Tag: movies

Damn You, Richard Gere

jono55

The movie Ordinary People came out in 1980. It was the first film that Robert Redford directed, and won four Academy Awards. For me, the most memorable takeaway was a piece from the soundtrack, a work entitled Canon in D Major, by Johann Pachelbel. For a few months anyway, it might have been the most often-played classical selection in the country.

Even today I play it regularly, and there are several interpretations of the short composition in my music library. “Music library” has become one of those phrases that definitely dates a person, hasn’t it? I wonder how many songs a Gen Z actually owns, rather than rents? Never mind, here is a recording of “the Canon” that I own and can share with you. It’s from the soundtrack of Ordinary People.

Canon in D Major, arr. by John Williams

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This past week Robin mentioned in passing that she would like to see the film An Officer and A Gentleman again. It was one of those times that I instantly made it a quest for myself, to set up a romantic evening with my bride, perhaps to slightly burnish my image in her eyes. I had no trouble finding it, however, since it was available on six subscription services. Not much of a quest, really.

But when I presented it as the evening’s television watching I took full credit, much more than I deserved … that’s me all over. Puffing up my accomplishments and glossing over my failures has worked for me for the longest time, why would I change now?

The film was released in 1982, and starred very young versions of Richard Gere, Debra Winger, David Keith, and Lou Gossett Jr. Not a bad film at all, even if a bit formulaic, but formulas often do work well. It was the final scene that made it a classic date movie, maybe in the top ten.

Got your lady handy? Play the video below. A typical American female will become very pliant upon viewing it. One caveat, however. While she might be embracing you at the moment, she is almost certainly imagining you are Richard Gere.

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I learned this week that there has been considerable research over the years on finding substances that smell so bad that they are actually incapacitating. Substances that cling to the victim, resisting being washed off. The use would predominantly be in crowd control, rather than at the battlefront. I found this idea amusing, although I can easily imagine that it could be a powerful deterrent. One man doing much of the research around World War Two eventually came to smell so bad he had to sleep in a public park.

Let’s suppose that I am twenty years old and participating in a vigorous civil protest against some authority. Let’s also suppose that I have a very promising date next Saturday night with someone I have been pursuing with great ardor for months. Now, if I knew that there was a good chance that I would be sprayed with something that would make me smell like a “rotting corpse lifted from a stagnant sewer” for the next month, I might skip the event altogether.

For some reason this all reminded me of the Monty Python sketch about the killer joke. Warning, do not watch this if you understand the German language. We’re not sure about the safety of the video even now.

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Our American Comic Opera production is not as yet entitled or completed, but the script is being added to daily. Most recently we have yet another Ukrainian “peace plan.” The origin of the plan was apparently in Russia and was leaked to someone on the American side who brought it to Cluck’s aides. Although he hadn’t actually read the program itself, Cluck became a great fan and has told the Ukrainians that they better wise up or the plan will be implemented. Word is that it gives Putin everything he wanted and more, which bothers Cluck not a bit.

The only problem with all of this is that there are some groups of people who think that the plan stinks to high heaven. Here is a partial listing:

  • More than three-fourths of the American public
  • Most members of Cluck’s own party
  • Every Democrat in existence, even unborn ones
  • All of Europe
  • The Falkland Islands
  • et al

If you disagree with the peace plan, there are Cluck-ers who have signaled that there might be a special gallows erected where the Rose Garden used to be at the White House, just for you (although I admit that this is more conjecture than fact).

Casting for the opera’s production will begin whenever there are more than two succeeding days which pass without an atrocity being committed by the Cluck regime. Hopes are therefore dim that we will ever hear a single note.

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What Are Their Names, by David Crosby

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We will be spending Thanksgiving with the Hurley family In Durango this year, and are grateful for the invitation. Whenever we do this, Robin and I are asked to bring the same two items. The first is a cranberry-marshmallow dessert salad that was Robin’s mother’s contribution for years. The second is a stuffing recipe made with pork sausage and safe as prominent ingredients.

We partially construct both of them here and then finish them on Thursday as the turkey roasts. It’s pretty easy to keep them cold for the two and a half hour journey. So far there have been no problems with snow on Highway 550, the road that still puts lumps in my throat, so we’ll probably go that way. The alternative route is an hour longer, and although less hazardous even that way requires prudence and planning when making the trip in winter. Both roads must cross mountain passes. Both have been problematic in the past.

I never have any difficulty coming up with a gratitude list on Turkey Day, because my cup truly overfloweth. First and foremost each year I spend time wondering how it was that Robin ever decided that marrying me was a good idea. For her, that is. For me it was unbelievably good fortune because, no exaggeration here, she had saved my life.

