Spike it!

Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose

Appropriately enough, this book was a long journey. Now incredibly dog-eared, its cover in a perpetual twirl, this book has been in my car and kept me occupied, entertained, and entranced through many a ferry-crossing. The story of Lewis and Clark never impressed me in grade school, became more of an interest as its bicentennial approached, intrigued, the more and more markers of it I passed in my travels and reached full exploratory mode after seeing Clay Jenkinson perform a couple of chautauqua talks as Merriwether Lewis, alone or with a fellow scholar who portrayed Clark. I've read a couple of books by Ambrose (and have another in my stack of "to-reads") and he has an easy, popular style that expresses the facts and lets other authors who've covered the subject do the flummery. Take, for instance, this passage, describing what surely must be the most amazing occurence during the trek West. It involves a parlay between The Corps of Discovery and the Shoshone tribe for horses desperately needed for passage over the the Continental Divide, and directly involves Sacagawea, the teenaged Indian woman, who, with her husband Toussaint Charbonneau, had been living with the Mandan tribe, and who joined the Corps as interpreters:

Lewis had a camp set up just below the forks (of the Missouri River). He had a canopy formed from one of the large sails. At 4:00 p.m., he called a conference. Dispensing with Drouillard and the sign language, he decided to use a translation chain that ran from Sacagawea, speaking Shoshone to the Indians and translating it into Hidatsa, to Charbonneau, who translated her Hidatsa into French, to Private Francis Labiche, who translated from French to English.

Scarcely had they begun the cumbersome process with Sacagawea began to stare at Cameahwait (the Shoshone chief). Suddenly recognizing him as her brother, 'she jumped up, ran & embraced him, & threw her blanket over him and cried profusely.'

What a piece of luck that was. No novelist would dare invent such a scene. As James Ronda writes, "the stars danced for Lewis and Clark." (Undanuted Courage, p. 277)

There are scattered maps, and some illustrations throughout, but only when words fail and a representation can add color, and Ambrose depends on the journals of Lewis and Clark for the most immediate descriptions, going so far as to retain the original misspellings and punctuations of the two men (Ambrose ruefully laments writing the book with the use of "SpellCheck").

One is left with a mind boggled by the monumental task that was commissioned by President Jefferson of his protege, Lewis, to survey the Louisiana Purchase and beyond, and of just how adept Lewis was in his painstaking research, record-keeping and planning for the task. Ambrose is always quick to praise Lewis and Clark, particularly for their skill as commanders (Ambrose, as an author, is renowned for his WWII volumes, and as a scholar, for his work with Eisenhower), but is equally quick to point out their failings, while acknowledging them being men of their times. Clark's post-trip treatment of his slave, York, who was an equal member of the group and walked every step of the way West, comes under deserved question, as well as Lewis' inconsistent policy towards American Natives. Ambrose also gives Sacagawea her rightful due (she did, after all accompany the troop from the mid-West to the Pacific Coast and back, while caring for her infant), where Lewis and Clark apparently did not. Incredibly, for all the unkowables and the hazards, only one man died, and skirmishes with the tribes they encountered were kept to a minimum. And a wealth of knowledge was gathered and recorded. An amazing feat.

Like every description of the expedition, the journey home goes by in a flash, and Lewis' erratic post-expedition behavior leading to his suicide becomes the focus. A combination of many factors led to it, and one can see the focus that characterized Lewis' behavior moving west becoming scattered in a whirl of hubris, adulation, greed, unrequited love, drunkeness and self-medication. New challenges were thrown at him, and Lewis, flush with fame and ambition, couldn't say no. Better for him to have stayed in Washington, and tended to the editing and publishing of his journals. But they went unpublished. Perhaps he thought there was no hurry (though as Governor of Louisiana he knew that settlers were already starting to follow in his foot-steps), or perhaps he kept delaying until inspiration came along, as he was hyper-critical of his attempts at prose. Maybe he just wanted to cash in on a burgeoning fur-trade that promised to be far more lucrative than the profits from his book deal. But after the triumph of the Expedition, he found only disappointment, and in the taking of his life, cast a pall on its works--an injustice that history would not let stand.

