes in the big garden. I'd spend hours in the summer out there gathering them. He could barely stand the sight of them, but tolerated it for us. To a point. The summer after I went to college, he plowed them under with the tractor. He claimed it was an "accident" and didn't see them, but for 18 years, he'd managed to avoid a bush calamity, so I was skeptical. Entertained, but skeptical.

He was raised on a farm in the middle of the Depression in rural Tennessee. His attachment to farm animals was that of caring for them so that they were comfortable until they were edible. He took the same approach to our pets, minus the eating them part. Feed them, pet them if they happened to come near your open palm, never hurt them, and be merciful. His mercy wasn't necessarily my mercy. We had a cat named Hennessy (after the cognac) who was an outside kitty. She developed a horrid infection on her head that we cleaned and treated to no avail. One morning, Dad told me to tell Hennessy that I loved her. I did and then went to school. I came home and went looking for her out by the barn. No Hennessy. I went to change her water and the bowls were gone.

Dad was sitting outside reading the paper and I asked him, "Dad, have you seen Hennessy?"

"Yes."

"Where was she?"

"Out behind the barn."

"I just looked there. When was that?"

"This morning. When I shot her. She's buried back there if you want to go see."

Like he was telling me what he had for breakfast. I don't even think he looked up from the paper. But that's the way he approached animal death. He'd rather take care of them himself, someone who loved them, than some stranger, as he perceived it. He respected our vet while the pets were alive (his brother and son were both vets), but when it came to the end, that was his job.

Dad loved peppermints. Brachs peppermints, not the horrid imitations restaurants hand out when they run out of fortune cookies. He believed they could cure everything from tummy aches to hurt feelings. For the most part, I think he was right, though I know my brother disagrees with me. He thinks they're unsatisfying stand-ins for dessert, but what does he know? He's just a nationally honored chef. Hack.

Today would have been Dad's 82nd birthday, so don your ambassador, pop a Brachs, and join me in a toast to the Pied Piper himself.

Moving Shadows

2008-10-24T22:06:00.000-07:00

For as many movies as J and I watch (and research ad nauseam), we really don't own that many. Rent? Sure. I've rented enough movies to make Ebert blush, but rarely do I buy them. I make exceptions for Life Changers. You know, the movies that help shape your life or make you think until your ears ooze thinking juice, or forge a bond between you and a loved one. My film library contains moving snapshots from my personal history, and serves as physical illustrations of why I cherish movies and everything that surrounds them. Everything I relate to in life either has some basis from film, or I just haven't found that particular piece of celluloid yet. But I will.

When I moved to Oregon from Ohio, I brought what I could shove in my Buick and a whole lot of baggage that no suitcase could contain. An interested observer might be prompted to ask me if I've actually sought treatment for my neurotic disorder from my odd movie collection (which made the trip at the expense of most of my clothes). Looking at it objectively, yeah, I guess it's a little unusual to find "Unforgiven" propped up next to "Sleepless in Seattle", or to find "Fairy Tale: A True Story" mingling with "The Exorcist", but if I told you that Dad took me to see "Unforgiven" in the theater and that Mom took me to see "Sleepless in Seattle" at the same theater, it might start to make sense. My movies aren't arranged alphabetically. They're ordered autobiographically.

I took my beautiful, incredibly pregnant dear friend to see the re-issue of "The Exorcist" eight years ago so that we could enjoy the extra 11 minutes of footage together, and hopefully smoke the baby out of her well overdue burrow. It made perfect sense. She and I were roommates for three years in college and watched the original movie enough that we could absolutely pinpoint the extra footage when it came up. Especially the emotionally scarring backward spider walk down the family stairs. The bowel-loosening memory maker did the trick. Her sweet daughter was born the next day. That little girl and I spent lots of Aunt Sheila/Miss Lady time together and one of our favorite movies was "Fairy Tale: A True Story". Ahhhhhh, now it's coming together.

Just as I keep family photos together, I keep family movies together. I can glance over and see "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and remember my brothers helping me rent it from Cromaine Library. The cover of "To Kill A Mockingbird" reminds me of staying with my sister and brother-in-law in their first house on McCormack Street where the basement could have easily served as the stand-in set for the storage unit in the "Silence of the Lambs". Speaking of which, holding my "Silence of the Lambs" tape brings me back to the night when my brother taught me how to take a shot like a badass and then hid his face under a pillow until the bad guy was taken care of at the end of the movie.

It would be a crime to finish this post without talking about my personal story of "E.T". This is the first movie I can remember seeing with our family's best friend, Bill Carr. Every ounce of my cinephilia is rooted with Bill. Never in my life have I known anyone who culled as much genuine enjoyment from the theatrical experience as he did. He truly believed and imparted that movies are meant to be powerful and magical. They are salves for tattered souls that can neatly stitch broken hearts as good as new. He didn't have any patience for movies that didn't take that responsibility seriously and were spattered with gore or profane language. If the movie wasn't suitable for an innocent, imaginative child, Bill didn't want any part of it either. The night we lost Bill, I watched "The Muppet Christmas Carol", the first movie released under the Henson name after Jim Henson died in 1990. Bill had taken me and my brother to this movie in December of that year to help celebrate that while Jim Henson's time had come to an end, he can still live on through the wonder of the movies.

Contrary to my standard system, "E.T" isn't next to "The Muppet Christmas Carol" on my movie shelf. Instead, "E.T" is the first movie on the top shelf, and "The Muppet Christmas Carol" is the last movie on the bottom shelf, as movies always begin and end with my gratitude to Bill.

Oh, Brother

2008-10-22T19:48:00.000-07:00

And so it came to pass in the house of David on the 22nd of October, a second son was born.

His fashion sense was second to only his style icon brother.

The Force was strong with this one.

As a reward for his majesty, his parents brought him a pet to love.

He groomed it.

And read to it.

And took it for walks.

But the boy could not stay in the house of David forever, and took a lovely wife.

Matthew and Janel begat Emma. The Force has an heir.

Matthew and Janel begat Lily. The fashion empire lives on.

And so it is with great joy we link hands and dance the Birthday dance of the ages for the second son come every 22nd of October.

"A Thrill of Hope, The Weary World Rejoices"

2008-10-20T18:24:00.000-07:00

Rarely are there minutes in the day when I don't feel incredibly awkward or out of place, determined to say the wrong thing or step a little to the left when I should have been leaping to the right. This especially can be said of when I'm around my family. It's nothing they do or say or don't do or say, but when you're the youngest sibling of three wunderkinds, well, it can be a shite recipe for self doubt and loathing. Fortunately, they're all really cool and hardly ever project an air of condescension, or cast a pall of disappointment over our interactions.