I know that there have been moments when she has wondered about her selection as I am not a great prize but more a thing cobbled together of many parts, like a shorter and less murderous creation of Victor Frankenstein. But here we are, on our thirty-third Thanksgiving together. And so down the road we go, salad and stuffing in hand. If we ever are stranded by car trouble on these trips there will always be something to eat in the cooler in the back of the car.

May your holiday go well and your clothing be elastic enough in the waist to accommodate a bit of excess.

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The Revolution Will Not Be Televised

jono55

Well, we’re three days away from the already infamous upcoming demonstration called No Kings. I’ve learned from listening to the Speaker of the House of Representatives that it’s going to be nothing but a collection of Antifa traitors, paid demonstrators, and people who hate America.

Funny, I thought it was more a collection of people who were opposed to tyranny and to being governed by spitwads. But, I have been wrong before …

I guess we’ll just have to wait until the weekend comes and determine for ourselves what the truth is. For my part, I’ve got my signs made, my buttons in order, and an umbrella in the car just in case our present monsoon season carries through to Saturday. Looking forward to a brisk walk along a line of middle fingers being extended from pickup windows.

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The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, by Gil Scott-Heron

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There is no good news today for those who have clung to the belief that a little bit of poison was somehow still a good thing. A very large and well-done recent study came to the conclusion that there is no safe level of alcohol consumption. Even sporadic usage increases the drinker’s risk of developing a host of disorders.

For myself, of course, I found out quite a while ago that alcohol dramatically increased my chances of making a fool of myself, bumping into walls and doorknobs, and finding that I’d parked my car in a stranger’s garage with me in it. Magically, all of those things improved when I switched beverages.

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What’s Going On?, by Marvin Gaye

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Robin and I drove to Grand Junction to see a three-hour long movie about authoritarianism and an ongoing revolt against it. Kind of cinema verité, non? But the film was quite a ride, and the hours flew by. Near the end, there was a car chase unlike any I’d ever seen, the cameras turning the road into something akin to a roller coaster track.

Let’s see, what was the theme? Oligarchs versus the oppressed? Fascism versus freedom? Sobriety versus soddenness? Old powerful white men versus everybody else? Hard to pin it down.

But there are heroes, ferocity aplenty, and even small doses of humor.

We were glad we made the trip. Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 95%. The only downer, and one that is still smarting hours to a cheapskate like myself long after we’d returned home, is that the Regal Theater charged us $6.99 for a small Diet Pepsi. Unbelievable. They should be flying the Jolly Roger at the concession stand, and the concession workers outfitted in buckle and swash.

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The Wheel, by the Grateful Dead (Live at Fox Theater)

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A very long time ago my friend Rich and I were attending an Academy of Pediatrics meeting in New York City. We shared a room, went to lectures and presentations together, walked about the area near our hotel together, and took most of our meals together.

One evening we decided to attend an off-Broadway production, and selected Vampire Lesbians of Sodom. It was a mildly outrageous production and truthfully all these years later I couldn’t tell you one song or line of dialogue.

What I do remember is that while we were joking to ourselves about how much time we were spending in each other’s company we looked around at the audience, which we now realized was composed entirely of same-sex couples. We did not stand out at all.

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Some “No Kings” items. More than 2500 demonstrations are now planned for October 18 across the 50 states. Here’s a map.

What is just as interesting to me is that demonstrations are being planned in at least 18 countries around the world in solidarity with U.S. citizens. They include Portugal, Spain, Netherlands, Norway, Sweden, Belgium, Czech Republic, Denmark, Finland, France, Germany, Italy, Ireland, United Kingdom, Canada, Mexico, Costa Rica, and Japan. Like the man said, we have friends everywhere.

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If It Quacks Like A Duck …

jono55

Well, let’s see … in only six months this charlatan has managed to turn a solidly evidence-based public health system into a caricature of itself. Rather than being a guardian, his office has now become a threat to our health and our welfare.

Apparently it has come as a great surprise to some, that turning the Department of Health and Human Services and the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention over to an idiot will produce idiotic results. People are already dying because of what he’s done and we have only begun to reap that grim harvest.

But an impressive array of medical organizations has now lined up against this fool and his tinted master and is calling them out for the quacks that they are. Among them, I am happy to report, is my own American Academy of Pediatrics. Proud of them I am. Proud of anyone who resists, who does not join the sorry ranks of the collaborators.

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Robin and I are back in Paradise after a brief sojourn in Durango. I was with her for only the last three days of her stay, and it rained each of those days. Actual rain. During the same period not a drop fell on our home at Basecamp. Sheesh.

On one of those drizzly afternoons I found myself staring out the window at the birdbath, and found there was an impressive number of visitors coming and going. In just one hour I saw the following species:

  • Robin
  • Collared Dove
  • White-breasted Nuthatch
  • Red-shafted Flicker
  • Downy Woodpecker
  • Canada Jay
  • Steller’s Jay
  • Evening Grosbeak (dozens in a flock)
  • Ruby-crowned Kinglet
  • Lewis’ Woodpecker.