The publication of the Thwaites edition of the journals at the end of the century began a revival. It has continued, and the reputation of the captains have soared. Today, there are statues to Meriwether Lewis and William Clark; some towns, some counties, many high schools, and numerous streets are named for them. There is a Lewis and Clark College. (Undaunted Courage, p. 484)

That sentence resounds with a thud which might be amusing to the alumni. And then there is Jefferson's effusive summation of Lewis written in one long precise sentence.

Of courage undaunted, possessing a firmness & perseverance of purpose which nothing but impossibilities could divert from it's direction, careful as a father of those committed to his charge, yet steady in the maintenance of order & discipline, intimate with the Indian character, customs & priciples, habituated to the hunting life, guarded by exact observation of the vegetables & animals of his own country, against losing time in the description of objects already possessed, honest, disinterested, liberal, of sound understanding and a fidelity to truth so scrupulous that whatever he should report would be as certain as if seen by ourselves, with all these qualifications as if selected and implanted by nature in one body, for this express purpose, I could have no hesitation in confiding the enterprize to him. (Undaunted Courage, p. 484)

An unprecedented journey, ending too soon. I could have read this book for a few more weeks.

I'm reading Lynn Truss' "Eats Shoots and Leaves" (trying to corral some of my bad punctuating habits), but the next book I'm reading for pleasure arrived unannounced in the mail the day before Christmas, sent by Dan of Cape Cod Public Radio, whose Voice is of Burnished Oak (Jean Godden described it thus--I, on the other side of the forest, have a voice of distressed balsa). He works for the Producer/Author of it (and it's autographed!!), I think I may have mentioned how much I admire the concept and execution of this resurrected project. I'll be poring over various belief systems trying to improve on my own (which comes down to, roughly, "I believe I'll have another piece of chocolate!"), Then, I'm going to take a vacation break (like I do every so often) with a Travis McGee.

The Best DC Comics Cover

So, DC Comics is asking its collective readership to vote for their favorite covers ever published. That's a lot of artwork to consider, but I've narrowed it down to four, and not one of them features a gorilla or the color purple (two features that a DC editor swore up and down was guaranteed to sell a comic-book!) There are tons of others, but these are the ones that popped into my head from various eras--from the very beginning of comics publication to the present day:

1) Action Comics #1 - This first issue of Action introduced the character of Superman and that first cover image is so iconic that it has been copied, snatched, pilfered, and "homaged" ad infinitum...right down to the crook holding his head in a panic...by any number of artists who are looking for an image that resonates. It resonates, all right. They even included a live-action version of the scene in "Superman Returns" (though no one appears to be holding their head). This image was drawn by "Supes" co-creator Joe Shuster.

2) Superman #199 - This issue of Superman's book featured what every comic book fan wanted to see--a race between the two super-heroes with super-speed, Superman and The Flash. Endless geek-debates about who was faster would finally be settled. Well, maybe I just wanted to see it, but the sight of this comic's cover filled me with anticipatory glee. This was back in the day when super-heroes rarely played in each others' back-yards, so it seemed like we were getting more for our 12¢ than usual. Something about the cover still irks me--Batman was Superman's pal in "World's Finest "comics and here he is rooting for "The Flash!" Perhaps Bruce Wayne had some complicated off-site betting scheme we weren't privy to. And Hawkman seemed to be more of a friend of Flash. Hmm. I've seen the cover credited to Carmine Infantino and Joe Giella, but the way Hawkman is drawn makes me suspect it was the Hawks' regular artist, Murphy Anderson.


3) Wonder Woman (second series) #195-
Man, look at that cover! In fact, click on the one at the right without all that logo-stuff getting in the way to really get a good look at it. Wonder Woman is barely even there, except as a very threatening image in that poor pilot's face-mask--and notice, she's diving out of the sun in classic attack strategy. And the look on her face--she'd going to be IN that plane in half a tick. The perspective is awesome with the reverse-image of the pilots' hands reflected as well--you even get the sense that WW is reversed. Look at the shadows on the gloves. And the puffy clouds on the horizon. Right down to the coloring of the sky suggesting they're all on the edge of space. This took a lot of research and imagination. Cover artist is Adam Hughes (his trademark sig "AH!" in the lower-right corner). Hughes had an amazing run as WW cover-artist. Now he's writing a new series for her. Amazing work! In fact, it's AH-some!