Disjointed social impulses aside, I feel most at ease when I'm working. I've risen up through the ranks of what I do with the uncanny ability to soothe ravaged souls and calm down the inner demons, both the patients' and my own. I may not be able to get a sentence out at Thanksgiving without stuttering, but I can Steve McQueen my way around lost and forgotten souls who've rejected their meds for the last week and saved up their rage and resentment in big throbbing angry baskets of bullshit for lucky little me. They're walking, talking Rubik's cubes. The last thing they want is pity. The first thing they want is for someone to listen to them without judgment. They get that enough in the outside world. Regardless of what they're saying, they just want to be heard--to know that someone understands their words and while no reasonable solution may exist, they're sharing the incredible weight with someone with the tools to help them carry it. By the time we're finished, they've put all the yellows back with the yellows and the reds in line with the other reds, with maybe one or two oranges mixed in for humor's sake. I can't take credit for that. I just listen while the pieces fall into place and help them tweak the lines.

In this sea of strange and often daunting daily activity, there are glimmers of true joy. Today, I was granted the opportunity to lead the staff holiday project. We adopt a nursing home and all of its residents who either don't have family and visitors at all, or who don't have loved ones with the ability to provide holiday cheer in the form of presents and cards. This will be our third year working with this same facility. I called to ask if they needed us this year and the social services director started giggling like a gleeful child. They had just this morning started wondering how they were going to cover the holidays for the 40+ folks on the giving list, and were at a loss. She said they just looked at each other and then looked away. And then I called on behalf of our staff. Funny how things work out.

I work with unbelievably kind people. As soon as I put out the word about the project, I received at least ten offers to help, whether with the planning, or actually distributing the presents, they were all willing and excited to participate. One of our managers brings her friend's therapy-certified dog to the facility Christmas Party (all of the residents identify as Christian, so the facility feels free to call it a Christmas Party). The residents absolutely love the opportunity to pet the wee gal. She dresses as Santa. The dog, not our manager.

Last year, I was privileged to help deliver the presents to the home. We unloaded two cars and a truck full of presents for every single resident. No one was left out. Our staff was able to personally sign three Christmas cards for each patient in addition to four presents tailored to their likes and hobbies, as provided by their caregivers. After we unloaded, they offered us a tour of the place. Three separate folks held my hand and showed me cards from the year before signed by our staff, meant just for them. They still hung by their beds. For some of the residents, those cards were the only things on their boards. What took maybe two minutes to write and address may endure as a joy for the rest of that patient's life.

I'm a sucker for the worthy causes of helping orphans, foster children, abandoned animals, and struggling families, but I think it's because of pretty much growing up in a nursing home with my grandparents that I have a special drive to help this particularly under-served population in our community. Their smiles don't mean any more than a child's or a rescued animal's tail wagging, but I do think those smiles are harder to come by. Most of the time, they just want to know someone out there cares that they like bears, or the color blue, or that they were once the bowling champion of Multnomah County in 1948. Most of the time, they just want to be heard.

Ninjawesome

2008-10-15T21:35:00.000-07:00

I asked J what he wanted me to write about tonight. Gentleman's pick. So, what did the gentleman pick? Childhood heroes. Hmmm. His childhood hero is Conan the Barbarian, so we're not too far apart, I guess, as my childhood hero was a ninja. He was a stealthy sort, and no one knew he was a ninja (thank God for stealth). I shouldn't even be talking about it now, but I think it'll be alright. He's in ninja heaven where rooftops never creak and aim is always true. You can't tell anyone else, though, okay?

His power was mighty, but quiet. He kept to himself mostly, for fear of discovery. He masqueraded as a high school counselor by day, but I knew better. On weekends, he would go out to the back field to "chop wood for the fire", but his Saturdays were chock full of knife play and blow gun practice. Oh sure, he'd come back with a trailer full of wood. Likely story.

When an ordinary citizen would talk to him, they would look into his eyes and only see a kindly southern teacher, but those who shared his secret knew those eyes were gauging his potential opponent's fall trajectory in the event he would have to pull a one-inch hit.

I used to hold his weathered, calloused hand that I thought was marked by years of farming and chores. How could I have known I was holding the deadly weapons of a genius assassin full of punches and fury? It wasn't until my oldest brother's high school graduation party when I was 7-years-old did I find out the family secret.

My brothers and I were in the garage with the snack table spread with the standard fare of dips, chips, ham rolls, and sweets when they decided it was time. They sat me down and told me that I needed to understand something very important. They asked me to picture John Peter McAllister, which wasn't hard because he was only the coolest badass on television at the time, played by Lee Van Cleef on "The Master". So there I was with the picture of this beacon of righteousness in my mind and then they told me...Dad was a ninja. No way! I was only seven, but I knew a good load of hooey when it was launched at my head. There was no way that my dad was a ninja. Or so I thought.

"Go ask him," they taunted. Whatever. Fine. I figured I'd go ask him, get it over with, and get back to my dip score. Off I went. I found him in the kitchen stirring a 7/7 for my mom.

"Daaaaad?"

"Eh?"

"Matt and Russ told me to come ask you if you're a ninja like The Master. So?"

"So what?"

"Are you a ninja?"

"Why do you wanna know?"

"I just wanna know so that I can tell them what you said. Are you a ninja?"

He kept stirring and looked at me out the side of his eye, one eyebrow raised. Then he said it:

"Yes. Don't tell your mother."

So, yeah. It turns out my childhood hero was a ninja.

And this, my fellow Americans, is a true story.

A. True. Fucking. Story.

They call him... Tim

2008-10-09T18:42:00.000-07:00

In one month, my nephew is going to turn 18-years-old. He won't be 18 in time to vote in this election, but he'll turn 18 in time to pay the price if the wrong man is elected.

I remember very well when he was born. I was in Mrs. Bullard's homeroom when I was called down to the office where they let me know that he was here. Not at the school, just in the philosophical sense of the word. That was pretty neat. I remember it so well because that was the first time I ever felt that whoosh of pure happiness and excitement for a new little person in the world. My sister had a tough go of it and they ended up having to take him by C-section. It was so rushed they nicked his teeny little eyebrow. You can see the mark in his hospital baby photo. You know, the photo where they poke and prod this little human who's still a bit damp from his trip into a pained half "smile" for the sake of posterity. And for the giggle of it. He looks like Vanilla Ice from "Ice Ice Baby"-era. We took him home anyway.

I'm proud of my sister and brother-in-law for keeping him fed and warm all this time. It took some doing, but they persevered. And he's worth it. So far. He was my first niece/nephew type (of countless many) and he's held his own in the pack enough to stand out mightily. I like his style and who he's turning out to be. I have great hopes for him. He's got the shinin', that one.