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The last one on the list was a new bird to me, and I learned that it was named after Meriwether Lewis, who first described it.* The bird exhibits some very interesting and non-woodpeckery behaviors.

In the summer, Lewis’s Woodpeckers eat mostly insects, catching them in flight by swooping out from a perch like a flycatcher or by foraging in flight like a swallow. Their wide, rounded wings give them a buoyant, straight-line flight, more like a jay or crow than a woodpecker.

The birds seldom excavate for wood-boring insects; unlike other woodpeckers, this species lacks the strong head and neck muscles needed to drill into hard wood.

In the fall, Lewis’s Woodpeckers switch to eating nuts and fruit, chopping up acorns and other nuts and caching them in bark crevices for later consumption. During the winter they aggressively guard these storage areas against intruders, including other woodpecker species.

American Bird Conservancy

You may remember the age-old question: How much wood would a woodpecker peck if a woodpecker would peck wood? In the case of Lewis’ Woodpecker, the answer would therefore be precious little.

*Actually, Meriwether Lewis was the first person of European descent to describe it. The indigenous peoples knew about it for quite some time before he arrived on the scene. But the deal is, if you’ve got the ink and the quill, you get to tell the story.

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Theme from Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, by Bob Dylan

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I call myself a Buddhist, even though I strongly suspect that hearing my claim would have brought tears to the eyes of Siddhartha himself. But I digress.

I have learned quite a lot in the past several decades that I might have overlooked without the guidance of a handful of Buddhist teachers. One of those things is the truth of the saying: “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.” In my shallower days if I gave the saying a thought at all, it was: what a bit of quaint and magical thinking that suddenly there is a teacher where there was not one before.

I learned that was not what was meant at all, but then remember, I was shallow.

The phrase “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear” means that opportunities to learn and gain knowledge become apparent when someone is truly open and receptive to them, whether it’s through a formal teacher, a mentor, life experiences, or even an event. The idea is not that a literal teacher will magically show up, but rather that the necessary guidance, information, or opportunity will present itself once the student has cultivated the necessary mindset, awareness, and readiness for that specific lesson. The saying highlights that learning is an internal process of readiness, not just an external delivery of information.

(The above is an unasked-for paragraph that Google generated without being asked and displayed at the beginning of some search results. AI at work. I was prepared to be incensed when I noticed that it wasn’t such a bad paragraph at all and decided to share it with you.)

To simplify even further, when you truly open your eyes you see that there are teachers all around you. They were always there. You can hardly walk down the street without bumping into half a dozen or more. That windbag droning on at the AA meeting is giving instruction in patience and forbearance to everyone in the room. Valuable lessons that they will use over and over throughout their lives. That is, if they don’t fall into the trap of becoming annoyed and start looking out the window at the blackbirds on the lawn.

I know that I’ve said this before, but there was a point half my life ago when I realized that one of the best teachers I’d ever had was pain. At the time it was emotional pain, one of those dark nights of the soul that went on and on. Since that epiphany I’ve developed a habit of looking for the lesson at times of high stress and discomfort, wondering what it will be this time.

Sometimes the lesson is nothing more than this – I will survive.

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That intrusive AI paragraph above just reminded me of a theme that runs through any discussion of artificial intelligence I’ve read. The theme that eventually, and sooner rather than later, AI will do us in. The real pessimists say that this doom is unavoidable. If they are correct, it only reinforces my observations that our species will not require aliens to land and vaporize us, we are going to extinguish ourselves.

A sensible species would say: Artificial Intelligence is too dangerous to trifle with, we stand to lose control of it, so let’s just stop studying it. And that would be that. Finito. But we’ve never done that. Alfred Nobel invented gunpowder to ease many of man’s burdens and was dismayed that our major use of his gift to us was to blow each other apart.

Scientists during World War II raced to develop an atomic bomb and were successful, even though many of those same scientists weren’t sure that when we set the first bomb off that the world wouldn’t end at that exact minute.

Space has become so crowded with dead satellites and other man-made debris that going to the moon for a loaf of bread and a bottle of milk is now almost too hazardous an enterprise to consider.

So will we back off from developing this suicide machine, this doomsday device? Even though it is horrifically expensive and uses so much energy to operate that at present we are unable to meet the needs of the beast? Even though not a single person who lives on my street wants it at all? I doubt it. Our track record would indicate otherwise.

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Last night Robin and I watched “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid,” a Sam Peckinpah film from 1973. It was my fault, because the movie would have been more useful as a cautionary tale for new filmmakers as to what sorts of things to avoid in making movies, and a treatise on the value of editing.

But in spite of containing what I saw as errors of judgment, I enjoyed myself. The cast was amazing, almost unbelievable. Here is a partial list, just to whet your appetite, should you ever have two hours to spend on watching a kind of glorious mess. It’s almost a Who’s Who of western character actors.