But my favorite cover is also one of the most gimmicky covers the wiley DC editors ever devised:
4) The Flash #163 - Editor Julius Schwartz was very fond of coming up with "Zowie" cover ideas to sell the magazine, the stories that accompanied them usually being look-warm affairs that fulfilled the requirements of that powerful cover image...but just barely. This one...I never owned it, but someone told me the story and it was a real stinker. But the cover is a classic. That huge hand pops off the page and the Lichtenstein-striped "STOP!" couldn't help but grab your attention. It's "The Flash's" "Buy this Magazine or We'll Shoot this Puppy" issue, and I love it down to its craven little red-dotted flesh-tone. I also loved the very 3-D look of The Flash's winged ear-piece. Drawn by Carmine Infantino and Joe Giella (for sure). After Julius Schwartz's death, tribute issues using his peerless covers (and new stories to go with them!) were published and the classic Infantino-Giella art was recreated by current hot artist, Alex Ross.

Holiday Wrap

Christmas was a quiet, low-key affair. No tree (no room!) Hardly any presents, except for K and the pets! It was the one day when it didn't rain, so we celebrated the birth of the Baby Jesus by leveling a small patch of ground that the neighbors can't see to provide a space for our wood-crib. 2 x 4's were acquired. The construction kit's been sitting in the shed for weeks. We moved the wood for burning onto the porch to dry out, and raked and raked to an approximation of flat-earth. We hit ground-water, however, so some gravelling and sanding needs to be done. We've tarped and stowed the wood-pieces out of the anticipated rain, and will build another day. Phone calls were made, and it was discovered that Johnson was discharged from Overlake (seems a bit hasty as he'd only had surgery on Wednesday!). Steve B had come up to visit, and found he was no longer there! He has a message on his voice-mail from me, inquiring about his whereabouts.

K made an imaginative dinner: wanting a traditional dinner, but not wanting to go to the extravagant lengths of a turkey-with-trimmings dinner that would go to waste with two people, a dog and a cat, she decided to punt. We had two chicken breasts acquired for "dirt" cheap during the power outage, which she covered in yogurt and herbs and flash-seared, then cooked at a lower heat. She made mashed potatoes with red new varietals (keeping the all-important skins on), used an abandoned loaf of french bread, combined with herbs, onions and bak choy (substituting for celery) for dressing, and made a gravy from mushrooms and spices. Imaginative and less dependent on animal fat. It was absolutely delicious, just enough, and no "carcass-that-would-never-leave" in the 'fridge. It was a fine holiday repast.

They say Christmas comes but once a year, but this year we're having more than one Christmas day--the Detroit package hasn't made its way here yet, and my Seester and I have yet to exchange presents. So, let the festivities continue....
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Today I'm at the "1'sn'0's" ranch, where they had snow! Driving in I got caught in one of the Island's freakish hail-storms, which dusted the countryside, but I wasn't expecting the white stuff on the Eastside. Quite the shock.
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Still waiting for the precipitous drop in gas-prices now that the Holiday Driving season is winding down. We in the NW might have to wait becaues of the high demand placed on petrol during the "Outage of '06!" Might have created a "bump" and God knows we wouldn't want them oil prices to come down any time sooner than later. It occurs to me that they might be waiting for the traditional "Driving of the Drunks" before we'll see any change.
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Coming Up: Lots of stuff in the hopper, including a rare comics entry, and one (or two) reviews, one after a long, long journey.