Promise Me This, Promise Me That

2008-10-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

J and I are writing our own vows. Not exactly an original concept, so I want to make sure they're spot on and reflect what's been important to us. One of the reasons I haven't been married yet is that I can't stand the idea of breaking a promise and seeing that look in his eye. With that in mind, I need to make sure the vows are keep-able so that I don't totally romance the pooch. These declarations may not be made of champagne and roses, but they need to be real and mine. Here are a few for practice:

I promise to put on the emergency break in your car every time I drive it.
I vow to clean the kitty box and do the dishes when you're sick, even if it's your turn.
I promise to unclot the shower drain when the mystery gunk monster tries to nest in our pipes.
I promise to rewind the VHS tapes when I'm done with them.
I vow that I will never compare you to past loves, because they didn't work out so well, did they?
I promise to listen to what you don't say.
I vow to keep an open mind when Adam and Jamie challenge my beliefs.
I promise to be your buffer when we're in a situation where you might have to talk to someone new.
I vow to live one day longer than you so that you don't have to do what you're most afraid of.

When it comes time to actually write and say the real ones, I'm excited to see what I'll say. Because right now, it's anyone's bet.

Real Love

2008-10-05T18:33:00.000-07:00

I try to be a good citizen and keep up on current events that actually matter. Ask me about the election, and I feel comfortable giving you my views. Ask me about the latest scientific and technological advancements, and while I may not know all of the details, I'll be happy to look them up and get back to you. Ask me about the education records in my town, who our current leaders are, the latest legislation on the table, or the crime rates, and I'll tear it up. I keep up on these facts so that I can stem the guilt that comes from what I really want to study: horrible, toxic "reality" television shows.

Shows like "Flavor of Love", "Rock of Love", "The Hills", "Super Sweet Sixteen", "Snapped", and (God help me) "Rock of Love: Charm School Edition" are like sucking on a giant sugar cube while smoking down a carton of Winston Lights--not good for you by anyone's imagination, but daaaaaammnnnit they go down so easily.

I've quit smoking, stopped drinking pop, rarely consume alcohol, cut back on sodium, and started taking vitamins, but it will be one brave bastard who tries to pry the remote from my death grip on Saturday night or Sunday afternoon. These shows actively work to make me a smidge dumber after every viewing. And it feels soooo good. I can't help it. When these idiots go at it in a down and dirty cat fight over a person who can only be described as a repulsive carnival mannequin, I just sit back with my glass of iced tea, put my feet up on a stack of newspapers and reference books and let the dirty, gritty, disgusting pleasure baptize me in all its repellent glory.

Appliance High Jinks

2008-09-30T19:02:00.000-07:00

Our washer is broken. Again. Every time I turn around, that piece of arse is at it again. This time it ended with an actual explosion. Delightful. I was cleaning the bejeezus out of the house when I heard the BOOM! from the utility closet. I quickly did the math in my head and sure enough we're due for our 5-month washer/dryer calamity. Last time, the wee bastard flooded the kitchen. That's right. I said kitchen. Our righteous apartments (we moved from a one to a two-bedroom in April in the same complex) strategically place these Eurotrash "high efficiency" front-loading abominations in the least convenient locations possible. So in that case, it was next to the stove in the kitchen. Naturally. I mean, where else would you expect to keep your washer/dryer, Fancypants von Trousersander? So yeah, lame. We're out of a washer until our repairman brings us a new motherboard, as ours was a casualty of the shiny grin grin Saturday morning pyrotechnic display.

Because of this interruption of all things right and good, I gathered up the clothing and took it to the nearest laundromat. I'm not opposed to laundromats so long as they're clean and quiet. As luck would have it there is one just like that only a few blocks up and over. I guess that's part of the beauty of living in a large town, small city. For those of you who've never been to Portland, one important fact to note is that pretty much everyone in this town stands out in one way or another. I was on my way home from work a couple months ago and saw a guy walking a chicken on a leash. The chicken's collar was purple and sparkly, and to me, well, sparkles just don't belong on a chicken. The purple was a nice shade, though. Anyway, a trip to the laundromat here is a like sitting in the lobby of a Cirque de Soleil show that hasn't quite found its niche yet. In the hour and a half it took for me to cycle through my wash, I saw a woman with a tattoo that curled around her neck and read C-U-N-T in big bright red old English calligraphy, a fella whose skirt was hand-sewn from plastic and jeans, and a young lady who practiced her percussion skills on the bank of extra large washers (very talented, I might add).

While all this is swirling around me, I managed to write out pretty much all of the storyboards for our wedding DVD extras, the mailing list for it, and the supplies and fees we'll need to carry out this shindig. Maybe in the overall scheme it's not such a bad thing the washer decided to dump out on us for a couple weeks. My productivity and hometown entertainment depended on it, apparently.

October Affair

2008-09-26T06:49:00.000-07:00

It's almost October, my favorite month of the year. I'll never understand those folks who get the love sweats for sunny, 95 -degree weather. I find that sort of day akin to a cosmic spanking--a purely unpleasant bum-hammering, really. When I moved out here, I was unmoved by the incessant griping about the rain. When you live in a temperate rain forest, it stands to follow that you and your precious Jersey hair sculptures are going to get damp, if not soaked.

I strive to create a home that is a place of warmth, comfort, and peace, but from about September 20th to around January 15th, our wee place takes on a glow not enjoyed in July or August. Because we're not outside as much and actually notice the inside surroundings, I can focus more clearly in a way that doesn't happen when the sun blanket is in town. The smell of steeping cider combined with the chilled breeze from the porch mark the fall here in lieu of the vivid changing colors on the midwest trees.

It is with a toothy smile I say, Welcome Home, October. Pull up your hood and break out the warm mittens. It's time to cozy up to Neptune and bid Apollo farewell until April...

A Picture Blog

2008-09-22T22:01:00.000-07:00

When I have to hunt for the funny about certain situations I feel like:

But the funny always comes back when I sit under this tree and think about the beauty of absurdity:

And I perk up at the thought of things like:

And:

And oh Lord yes:

So, even when the world looks and acts like:

I know that the next day just may bring:

And that is plenty for me to buy the ticket to the next show...