  • James Coburn
  • Kris Kristofferson
  • Richard Jaeckel
  • Jason Robards
  • Bob Dylan
  • Rita Coolidge
  • Chill Wills
  • Barry Sullivan
  • R.G. Armstrong
  • Jack Elam
  • Paul Fix
  • L.Q. Jones
  • Slim Pickens
  • Charles Martin Smith
  • Katy Jurado
  • Harry Dean Stanton
  • Elisha Cook Jr.
  • Sam Peckinpah
  • Bruce Dern
  • Dub Taylor

BTW, about Bob Dylan. His performance in the film shows how it was proper to give him the Nobel Prize for poetry, and not for acting. He is apparently supposed to be a man of mystery but only succeeds at being a twerpish sort of character. He did write the excellent score, however, which won him a Grammy nomination. And the timeless song Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door was its centerpiece.

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Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door, by Bob Dylan

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On The Trails

jono55

The movie “Sinners” took the #1 box office slot this past weekend, and Robin and I were happy to help them attain that economic honor, even though we had to drive to Grand Junction to do our part. I had read a large handful of reviews of the film, and all of them had been glowing. (When you are going to spend 2.5 hours driving back and forth from the theater to see a movie, it is prudent to do a little research.)

As we walked out after the show, we asked each other the same question (as we always do) and it was “What did you think of it?” Turned out we both thought it was very good. And then we asked ourselves … who can we recommend it to? Because it is definitely a rough cob of a movie, and depends heartily on what one thinks of all the telling and retelling of the vampire legends you have already consumed in your life. But here’s the thing. It is a story with vampires in it, but it is not a “vampire movie.” It is much more than that.

The film has a pulse, and it is a thumper. Nearly all of the characters are bigger than life (the humans) or bigger than death (the vampires). All of them are involved in the struggle for their existence, and if that involves blood and sweat and great music and juke-joint dancing with a capital “D,” well, that’s just how it is. The story hurtles along and demands that you keep up with it for the two hours that is its running time. It was so engrossing that I still had popcorn left as the credits rolled. And that is something to say, if you ever saw me eat popcorn at the movies (not a pretty sight at all, what with using the hands as shovels and all that).

Here are my own ratings, on a scale of 5 :

  • Story = 5
  • Performances = 5
  • Sex = 4
  • Colorful language =5
  • Gore = 5, maybe 6
  • Cinematography = 5
  • Costumes = 5
  • Evocation of an historical era … time and place = 5

See it at your own risk. I nevah said nothin’.

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From The New Yorker

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There is a young woman who lives across the street from us, who bought a small Honda scooter last year. She doesn’t ride it often but when she does she goes helmetless.

I suppose that I could greatly endear myself to her with a harangue about cracked skulls and flying brain tissue and that such vehicles were called “donor cycles” by the neurosurgeons when I was a resident. I could do that.

But she’s young and bulletproof and would only nod tolerantly at some geezer giving her unsolicited advice. My own experience strongly suggests that if you’re ready to hear such advice you don’t need it. You’ve already bought the helmet.

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Yesterday morning I woke with this ear worm: Love’s Been A Little Hard On Me, by Juice Newton. You know about ear worms, right? A fragment of a song that keeps repeating in your brain, unwanted, often unloved, for no apparent reason? Well, scientists have created an earworm eraser, designed to get the darn thing out the way and preserve not only your sanity but that of those around you who must listen to you singing the same short phrase ad nauseam.

I make no claims as to the effectiveness of the “Eraser,” but hey, it’s free and it only takes 40 seconds to find out.

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Love’s Been A Little Bit Hard On Me

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There is an absolutely lovely stretch of bicycle path that runs from Ridgway State Park into the town of Ridgway itself. It follows the Uncompahgre River and offers picturebook scenes galore with often stunning views of the San Juan mountains. There is only one thing wrong with it and that is its length. Only three miles long.

Robin and I biked the path on Sunday, ending up in a coffee shop in Ridgway, where the kindhearted barista was able to conjure up a pair of mochas as good as your mother used to make … honest.

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From The New Yorker

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Secretary of Defense Hegseth apparently used the communication app Signal inappropriately yet another time, when he brought his wife, brother, and personal lawyer into conversations where he shared classified information. Information they were not at all cleared to hear.

President Cluck officially has full confidence in this blabbermouth, but somewhere in that morass of incompetence he calls an administration there must be be somebody who knows this is bonkers. Until they can figure out how to keep Hegseth from revealing even more secrets, I offer this simple fix. It would be removed only at mealtimes.

Either that or don’t tell him anything.