Remembering Dad...and Pearl Harbor

Today is my Father's birthday (he rarely complained that he had the bad luck to be born the day after Christmas...because we never forgot it and made sure that we had a separate but just as special celebration for his day of birth). I've written about him before (here and here), but one aspect of Dad's life I never considered until I was physically where he was. That was Pearl Harbor. He was there the day of December 7th, 1941. He had volunteered and was stationed at Pearl when the Japanese strike force attacked on a Sunday dawn raid, decimating our Navy and killing a lot of kids. My Dad made it through despite the fact that he was standing on the dock of the Arizona at the time of the raid. Church services were being held on that ship and Dad was waiting for a buddy who was late...luckily. The chapel took a direct hit, and the Arizona's still there, upside down, oil burbling up from its tanks to this day, and crested by what is called the Pearl Harbor Memorial. Dad belonged to the organization called "The Pearl Harbor Survivors" but he refused to go back to Hawaii for their reunions. In fact, he would never entertain the notion. Too many memories, I guess. Bad ones. He had a bit of hearing loss from the attack, and you can only imagine what it must have been like--the explosions, the alarms, the toxic smoke from burning oil-fires, the confusion and panic, the screams...the stench. The death. The only story Dad ever told about the War was that "late" story, but he would scream at night the first year back after V-J day. And buried it with the stoicism that all the soldiers did...until "Saving Private Ryan" and other clear-eyed looks at the conflict allowed them to remember and acknowledge what they'd been through.* Certainly my father wanted to get on with his life. They all did.

But I went back to Pearl Harbor. When K and I went to Hawaii for a first vacation I felt a duty to go to Pearl. I would be the first in my familty to do so, and I wanted to see. So, early into our time there, we went...and it was peculiar. My dad had seen Pearl Harbor movies, of course..."From Here to Eternity" and "Tora! Tora! Tora!" were all shot on location. But being there was bizarre. If my Dad had been there with me, he almost would have freaked. The barracks are exactly the same as in those movies and at the time of the attack(they were freshly-painted as they were about to be filmed for the big Bruckheimer "Pearl Harbor" movie). In fact little has changed about it except for the addition of the visitor center...and the Memorial.

The visitor center is odd. I bought a variety of flyers and souvenier books for my Mom (she collected stuff about Pearl Harbor), and went in to the middling-sized theater to see the Presentation-an artfully produced film with a toneless female narrator that stuck to the facts of the attack without any sort of judgement or jingo-ism--a quiet, contemplative movie about a subject loaded with, well, explosive repercussions. The crowd that watched it, and it was made up 75% of Japanese tourists, did so quietly, and with a funereal respect. No cracks. No sarcasm. But a sad contemplation.

This mood continued with the short ride to the Memorial by water-taxi--the same toneless female voice pointing out facts, statistics, ship-positions...strategies. Costs. And when we got off the boat and stepped onto the marble Memorial, it was, again, like a funeral...held perpetually at a pure alabaster marble church, for that is what the Memorial, in its purity, feels like---the Arizona, rusting below it--the oil from its stores still slowly smearing the water's surface after fifty years. The names of the dead are etched in the marble and there are a lot them, too many to comprehend.

And then, Katheryn pointed something out to me, something that has filled me with wonder and mystery ever since. There is another section inside the white arch of the Memorial. A rectangular edifice that makes its way down to the water and the submerged Arizona, and it, too has names etched there. But they're not the names of men who died during the attack. They're recently buried. Comrades who survived the attack, and who are now buried with the Arizona.

Now, think about that. You survive the attack. You go through the war, and you live your life. You may have a good life or it might be horrible. You may marry and have kids, have a good life and die peacefully in your sleep. But where you choose to be buried, after all that, is back at the U.S.S. Arizona, with the ship-mates you left behind...decades and a life-time ago. When I realized what it meant, it raised the hairs on the back of my neck, and tears stung my eyes. Why? After all that time...after a full life...why here? And the concept of Survivor's Guilt hit my heart like a sledge-hammer. It was a debt to repay...beyond family and friends. You go back to the ones who didn't make it. I remember seeing a documentary about WWII veterans going back to Iwo Jima, and one of the vets, barely able to get the words out, saying "Better men than me...died here." Survivor's Guilt. As if any of it...any of it at all...was their fault.

That memory stings to this day, and I think about my Dad and wonder...did he think about those men left behind? Did he carry the names of the ones he knew didn't make it? Did it darken...even an hour...of the life he fought to achieve? And I think of his strength, and I know that if it did, he bore the burden with silence and didn't reveal it.**

Except for the screams...which he couldn't help.

My father is not buried at Pearl Harbor. He's buried in Seattle...with my Mother. He never went back.

I did...for him.

And I'll put flowers on his grave today to celebrate his birth, and that life.