Unexpected

2008-09-16T18:10:00.000-07:00

When I first moved to Oregon, my ultimate goal was to live in downtown Portland and learn the ropes of the non-profit sector in an effort to start my own. For those of you who know the Portland job market, you're aware that it is an unforgiving beast of a process that most often leads to a dead-end time gobbling interview with employers who have made a plastic judgment about you five seconds after you've taken a seat in their conference room, sponsored by IKEA. By the time I entered the place that was to become my first professional home in the city, I was a battered little bunny rabbit that placed little stock in the possibility this employer would be any different from the other 7 from whom I'd already taken a beating. I would soon appreciate that being wrong can bring a comfort few have the pleasure to know.

On November 21, 2005, I started my career in the non-profit realm. I had much to learn, but my teachers were endlessly patient with my bottomless well of questions. It helped that they understood my loyalty wasn't some fly-by-night commodity, but a genuine commitment to the organization's mission, and they appreciated my willingness to learn, regardless of how annoying my tactics of knowledge acquisition might be.

I met remarkable people who wanted to make sure the past was preserved for future generations, and who wanted to ensure the Museums they maintain maximize the experience of the visitors and event revelers. Each person who works for this non-profit have one job title, but wear many uniforms. Not once have I heard "That's not my job" or "I don't feel like it." We were and are a team.

Over time, my role with the Museum has shifted and shaped itself from working full time as assistant to the Executive Director, David, to working part time as a technology caretaker and assistant to our Event Coordinator, Wynee. Every Sunday I look forward to hearing the organization news while I work through scheduling updates and technology clean-up. Wynee's tales are never dull, and always help the listener feel as if they were in the room when the story-worthy event happened.

I appreciate a person who knows how to laugh, and Wynee is one of those people. She's well aware that one of my biggest "things" is any sort of rodent in my immediate sphere of interaction, so one Sunday she sat me down to tell me a mouse wandered into her office the day before (the building is nestled on a wooded hillside) just to watch me jump ten feet in the air and let out a shriek of undelight. She was a merciful joker, though. She didn't let my fit go on for much longer than the immediate discontent, and settled me down with a cup of coffee and reassurance that she had already banished the little bastard back to its hillside domain.

Wynee died suddenly yesterday. I could say all of the standards about her: She was kind, hilarious, sweet, smart, professional, bawdy, and one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen, but it's all trite. None of those words, however apt, can do justice to the mother, friend, woman, who was Wynee. Every time I left the Museum she would ask me if I needed anything, sincerely wanted an answer, and would block the door until I gave it. We would part with a quick hug, a Hollywood air kiss, and a "Have a good week, Honey. Love you!"

Goodnight, Wynee. It has been an honor.

Cut The Crap, er, Cake

2008-09-14T10:57:00.000-07:00

My only sister married her high school sweetheart 23 years ago. Twenty. Three. Years. Ago. Fortunately, they both rule, so it's lasted that long. My oldest brother has opted not to marry and has made quite a success of the bachelor lifestyle. My other brother married well to a lady who shares his goals and sense of humor--two essential qualities that have helped them last the ten years they have.

Up until about two years ago, the idea of marriage had me reaching for the Saltines and Sprite. It was about as delicious a concept as I could not imagine. I don't have any sort of a reasonable explanation for my aversion to commitment. My parents were married for 48 years. My siblings sported successful love stories. I had broken an engagement in my early twenties, but it wasn't for anything traumatic. He was a good guy. He just wasn't my good guy, through no fault of his or mine. It was a good decision for both of us, and not one I regret.

So, if my major experiences with love were mostly positive why did I feel the need to kick commitment in the throbbing nads? Part of it can attributed to the wedding hall where I worked for three years in college and grad school where I became so jaded with weddings that my coworkers and I would actually have running bets on when the ink would dry on these asses' divorce papers. There was a formula we used: The higher the cost of the wedding, the faster the marriage would dissolve like alka seltzer in a swimming pool. I would keep tabs in the local papers and sure enough, Mr. and Mrs. X would soon become Mr. X and Ms. Y within months. Shows like "Bridezillas" and "Platinum Weddings" tend to put the bitchy emphasis on the bride herself, but let me tell you who the actual maddening loon was in the family: The groom's mother. Without fail, this grande dame of muttering misery would burst through the kitchen staging area and demand something ridiculous and unattainable like elevating the bridal party table three feet so her 97-year-old uncle could get a "real good look at the ladies". She would be the first to pass out by the champagne fountain and the last to slur, "You kids are some...some....shumething else, you are." Thud.

My experiences there are an endless well of righteous indignance with the wedding industry, but I wouldn't trade my time there for anything. Where else could you get paid to hear a best man "toast" the new couple with "Well, Kim, you won't have to get any more abortions after today"? BEAUTIFUL.

I'm getting married in February. I'm looking forward to it, not just because he's one cool mf'er, but because he's completely supportive of not having a wedding with anyone besides our officiant, a couple witnesses, and God. We're filming it to send out to friends as a DVD wedding because we do want our loved ones to share in this special moment with us, but also as irrefutable evidence that I, Jaded Commitmentphobe, did not run for the hills as predicted, but instead stood my ground and vowed to make this marriage a success. Not only does that thought not make my breakfast back its thing up, but that thought makes me happy like a little lad in short pants.

Ahhhhhh, l'amour...

A Crinkle in Time

2008-09-12T18:14:00.000-07:00

When my dad died a little over three years ago, I was more than slightly aware that his passing would have weird and unexpected effects on my life. I knew there would be times when I missed his voice, or his deep belly laugh. His gentle teasing humor would be a void not easily filled as one day melted into the next. I knew I would want to share the news of my life with him. But there was no way for me to understand how it would feel to be denied the ability to share it.

I can still see him. His eyes had three main branches of crinkles at the corners when he smiled his crooked indulgent grin. Regardless of how genetics and osteoporosis conspired to warp his stance, he still managed to lean back when he talked to you so that your eyes were level and you felt the full gravity of his words. That is, if he said any words. Every glance he cast your way told you exactly what he wanted you to know, whether it was "What in the hell is wrong with you?", "Pass the salt", or the elusive "I'm so very proud of who you are", you knew exactly what he meant. And it meant a lot.

I think of him every day, and that's not surprising, but what I have found to be jarring is the amount of times I forget he's gone and I'll think about what he'll say when I tell him THIS bit of information. And then I remember. The bottomless pain has gradually become a dull heartbeat that is always there, but doesn't slam me to the floor the way I allowed it to in the past. I very much credit my fiance for helping remind me that good men are still here, though one of the best I've ever known might not be.

In about a week my brother and sister-in-law are about to do something completely extraordinary. Their restaurant and his efforts as chef have been chosen to cook at the James Beard House in New York City. For the world of culinary arts, this is the equivalent of winning an Oscar. No, wait. Not winning. Earning. Every time I think about their wonderful achievement, I think how incredible it must be to be Dad right now. Not only does he get to see his son fulfill a lifelong dream, but he also gets to watch over them and hold their hands in a way he never would have done, had he been confined to his fragile body. In a way, his passing is the only thing that allows him to share that day with them.