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Hard Times Come Again No More, by Ian Siegal

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Robin and I were on an exercise walk up in the Sunset Hills across the Uncompahgre River when we came across this item. Someone had taken the pains to create this tiny place-marker, carry it up the hiking path until they found just the right bit of natural material, and then insert it as an amusement to passersby.

We found two of these handmade op/ed structures, in different locations. I judged them to be completely disrespectful and almost perfect in their metaphoricness.

But of course it was littering. Tsk tsk.

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Scouting For Dollars

jono55

The Girl Scouts have rounded up a few adults as helpers and are firmly established in front of our City Market, where in exchange for a few measly dollars they offer to sell me a product which is both delicious and unhealthy.

But, hey, if those were the only cookies that I was going to eat this year, there might be some justification in berating these kids for enabling me in my sugar cravings.

But alas, there will be others. And perhaps a slice of pie or two as well. And some cake.

Pudding … I think that’s a yes. Cobbler … bring it on.

I could save myself the trouble and expense of buying these ready-made products at the Market by simply sitting down with a pound of butter and a bowl of sugar and growling as I dove into them, but that would be gross and an ugly thing for any passing child to see.

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From The New Yorker

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Masters of War, by Vieux Farka Touré

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This morning I was reading yet more reportage on the now infamous interaction between Zelensky, Cluck, and Vance this past week. The Cluck followers really are a sad bunch. Lost souls. I fear there is little hope for them.

I know that it’s a bit of a medieval outlook, but this mural from 1260 A.D. about sums up my views on the gaggle that is Cluck/MAGA.

In this painting Satan is devouring a passel of his devotees. Something very similar is happening on our American polítical stage. First their minds, then their souls, and then … .

One has only to listen to anything that comes out of Lindsey Graham’s mouth to see the truth of it.

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BTW, if anyone need a list of why we need to resist our present poisonous government, Margaret Renkl has graciously provided one in today’s NY Times.

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Granddaughter Elsa is staying with us for just under four days, and we are pleased as anything to have her here. There were more frequent visits when she was very young, but as she grew older they became fewer. As often happens.

It’s part of that becoming an adult stuff that parents and grandparents dread and kids can’t wait to have happen. What this all comes down to now is that no visits are taken for granted and no minutes are wasted.

When at long last I finally accepted the truth that change is inevitable and constant I began to treasure these moments more. Although they were always to be one-time occurrences, for the longest time it failed to cross my mind that they wouldn’t be repeated endlessly.

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From The New Yorker

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Out of the ten movies that were nominated for an Oscar for Best Picture this year, only three ever made it to the theater in Paradise. Sigggghhhhhh. I like small town life in so many ways, but it’s tough to be a movie buff when living in a hamlet. One small enough that Hamlet itself will probably never play there.

The powers-that-be in film scheduling for small towns obviously feel that we are mostly into car crashes and comic book heroes, and they feed us a constant stream of digital nonsense as a result. I have no idea if they are right or not, but I wonder if there aren’t more citizens who would appreciate watching an entire movie where nothing explodes than they calculate.

This complaint might come off as just another instance of me being a snob, but it’s really only a plea for fairness, or equal time, or something like that.

Call me a fool, but I love a movie that makes me think. One that holds up the world in its cinematic hand and turns it ever so slightly so that I see it with new eyes.

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Yesterday the air was filled with the noodling and calls of the collared doves that are so plentiful out here. Filled the air for the entire day. Non-stop.

It has to be sex. What else could grab them by their tiny brains and make them sing one passionate aria after another?

For a while the music is charming, but after ten solid hours even the most fervent love song starts to wear thin. Enough to bring on the uncharitable wish they would all just get a room and be done with it.

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Birds, by Neil Young

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Good Mourning, America

jono55

Wednesday morning we woke to find that two very different things had happened during the night. One of them was ugly, and the other beautiful.

Let’s do the ugly first. A man convicted of multiple felonies including sexual assault, and who is a racist, fascist, and bottomless liar was elected president of our unfortunate country yesterday. Those of us who are not Cluck-cult members are walking around humming dirges to ourselves.

Now for the beautiful. Several inches of snow fell, warm wet stuff that covers everything, including the plants on the berm in the front yard. Around breakfast time dozens of tiny birds appeared and were busying themselves in the dried foliage, eating seeds or bugs or whatever it is that they were seeking. They were all the same species, with olive coloration on their backs, white bars on their wings, and they were between a hummingbird and a chickadee in size. Because they were flitting about so much it was impossible to do an accurate count. But there were dozens.

I took a photo of the area, and there are five birds included in the photograph above. I identified them as ruby-crowned kinglets. Not rare sightings, but not everyday occurrences, either. They were sooo busy.