*When my Mom died, I found a lot of my Dad's old papers from during and after the War, one of them a letter from the military saying, basically, "it's over--put it all behind you--don't talk about it--get on with your life." Probably everybody got that letter. My ex-wife's step-grandfather was at Normandy I was told, and when I asked him 'what the hell was that like," he replied: "It wasn't good (long pause) but I'm here."

**That popular propaganda phrase "Remember Pearl Harbor"--that was for everyone who wasn't there. The ones who were could never forget.

With Apologies to Clement Moore...

Johnson is fine, thank you!

FarmerScott, Martin and I went to see Johnson today, fresh from his open-heart surgery, and even more freshly released from ICU. The operation went great--the surgeon was able to fix his aortic valve rather than having to replace it, so he's still on original equipment. He looked great, had damned fine energy for someone who just had someone spelunking in his chest, and was glad to see his old (and increasingly older) pals visiting.

It's a relief. Thought you'd want to know...

The Gang of Four

There are others, like Steve Offenbacher (There! He now has a web-presence!) and Handa, and Joel, and DeMeritt, but these guys in the picture are the core. The Corps. The four friends from High-School days who kept up the poker games to the present day (though we haven't in quite a while). It started as a loose group of guys who claimed a table in the Library to read (there was a name: "The Crazed Albanian Wart-hogs"--where that came from, I can't remember).

So there we are (Well, not me. I'm taking the picture...this is, what, maybe ten years ago)

Introductions:

At the far left, is Steve B--retired Navy "lifer" and Internet Entrepreneur. Steve frequently makes comments on this blog and posts challenging questions. He holds the record among the group for being married to the same woman for the longest time.

Dressed in the stylish "Paradise Lake Nursery" shirt is FarmerScott, frequent guest on more than one blog. FarmerScott is the Hydrangea King of Western Washington (and holds a Presidential Office!). He got his lights back today while I was talking to him on the phone.

Sporting the Seattle Mariners cap is Johnson. Johns' was the guy who always read the Sports Page in the Library. He played High-School Basketball, jogged incessantly, and snow-boarded up until breaking his leg last year. He's also worked at the same place for...what, 15 years? Doesn't that mean a gold watch?

Then, at far right, stifling a guffaw is Martin, who has a famous name but is no relation. He does testing, too, and currently works the graveyard shift which makes getting a poker game quite difficult. Though, we did go see "Casino Royale" on his birthday.

Now, why bring this up? Johnson's going in for surgery on Wednesday. Open-heart surgery. The most athletic of the High School chums is having a leaky aortic valve replaced. It's not that risky anymore--his 80 year-young Dad had the operation two months ago and is doing fine, thanks--but it is surgery...and since Pat did so well, maybe you could see it in your heart to send some good thoughts his way for the next 24 hours or so.

Like the doctors say: "Couldn't hurt..."

Kate Fleming

They didn't come any more professional than Kate Fleming. Whether for ads or long-form reading, she was one of the best voice-over actors in Seattle. She came in early, she came in prepared, and she always delivered 100%. I'd recorded a few things with her, as she started to hit her stride in the latter part of my studio career, but one of the last sessions I did at Bad Animals was her voicing a television ad for a Reno hospital. She did a couple of "buy" takes, never less than stellar, and that was it. She was gone in five minutes. She did spots for Evergreen Hospital here locally, and she was usually the voice of the "charity" ads for SleepCountry USA (as opposed to the regular mattress ads). Kate had an very empathetic voice, heavy in the mid-range, that "connected" with people's sympathies. Plus she was a great actress, which she showed to far more effect in the many audio-books she voiced. And she was a joy in the studio with a sharp wit, and a breezy professional attitude that made any session go smoother. One Kate Fleming performance sticks in my mind. It was for Channel 11's 10 o'clock newscast, in a series of radio ads that lampooned competing 10pm drama shows. This one was a spoof of "NYPD Blue," and in it, a bad-attitude cop shows his disdain for his precinct captain by dropping his pants in protest. Kate chimes in with a pitch-perfect Bronx accent: "Riite ahn!" It only took a moment! But the timing and performance always made me laugh out loud. Perfection! Such a talent!
It was a shock to hear that Kate died in the recent storm. She was the unfortunate woman caught in her flooded basement--no doubt trying to rescue valuable recording equipment. Such a tragedy. And if there was anyone who could provide comforting words to understand something this senseless it would've been Kate.