It is that sort of realization that I never expected to have in the first couple years that were roundly devoted to healing and learning how to live on an Earth that didn't host him anymore. To be sure, it is a different place. But since I've come to look at his death as merely a change of address, I'm grateful he's still available to me in our own way. And when I look in the mirror and see the beginning of those wrinkle branches on my own eyes, I can only smile a little bigger. Crookedly.

Club Nights

2008-09-08T20:30:00.000-07:00

My mom is a small fairy godmother of a woman who carries a mad rumpus with her wherever she goes. She's a wee sprite with a penchant for laughter who was my first exposure to quirkiness, and the most enduring.

Every month Mom would meet with seven other ladies from the neighborhood to play pinochle, eat delicious dips and munchies (made by the indentured hands of her children), and talk about what joys and disappointments their families were. Each club member would take a turn as hostess, and the party rotated from house to house so that we would host this hilariously bawdy bunch of women every eight months. It was the one night we were allowed to eat all the hors d'oeuvres we could keep down, and to stay up late for my mom's special raspberry dessert.

During Club, my brothers and I would be banished to our rooms to do homework, or to my parents' room to watch some spirit-breakingly boring special on PBS with our dad while the ladies whooped it up with their coffee cups full at 9:00pm and Virginia Slims blazing in the living room. I was mainly resentful not because I wanted to be in the living room to participate in the card games and big girl conversations, but because that's where they kept the dip and appetizers for a main course that would never come. I was often in charge of hunting and gathering "dinner" for the bedroom dwellers because I was the smallest and had the best chance of going unnoticed. In order to get to the food, I would have to make it past the perfume and 80s beehive gauntlet. And the hugs. Oh Lord, the hugs. It seems that every single one of them had huge chests and an endless supply of polyester blouses. Let me tell you, polyester lives to soak up White Shoulders and Charlie.

Most of the ladies were the coolest folks you could ever hope to meet with kind and generous hearts tucked in their gravity-defying bosoms, but there were a couple doozies that made Florence Jean Castleberry look like the lost courtier of Queen Victoria. They would talk about their latest hot dates with the local Cleetuses to the dismay of all in earshot. No detail was left to the imagination, and inevitably they would reach the pinnacle of their sordid tales of woe while I was scooping up a plate of olive dip for the PBS crowd.

Today, I still make a meal of appetizers when given the opportunity and have committed those dip recipes to memory, much to the delight of my coworkers and party going peeps. Though I never learned how to play pinochle, I surely did learn how to laugh. I think of those days often and wonder what my own kids might learn from my candid conversations with my girlfriends and my openness to quirky lifestyles and bold personalities that I inherited gratefully from my mom. I hope for their sake they're able to grin as widely as I do when I think of my own mother, her club, and the cries of "Hokey Shit!" at one o'clock in the morning on a school night. And if not, well, I hope they learn to like the riveting drones of PBS on a Wednesday evening.

Love Them Or Throw Something Metal At Them

2008-09-06T11:25:00.000-07:00

The Oscars please me. If ever I've had a "thing" about anything, it is the holiest of holy nights: The Academy Awards. In fact, I once dumped a guy and asked him to leave my apartment because he wouldn't shut up during one of the moving and deep montages about the use of the New York skyline in movies through the ages. Asshole.

It's not that I love them unconditionally. Oscar and I share a volatile, passionate relationship that takes a lot of work and cultivation. Sometimes he disappoints me so scarringly that it takes years to forget; however I find myself unable to forgive him (I'm looking at YOU, Best Actress Gwyneth Paltrow). In fact, some of the honors he's bestowed are so ridiculous and unfounded, that it's hard to stay angry because the gaffes were so grievous. I manage, though. "Shakespeare in Love" overtaking "Saving Private Ryan" was such a jaw-dropping upset in every sense of the word that I still can't look at a list of Best Pictures (and I often do) without spitting on the ground and cursing each time I read that travesty of 1999. I realize the win is attributed to the aggressive Oscar campaign Miramax, at that time run by the juggernaut Weinstein empire, spearheaded to ensure wins across the major awards, and it really isn't a bad movie for what it is, but COME ON. Really? "Shakespeare in Love"? I don't care if even Dilbert-headed demon Karl Rove is running your Oscar campaign--nothing should have beaten "Saving Private Ryan" if the evaluation were actually based on its film merits, historical importance, or ensemble acting.

But it wasn't.

The Best Picture category isn't the only one to be tainted by popularity nonsense. In 2006, the Best Actor was awarded to Philip Seymour Hoffman, one of my all-time favorite actors. It should not have been. Hoffman turned in a stellar performance as Truman Capote, a feat unto itself, as Capote is renowned for often erratic and difficult behavior. Hoffman truly engaged his audience. It was just the wrong year. That year, Heath Ledger brought to life a character, Ennis Del Mar, so powerful and striking he was able to convincingly imply that every emotion he portrayed was genuine. And he did it with a fifth of the dialogue the other four nominated actors were afforded. Three of the five nominees that year, David Strathairn, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Joaquin Phoenix, were nominated for roles of real people with visual source material on which to base their character. All of them turned in Oscar-worthy performances, as did Terrence Howard for "Hustle and Flow", but not one of them inhabited their character more than Heath owned Ennis' outsider persona. He was young. His character was controversial. He had his whole life ahead of him to win his inevitable Best Actor statue. Or so we thought. Many a pooch was screwed that night at the Kodak Theater when a young man (he was only 26 at the time) was passed over for politics. The Academy can talk of all the posthumous Oscars for Heath's Joker performance all they want. It's still politics, and doesn't make up for their embarrassing boner of a judgment call.

I'll continue to adore Oscar Night's pomp and self-congratulatory hoopla with rapt attention, regardless of its occasional blunders. It's just that I love Oscar and he doesn't mean to do it. I have to believe that he won't do it to me again. Though my friends have warned me he will. What do they know? They don't know our love like we do...

Character Witness

2008-09-03T18:39:00.000-07:00

When I tell people I'm mourning the loss of the great Don LaFontaine or that I'm excited because today is Eileen Brennan's birthday, the majority look at me blankly as crickets chirp in the distance and a tumbleweed blows across our path. But. If I tell them that the guy who does the "IN A WORLD..." voiceovers for movie trailers died on Monday and that today is the birthday of the woman who played the Captain on "Private Benjamin" and Mrs. Peacock in "Clue", then I still get bewildered stares as they wonder why the hell I give a shit about either, but at least they know who they're wondering about.