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Snow, by Gustavo Santaolalla

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Wednesday evening we had friend Rod over for dinner and a movie. Dinner was two new recipes, an instant pot chili and a cornbread (from scratch) cooked in cast iron.The film chosen was The Fisher King, which is an oddly satisfying movie. It’s a gritty fantasy and not every viewer becomes a fan. The cast is excellent, with Robin Williams, Mercedes Ruehl, Jeff Bridges, and Amanda Plummer all doing good work.

Ruehl won an Oscar for her role, and Jeff Bridges does the truest portrayal of a shit-faced drunk that I’ve seen on film. He is by turns pathetic and disgusting, which, if you’ve ever seen such a person, is accurate.

The director is Terry Gilliam, who was once a member of the Monty Python troupe, and that sensibility is layered everywhere in the movie. It is one of Robin’s lifetime favorite films.

[BTW. The food was awfully tasty on a cold and snowy evening. Two winning recipes. Comfort food for the end of an uncomfortable day.]

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City of New Orleans, by Steve Goodman

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Thursday morning, after a seven inch snowfall and the coldest night of the year so far, hundreds of Sandhill cranes got up and took off for the south land. They flew over our home, making that croaking call that would be quite at home in the soundtrack of Jurassic Park X.

Beautiful in flight. Dramatic in voice.

I have to smile when our local media calls Thursday’s precipitation a “snowstorm.” As tough and resourceful as the mountain people are, they obviously do not know a snowstorm from a soft taco. What we had was a snowfall. At no time was driving visibility impaired, commerce interrupted, or lives threatened.

No, a snowstorm is when you grip the steering wheel of your automobile so tightly you leave a mark. When you try to remember where you put your will, and hope that the kids will find it. When you navigate by following the white lines in the middle of the road because looking forward is pretty much useless. No, we didn’t have a snowstorm. Not even close.

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From The New Yorker

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I’ve been corresponding with various scholars, scientists, and other potentates over the past couple of years. I am trying to find the original blueprints for the human body.

Having come this far in life, I have dozens of ideas for improvements, but have failed to achieve an introduction to whoever is in charge to begin to re-work this troublesome and flawed corpus. I can only assume that it was an early prototype that was somehow released to the world before it could be properly finished.

For instance, and I realize that this is a trivial example, but there is the problem of hair on the human body. For nearly fifty years our body hair remains in roughly the same locations. And then the gloves come off and each hair regards itself as an independent agent free to wander about wherever it wishes.

Women get mustaches, men go bald at the same time forests grow from their ears, and there are four of those rebellious hairs who have settled on the tip of my nose perhaps hoping to one day rival the rhino’s horn.

Well, I’m not having it, and I know that with a modicum of genetic engineering we could do away with the entire circus. I just need to get to the right people.

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[The beautiful header photograph is not one that I took, but is from this site.]

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Adios to Yet Another Amigo

jono55

Aaahhhhh, dang it. You know how there are people you’ve never actually met who have had a greater effect on you than people you see every day. For me, some of them wrote novels, some wrote poetry, some wrote music. Kris Kristofferson was one of the latter. When I read this past Monday morning that he’d died I felt a sharp hurt. There were tears shed at our home on Monday at the sense of loss that was felt.

Me and Bobby McGee

If Kris had only written the one tune, Me and Bobby McGee, it would have been enough to put him in my personal Hall of Fame, but he went on from there. He wrote the best hangover song I’ve ever heard in Sunday Morning Coming Down.

Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down

He also wrote some of the best breakup songs in For the Good Times and Loving Her Was Easier Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again.

For the Good Times
Loving Her Was Easier

And he wrote some songs that were at least partly autobiographical, using his wry sense of humor to great advantage. He was a good man who lived his life well enough that others can take lessons from it. Love the phrase from The Pilgrim: “He’s a walking contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction, taking every wrong direction on that lonely way back home.”

The Pilgrim, Chapter 33

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Kristofferson was a Rhodes scholar, football and rugby player, boxer, helicopter pilot in the US Army, actor, singer, and songwriter. One of those folks whose life story absolutely forces one to accept that they are just more interesting than you are. (At least than I am.)

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I haven’t talked about his movie career at all, but he appeared in nearly 50 films, including two of my favorite movies, which are Heaven’s Gate and Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Here’s a clip from Heaven’s Gate, featuring him waltzing with Isabelle Huppert. Sweet.

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Now it follows as the night the day that some of Kris’ music was recorded and made famous by others. A prime example was Me and Bobby McGee, recorded by a former lover from Port Arthur, Texas.

While Kristofferson’s original version was typically laid-back, Janis Joplin’s was kick-ass. I include it because I can’t help myself. It’s a favorite of both Robin and I.

Kristofferson recorded his own version of the song on his debut album Kristofferson in 1970. … Janis Joplin recorded the song for inclusion on her Pearl album only a few days before her death in October 1970. … Record World called it a “perfect matching of performer and material.” Joplin’s version topped the charts to become her only number one single.