Character actors make the world go 'round. Let the Academy award all the Washingtons and Sarandons they can stomach, but save me a helping of Slim Pickens, a lovin' spoonful of Zelda Rubinstein, and a steaming side of Geoffrey Lewis. These folks and their kind are the building blocks of greatness. Screw the simpering leads in a love story, and bring their hilarious best friends to my dinner table, Waiter.

Anthony Hopkins won an Oscar for "Silence of the Lambs", and arguably deserved it. But come on now. Who do you quote from that movie when you reeeeeally want to creep out your friends? That's right. It's Ted Levine's ultimately disturbing and memorable Buffalo Bill skin suit speech that keeps the crowds whimpering in the aisles.

And it wasn't Christian Bale's throat lozenge deprived Batman that packed the $500 million seats. It was Ledger's outlandish Joker portrayal slung to the masses with abandon that drew the crowds. Yes, Heath Ledger was a famous leading man in his own right prior to "The Dark Knight", but not in this movie. Oh no. Had he been the lead, his psychotic walking Id would have been considered over the top and too much for one sitting, but because he was a lunatic in the stands, the hero still shined, and the supporting character was an irresistibly wicked indulgence easily enjoyed.

It is with great admiration that I say thank you, Rose Marie, for your hilarious Sally Rogers. May the blessings of the Lord be upon you, Mr. Peter Graves, for your righteous and good Captain Oveur. And finally, to the king of the characters, it is with an abiding fondness and deep sadness that I say sleep well, Don Knotts. You are missed.

IN A WORLD without Don LaFontaine, Jerry Reed, Bernie Mac, Fran Ryan, Jack Soo, Larry Linville, Estelle Getty, and Charles Nelson Reilly, the sun sets a little differently, the moon shines a little dimmer, and our entertainment lacks a bit of the old one, two punch for which we loved them so much.

Stars and Gripes

2008-09-01T16:30:00.000-07:00

Astronomy keeps my demons laughing like wee girls on the playground. Whenever a daunting challenge rears its unreasonable, and oftentimes emotionally costly, head, I can look up at the sky and put myself back in perspective as a rather insignificant stardust pollinator bringing remnants of the heavenly bodies from one place to another.

My favorite recourse for self-comfort is a site called the Astronomy Picture of the Day. This site is an old friend to which my mentor from grad school, Dr. Dale Smith, introduced me. I was having a particularly bad day with some irrelevant classroom drama, so he called me into his office where he pulled up the Web page and asked me to take my time reading the description of the astronomical event featured that day. That simple exercise of putting aside my earthly mindbuggery to appreciate that beautiful photo is a coping mechanism I still use today.

Since that time, I've expanded my appreciation of this site to not only crutch the days of my sorrows, but to bookmark my joys with a nod of thanks to the cosmos. What follows here is a list of important dates in my life that APoD helped me engrave with a visual reality:

July 25, 1998: My brother married a righteous chick.

August 9, 1999: I broke off an engagement that was not meant to be.

December 3, 1999: Madeline Kahn died.

December 31, 1999: Spent the night of Y2K in a pub in Northern Ireland trading stories with hilarious local folks and my Irish friends Henry and Tom.

April 5, 2001: Successfully defended my Masters thesis.

August 28, 2001: Taught my first university course as a full instructor.

February 2, 2003: Crystal and my Friendship anniversary. Columbia shuttle explodes.

November 26, 2004: Decided to move my life to Oregon to pursue a career in the non-profit sector.

June 15, 2005: Closest friend of our family, Bill Carr, dies after a long battle with cancer. Anne Bancroft dies.

June 17, 2005: Dad follows Bill.

July 1, 2005: Set off with what I could shove in the Buick and drove to Oregon with Russ.

July 10, 2005: Turbo and my Friendship Anniversary.

October 1, 2005: Moved to Portland from mid-Oregon.

November 21, 2005: Began my career as non-profit sector's #1 fan.

February 28, 2007: Met J.

July 15, 2007: Met Pixie.

March 29, 2008: Saw Asylum Street Spankers for the first time and partied with the band.

June 20, 2008: Said yes.

Of course, when Keith Richards dies or if John McCain wins, I'll have to add more coping dates to the list, but for now...

The Bridge

2008-08-30T17:25:00.000-07:00

I'm a firm believer in the power of movies. Not just the standard power to move the audience while they are in the act of watching the film, but the haunting effect of the afterglow after the credits have rolled and we've all gone home. That's when the real action begins.

About three months ago, I rented a documentary called "The Bridge" because I had read about it in one of the silly trade mags I seek out to keep up on my movie trivia. The movie was actually released to the masses early last year, but I've been working up my nerve to see it ever since that time. The movie's concept sounds like a Faces of Death episode when one first reads about it, but looking deeper, it's a profound idea. The filmmakers set up cameras on either side of the Golden Gate Bridge for one year, and filmed everything. Families taking a Sunday stroll, lovers walking hand in hand, and the other kind of bridge dweller: The Jumper. The vantage points of the cameras gave a visual context to the stories behind these folks' desperate, often last, actions. There were no swells of music as the people jumped. There were no CGI effects to make a caricature of the people as the lost flying Walendas. They just jumped, choosing to die violently rather than go on living under their unbearable pressures. There on that bridge surrounded by horrified onlookers, and in one case a person with fast enough reflexes to stop the jump, they made a decision to end their lives for a spectrum of reasons and then did it.

"The Bridge" not only gives a visual context to the suicides, but seeks out the stories behind the people caught on film. We hear of their backgrounds often marked by depression, masked mental illness, and desperation. We hear of the unimaginable pain the person felt before they decided to jump, and of the enduring pain of their surviving loved ones. It is affecting. It is maddening. And most of all, it is haunting. The film meanders a bit and is not a perfect documentary, by any means, but the makers reach their intent and goals of telling the stories that would turn the people from merely Jumpers #1-24 into flesh and blood human beings with families and histories. And ends.

This movie lives in me now. I can't help but be struck by its echo whenever the Golden Gate comes up, or when I'm thinking of the people in my own life who are or were affected by clinical depression and desperate circumstance. The majority of them decided to reach out for the help they didn't have the tools to provide themselves. Others have made more permanent, tragic choices. When I was 18, one of my close friends decided it would be a better choice to stand in front of a speeding train, rather than face the idea of living one more second. When I first heard of his death, I was angry, enraged really, that he would choose such a selfish option. But I didn't have the knowledge to understand what informed his decision at that time. As time passed, details of his homelife came out that would give a seasoned child services advocate pause. Without context, every suicide appears senseless and meaningless. For me, "The Bridge" was a catharsis 13 years in the making. It's a movie that I'm grateful to have seen, but saddened it had to be made.

I love films for many reasons. They can pick us up off the floor. They can provide an escape route. They can cement a bond between loved ones. And they can help us say goodbye.

Thing 1 and Thing 2 and Thing 3, Etc.

2008-08-28T21:13:00.000-07:00

I'm afraid of circus peanuts. Yes, the spongy orange/pink numbers that are made out of sugary insulation and held together by toddler tears. I don't know what it is about them, but I've never been a fan. It's important that you understand that it's not unusual for me to be put off by things that are completely harmless, and that bring joy to many untainted souls. I own the fact that I more than likely have a touch of the ol' OCD, though I've not been diagnosed. Bet you can't guess why I've never been diagnosed? That's right--nonplussed with tongue depressors. Couple that with a serious case of irrational superstitions and you've got yourself a neverending soiree of angst and neuroses.

What follows is a list of the, shall we say, unconventional fears/quirks that I've had or have. If you can make head or tail of them, I'm always up for amateur psychoanalysis. Hell, it's a party game at my house. Anyway, enjoy:

Carraway seeds. When I was little, I would wither inside when my mom made my sandwiches with rye bread. And Mary help us all when she would bring home carraway bagels. I felt like I was eating petrified ticks.
Representations of elephants. Real ones are just fine, thanks, but elephant statues and paintings, especially trunk down, keep me unsettled 'til the morning light.
Unwrapped straws in the dispenser at the movie theater or in a cafe. I'm not a germophobe in any other aspect of my life, but when faced with this dilemma, I have to open the top of the dispenser and get a fresh straw, rather than take the one already in the tray. I am well aware that some sweaty teenager who just harvested her acne probably put the straws in the top of the dispenser, but for some reason I've made peace with that.
Any sort of bug on one of our pets. We declared war with fleas about six months ago. Through vet recommendations and frantic home and pet treatments, we triumphed, but every time I see one of the kitties innocently scratching, I can feel my chest start to turn in on itself and the voices start to whisper sweet nothings about bleach and vet appointments. (Product Placement: Advantage is a miracle treatment for the feline crowd--highly recommend).
Singing in bed. BAD. LUCK. I can't do it. Not that there's really any cause to do it, but even when I'm babysitting and singing the little one to sleep, it has to be in a chair, not by the places where they sleep.
"See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" monkey statues. I will turn my back on you always, you creepy little poo flinging imps.
Waning moons. Rarely will I start new projects during a waning moon. Example: If I'm in the middle of a book and the moon starts to turn, that's fine, but I'd rather wait the two weeks until the new moon to start one. I've been bothered by the fact that I started this blog on the day after a full moon since I did it, but for some reason that day felt like the right day (another "thing" I have is internal timing--if I feel something is right, that feeling trumps all other things on deck).
The Cheshire Cat. Terrible burden of a beast, that.

And there you have it. This is by no means the full list, but it will do for a starter. I'm lucky enough not to be hobbled by these oddities, but they do affect my choices more than I'd like them to. They're part of me, so rather than fighting them, I've acknowledged that unrelenting sanity is an alternative route to success not paved for my kind.

Our Pixie

2008-08-27T18:34:00.000-07:00

My fiance's 15-year-old daughter comes to stay with him when school lets out and she stays until it's time to go back to school, so he gets her about 8-10 weeks out of each year. I get along fantastically with J's daughter, whom I've dubbed Pixie because that's exactly what she looks like. She even went so far as to voluntarily accompany me on a 5K walk for a local non-profit. I think one of the reasons we get along so swimmingly is that, well, we're both weird. Weird in the sense that different drummers march to our beats, and that is a good thing. She's fifteen without all the fifteeniness. She's respectful, smart, quiet, funny, and very shy. She can appreciate a powerful quote, the Bob Saget Roast, and recognize a cool artsy picture all on the same day. These are qualities I look for in a good person. Her mom and dad have already done all of the hard work and I get to reap the benefits of having a small pixie who's fun to hang out with and who likes to eat what I cook. Not once did she make an ill-informed choice that needed correction while she was here, so discipline isn't really an issue for us.

When he and I got serious and then agreed that marriage wouldn't be a bad idea, it dawned on me that I will be her stepmother. To me, the image of a stepmother is a mean and obnoxious bastard person whose only goal is to make her stepchildren's lives miserable and virtually unlivable. I think of Sigourney Weaver's horrible harridan of a queen in the live action, gothic "Snow White" who would eat babies for lunch if they weren't so noisy and full of crunch. That's just not my bag.

I like kids. I do. The cool ones are unintentionally hilarious and curious and creative and they put words together in orders I've never heard before, but should have. I have three nieces and three nephews in my blood family. In my friend family, I have 17 kids who call me Aunt Sheila and mean it. I love them all very much, especially the fact that I can play with them and have all the good parts without any of the worry and late nights and angst about their college education. Yes yes, I realize there's nothing more fulfilling than having a child, and I'll "understand when I have one of my own". I can't tell you how many times I've heard that from glowing mommies and daddies. I know they mean it sincerely without any intent of condescension. I know it's true. I just don't care to hear it again even one more time. Not one more cloyingly heartfelt time.

Being a full-time Aunt, I feel pretty well prepared for this life of a stepmother. I'm an indirect influence and I'm really quite fine with that. That is, at the beginning of the summer when we're looking forward to her.

But.

Yesterday, we spent over 18 hours in a car to meet her stepdad halfway, say goodbye, and come back home to a house void of pixies. We were so busy with the drive and customs (she lives in Canada) and food and rest stops that we didn't have much time to dwell on the fact that she's gone for another ten months. And I can't tell you how much that sucks. If this is the kind of sadness one feels merely as an indirect influence, then take me off the short list for the direct job. I've seen what the leaving does to her blood parent, and while I may be prepared for Aunthood, and even Stepmotherhood, right now Motherhood sounds about as pleasurable as punching a sleeping bear in the face.

For whom the phone rings

2008-08-25T19:36:00.000-07:00

My dad had a "thing" with death. I don't know if he loved it or hated it, but he spoke of it often. By the time I was ten, he'd taught me that you can kill a man with a rolled-up newspaper and good old fashioned panic. He demonstrated with the funny pages insert from the Sunday Flint Journal. I learned two things that day: How to locate the soft palate quickly on a lunging man, and that Cathy and Snoopy carry Hell in their eyes.