Wikipedia: Me and Bobby McGee

Me and Bobby McGee, by Janis Joplin

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Just a thought. If Janis Joplin had lived, she would be 80 years old. Instead, she is forever twenty-seven.

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Will Somebody Answer That Page?

jono55

The Israeli government has shown us something new this past week. That they were willing to cross a line in the sand and load hundreds of explosive charges into everyday handheld devices. It was done by infiltrating the supply chain at the company that produced them. In this way very many Hezbollah were harmed, as well as anyone unfortunate enough to be standing near them.

Think for a moment. If the Israelis are able do it, so are we. And so are our adversaries.

Our phones, our computers, even our automobiles could be weaponized and there you are driving down the road and your car swerves into oncoming traffic. Or your phone explodes and maims you and the child you are holding in your lap. Or your toaster starts to fling sourdough shuriken at you.

About that crossed line. Perhaps we should thank Mr. Netanyahu and his gang for bringing us up to date on just how vulnerable we all are. Quite a bloody demonstration, though, with all those bystanders hurt or killed and everything.

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Five years ago when I renewed my driver’s license, the photograph that was taken was awful. It was washed out, grim, and totally unrepresentative of my vibrant and devilishly attractive self. This year I had to renew that license, and now the photo is even more grotesque. I look like a startled corpse.

You know how in a horror movie when the camera moves forward and down into the coffin and then suddenly the eyes snap open? – that’s me in my official ID photo!

Fortunately very few people will get to see that photograph, and I am certainly not going to publish it here. After all, there may be children looking over your shoulder and their little psyches could be permanently scarred.

BTW, if any of you are wondering whether I should still be driving, calm thyselves. For some reason Nature has blessed me and I am still one of the most capable drivers ever seen in Paradise. And whatever you may have heard about that time last week when I crossed the median downtown and drove for three blocks into oncoming traffic, I have a perfectly logical explanation. A squirrel.

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I am disappointed when the fact-checkers of the world find that a member of the “Blue Team” is telling fibs. Doubly disappointed when they repeat the same mistruth the next day.

I can understand how it could happen when you are asked to spew thousands of words a week in rallies, interviews, sound bites, scripted moments, etc. But even though it is a lot to expect, striving for honesty and admitting when you’re wrong … I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

I am just so tired of being lied to. Really tired of that whole shabby business. If someone is promoting themselves as an agent of change, talking straight would be a good place to start. I hope Harris and Walz will keep their focus and clean up their speeches. The Republicans supply more than enough reasons for criticism without them needing to make stuff up.

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Not Too Much To Ask, by Mary Chapin Carpenter

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One morning this week a large sign blossomed on our next-door neighbor’s garage.

The subtitle of the sign is “Make Liberals Cry Again.” That makes me sad. These are two decent people who have been hoodwinked by a charlatan. Cluck is not a conservative but an unprincipled opportunist. These neighbors are strongly “pro-life” and that makes it hard for them not to react viscerally to the Democratic platform, with its emphasis on reproductive freedom. I get that. What I don’t get is single-issue voting.

If liberals are crying it is because they see clearly the harm this orange-tinted crook has already done, and blatantly promises to keep doing if re-elected.

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Can’t Find My Way Home, by Stevie Winwood

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Frank Bruni is a good man and a very thoughtful columnist. Thursday’s posting in the Times I thought was worth linking to. Sort of summarizes where a lot of folks stand re: the two campaigners. (At least a lot of folks on the left, which means the right side of history.)

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The movie “Reagan” has been in town now for several weeks. Apparently there are enough local people interested in a time when Republicans were only (forgivably) mistaken in their politics, and had not yet become the gaggle of lunatics and criminals we see on television. Nostalgia for a dimly remembered past, I guess.

The film stars Dennis Quaid as Ronald Reagan. Quaid has recently revealed himself to be a Cluck supporter, which I’m thinking … is there anything that would cause Reagan to spin faster in his grave than knowing this bit of irony?

But Dennis’ coming out hasn’t bothered me like you’d think it would, because he is not the Quaid brother I respect the most. That honor falls to Randy, seen at right in the tasteful “the shitter’s full” scene from the movie A Christmas Vacation.

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The Road, by Euphoria

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Memento Mori: Maggie Smith (1934-2024)

For me, Maggie Smith was given the best lines in the series Downton Abbey. The rest of the cast played characters who were still trying to achieve something or other, but the grande dame Violet Crawley had already achieved it all, seen it all, and was not enamored of modern life.

Her specialty was the verbal dagger thrust, sometimes in and out before the person even knew they’d been wounded, and who were left wondering where all that blood on their shirtfront was coming from.

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Seen on a drive toward Telluride on Saturday.