Any activity we kids did would elicit the inevitable story about a kid a couple counties over who died doing that very thing. It didn't matter what it was either. I could be tying my shoes or flying a kite, but I'd hear all about that ill-fated kid. I still fly kites and tie my shoes, but I'll be damned if I travel to that county down the way.

Dad's death obsession was most evident when I got older and moved out of the house. Almost every time I called home, he would say "You remember so and so from high school?" "Sure, yeah, he was a nice guy, why?" "Oh he died in a fiery wreck a couple days ago. Your mother saw it in the paper." It got to the point when he would ask if I remembered whomever the poor soul was and I'd start flushing the memories of them so I could truthfully say "No. No, I don't remember her." It didn't matter. He'd finish it with "Sure you do. She sat behind us in church at Christmas. Well anyway she died after a bout with lurgy last week. Thought you'd wanna know." DAMN. IT.

Sadly, this preoccupation with the otherworld is catching. Point of note: I have an e-mail alert that lets me know when celebrities die. Not just A-list folks either. I'm more of an admirer of lesser-known character actors like Elaine Stritch and Billy Barty, so I made sure that all celebrities with even one listing on the International Movie Database are included in the alert system. I swear when Bea Arthur or Mel Brooks kicks it, those will be sad sad days in my household. Until then, I'll monitor the unexpected departures from the security blanket of my inbox.

The Captain

2008-08-25T19:04:00.000-07:00

My nephew has taken to subscribing to catalogs online. The catalogs are delivered to my sister's house and neither she nor her husband ever ordered products or services from the places contacting them by mail. They'll find the magazines or product booklets on their stoop and look at each other with puzzlement until it dawns on them who must have ordered them. The best part of all of this is he doesn't just subscribe in his name, or even his parents' names. No no no. He subscribes with aliases like Major John Schumacher II or Captain Hugh Birkshire, easily cementing his place in my Top Ten Favorite Bullshitters of all time. Just fantastic.

This is the same kid who's been spitting insults that would make Don Rickles blush since he was about 4. In answer to his brother's smartass remark, "Knowledge: It's contagious, Dad" at Christmas dinner last year, the good Captain Hugh shot back "And clearly you're immune." Tears ensued.

Each of my nieces and nephews (and they are Legion) has righteous qualities that keep us smiling when they're acting like jackasses on fire at bedtime, but for now, Major John and his cache of catalogs and AARP newsletters have a place of honor and admiration from one BS'er to another.

Chitty Chitty --OH MY GOD!

2008-08-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Two words: flying monkeys. Few images from kids’ movies hold as much universal dread as these disturbing creatures from the children’s classic, Wizard of Oz. That’s not to say they are the only ingredient in our nightmares that started as innocently as watching a film filled with overall joy, but that continue to stir the dark part of us that keeps our inner child’s eyes closed and ears covered. Now, the movie scars I’m talking about come from shows that are intended for children as the primary audience—not the fleeting glimpses of Freddy or Jason we caught after we snuck into our older brother or sister’s rooms after bedtime.

While researching this subject of movies from childhood that continue to unconsciously inform our fears and actions, I had a long talk with my brother. He is a happily married 37-year-old father of two and a productive business owner. However, no amount of maturity and success can keep him from having what he refers to as “daymares” about the Child Catcher in the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Every once in a while, when he is alone in his restaurant’s kitchen, he’ll find himself stopping what he is doing to remind himself that it was only a movie. Why is it that a movie he saw 32 years ago still has this sort of influence over him? Is it the imagery? Is it the inherently frightening idea that a mean-spirited person would take him away from his family? Is it his inability to control the daymares? I couldn’t understand what could cause him to have such a reaction. This struggle to relate caused me to look into my own experiences with childhood movie scares and I realized that we’re not so different, he and I.

For me, it is the imagery that has long outstayed its welcome. I am still unable to comfortably watch Alice in Wonderland in any of its incarnations, Disney or otherwise. Animals who walk upright and wear people clothes are not on my guest list. Additionally, the Wheelers from Return to Oz are what make me look twice when I hear a skateboarder behind me. And finally, if a boat I’m on rides through a tunnel or under a bridge, I will without fail hear Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka singing “There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going…” Our parents meant well. The movies I’ve mentioned were rated no higher than PG and the scenes that had such effects only lasted about two or three minutes, but oh how they lingered in our minds. Which leads me to ask, what movies are we innocently showing our children now that will stop them in their tracks when they’re 37? There’s no way to tell as each person responds on such a unique level, but the shivers and bumps in the night make for a thrilling guessing game.

A trip to the movies...

2008-08-24T09:41:00.000-07:00

Hi, I’d like a ticket for “The Godfather 6: Fredo’s Revenge”, please. I’m sorry, did you say $10 for one person? No problem. I have a pass here for –what’s that? You don’t take passes for new releases. I see. Well, no big deal, right? Okay. I’d like a popcorn, a small Coke—no really, just the small. I understand the medium is only 50 cents more, but I really just want the small. You’re not going to let this go, are you? Okay, I’ll have the medium, then. And what’s the total? But I don’t have a firstborn. If I guess your name can I go sit down? Thanks…Tim? Right on.

Oh good. The theater’s pretty much empty. I’ll just sit over here and enjoy my delicious…Oh hello. No. No one is sitting next to me. Sure, you can sit there, I guess. I’m sorry, sir, but could you please not lean over the arm rest onto my lap? Thanks. Is that your son? He’s very cute, yes. How old is he? Two-years-old. Right. So, has he seen the other 5 Godfathers and just couldn’t wait to find out what happens? Just the first four, eh? No no I’m sure he’ll still be able to appreciate Fredo’s wrath. Oh we better be quiet now. I don’t want to miss Front Row Joe and his creepy dancing horde selling me discolored goody bits.

What the hey? I distinctly remember this Coke in its liquid form. I guess it gave in to the Tundra conditions in here. They must house penguins between shows to supplement the theater income. No problem. I’ll forget all about it when the movie starts. Great Gatsby that preview’s loud! Who does their sound check? A Metallica roadie circa 1987?

Okay, Kid, I know you’re busy reading Call of the Wild by the light of your cell phone, but when you’re done, if you could quit kicking my seat, that would rule. And seriously, you don’t have to read it out loud to your gum-smacking friends. They’re gonna miss the good parts anyway because that’s their fifth trip to the bathroom and the movie’s opening credits haven’t even finished.

And to my left…Slurp! Gobble! Ring ring! Hello? Yes, I took the chicken out of the fridge. It’s on the counter. IT’S ON THE COUNTER! Sorry, my reception isn’t great in here. I’m in the theater. Yeah, it’s started. You totally shoulda come! Shhhhhh! You shhhhh!

Man, I love the movies. *Exhausted sigh*