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Thor’s Hammer

jono55

This has been the summer of thunder. Many nights we have been wakened by blasts that send the cats scurrying under the bed. Up to a point they trust us and look to us for protection but give them a good enough thunderclap and it is adios muchachos, you’re on your own! The measured amounts of rainfall haven’t been that impressive but each drop flies out of a brilliant soundscape.

I like the thunder, personally. it’s almost mythical. Think about it, if you were reading a book about a planet where electricity became visible and could snake down from the sky to seek out a single person’s life and take it. All of this accompanied by a dark crescendo that the victim never hears, but all of the spectators do. Wouldn’t that seem fantastic? Not necessarily “good” fantastic, but still …

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Dueling Banjos, by Erik Weissberg

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There have been periods of my life where there were significant bursts of knowledge acquisition, followed then by decades of embarrassingly flat learning curves. One such burst of positive cortical activity came during my divorce. First of all, the fact that I was becoming divorced at all was a learning experience, since I thought this only happened to people who forgot their wedding anniversaries, or were guilty of poor personal hygiene.

But more shocks were to come. I discovered that when I put my worn clothes in the hamper that they did not clean themselves and put themselves back in the closet. Some agency had obviously been responsible for doing that, and after several days of reflection I came to the conclusion that my former wife had been that agent, and that now it was apparently up to me.

It took me only a day or two to locate the laundry area and choose which large white metal object was the washing machine and which was the dryer. There were some problems I had in learning that if one cup of detergent did a good job, three cups didn’t do a better one, as I choked up the washer and foamed the laundry room floor . But eventually these things smoothed themselves out.

The dryer posed new challenges. It turned out that putting certain items into the machine, cranking the temperature up to good and hot, and then walking away for an hour or two converted them into a brand new size more appropriate to toddlers. This was especially grievous in one instance where a Pendleton woolen shirt that I had treasured for years was now as shrunken and withered as a plaid prune.

So today when I used the washer perfectly correctly, dried everything for only a few gentle minutes, and then hung the clothes outdoors in the sunshine of a Sunday noon, I felt wounded only two hours later when a raincloud opened just above our home and drenched those carefully tended garments which were helpless on the line.

I could hear the gods snickering as I plucked everything down and re-hung them indoors on some collapsible racks. The world is like that. Sometimes good intentions and hard work are rewarded with a swift kick.

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Robin and I had friend Rod over for supper and a movie the other night. The food part went well, but the film left something to be desired.

Since this had been a markedly political week, I thought it might be fun to watch an older movie with a political theme. The classic “All The King’s Men”of 1949 came to mind, and I proposed it to our group. While looking for a streaming source I came across something interesting. There was a much newer version available (2006), with a great cast, which included Sean Penn, Jude Law, Anthony Hopkins, Kate Winslet, Patricia Clarkson, James Gandolfini, and Mark Ruffalo. How could it miss? We decided to go for the new one.

Bad choice. Abysmal, actually.

So bad that at the end when I asked everyone what they had thought about the movie, the general consensus was that we had collectively wasted six hours of human life. In order to waste a minute or two more, I went to Rotten Tomatoes to see what the movie’s score had been, and the number was 12%. Twelve percent is an awful score, for those of you who don’t use this service. The kind of movie that you don’t go to see unless you are desperately trying to escape a hailstorm of life-threatening softball-sized stones and need to duck in somewhere.

And then, just to hurt myself further, I checked the RT score of the original film starring Broderick Crawford, John Ireland, and Mercedes McCambridge and found that it was 97%.

More insult was later added to the injury.

Released by Columbia Pictures on November 8, 1949, the film received widespread acclaim from critics, and was a commercial success. At the 22nd Academy Awards the film was nominated for seven Oscars and won three; Best Picture, Best Actor for Crawford, and Best Supporting Actress for McCambridge, making an impressive film debut. The film also won five Golden Globes, and was nominated for the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival.

In 2001, All the King’s Men was deemed “culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant” by the Library of Congress and was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry.

Wikipedia

Can I pick ’em or what?

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I found this disturbing photograph on CNN this morning. The caption read: People in Warsaw, Poland, enjoy Dinner in the Sky, a special dining experience where a crane holds their dinner party in midair, on Saturday, August 17. To an acrophobe like myself, that someone would voluntarily subject themselves to this is not to be believed.

To put me in one of those chairs would require general anesthesia, and when I came out of it my screaming would ruin the meal for everybody within earshot, which, as I study the photo, would be everybody. Even if I eventually dropped down to a level below hysteria, I would still need four-point restraints requiring someone to be appointed to feed me my gourmet meal.

Also, the floor of the contrivance appears to be transparent … I can’t go on.

To the “normal” people, however, there would still be some questions I might pose. What happens if you drop your napkin? Or a knife?

The odd bat flying past would certainly send some diners into major tizzies. And how much do you tip your waiter at 1000 feet in the air?

So many questions … so little time.

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Closing Time, by Semisonic

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