Hailing Frequencies Open

The fact that I'm writing this on a Sunday is indication enough that power is back on in Mossback. But what you can't see is me sitting back with a micro-waved cup of 2-day old coffee (and enjoying it) while watching the sunrise. Yesterday, starting a fire to heat up a cup of coffee seemed an extravagance. Now, I don't have to think about it. Indulge.

But I was perfectly content the night before. With K in a perfectly heated duplex in Tacoma (she'd driven up from Eugene, through snow, sleet, and idiots...and just missed an accident with a jack-knifed semi), all I had to think about were me and the animals...and they provided warmth. I got a roaring fire going--the little convection fan on top of it was singing--put a kettle on, warmed their meals, and made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and soup...and after, made a cup of hot cocoa. There were enough candles for man and beast to make their way through the cabin. The only concern was I was getting down to scraps for firewood, but had already made plans to get more the next day. I could kick back and watch the darkness on the Island across the way. The next time I looked...at ten...there were lights. Crews were working while I was relaxing. Bless their overtime-payed hearts. I passed them Saturday night a mile from my house, the bucket-cranes and searchlights going over the lines over a stretch of road where three old-growth trees has fallen in the storm (Citizen-volunteers with chain-saws had cleared the road Friday morning). Two and half hours later we had lights, blaring radios (I turned them on so that if everything came on in the night, I could wake up and hit the circuit-breaker for the troublesome water-heater), and a bit of relief.

But we were fine.

My camping-out Friday night came after a fruitless trip to the 1'sn'0's ranch in Redmond. The storm on the Island was not as fearsome as predicted (we did have 60 mph winds, but the Coast was hit by gusts in the 90's), but Seattle and vicinity was hit by winds it hasn't seen since the early 80's. Lots of Seattle went down. But the Eastside--Bellevue, Redmond, Kirkland, Newcastle, Woodinville--simply went dark. So, when I arrived at the Ranch, I was surprised to see not a light in any window, and you couldn't get in because the card-key system allowing entrance had no power. Ironically, crews were digging up the asphalt by my work-gulag to put in new communication-lines. Dig all you want, it's no good without the spark in the pilot-light.

I cell-phoned co-workers to let them know it was closed (It may be the Information Age, but 1'sn'0's doesn't do well with "word-of-mouth") and co-worker Matt and I found a way inside the building and wandered the halls. Nothing darker. We went to our offices (mine is a converted storage closet that never had so much as an overhead light!), then settled in a co-workers office by a window (I'd previously gone through and started opening louvers to let more light in the main hall-ways) and chatted. We'd had one can of pop from the kitchen, and were just discussing hitting the keg on the fourth floor, when Security came by, in the form of an affable, chunky kid in his 20's, to tell us we had to "evacuate the building." He was about to go down the impossibly dark main-stairwell, when we advised he take the windowed side-stairs. "Um," he considered while shining his flash-light down the big shaft, "there are SIDE stairwells?" (click) "Lead ON!" Nice guy. He was enjoying the day, and the oddness of the situation, and at least, he was working. Most folks who pulled up resigned themselves to turning around and making the torturous trek home (with the 520 bridge closed, most surface streets were filled to bursting), but some "Masters of the Universe" slammed back into their SUV's and peeled out of the parking garage in protest. "Have a Safe Trip!"

So, no work-hours. I couldn't even log in my hours for the week. But, I had the dog with me, so I took him down to Marymoor Park which has the biggest off-leash dog park either of us have ever seen. We walked trails and chased frisbee's (he did) and sniffed strange dog butt's (...he did) 'til he was exhausted. He slept the whole trip back.

Signs of the Apocalypse Department: 99% of the trip home's over, and I've just turned off the highway, when the car gets pelted with hail-stones. The dog in the back-seat starts to look alarmed. I've been though hail-storms--they peter out pretty fast--but this one just keeps going and growing in intensity. It's so absurdly forceful that I start laughing out loud. I look over and the dog is laughing, too. It's just crazy how much hail is falling. Then just when I hit the debris (that probably caused the outage), the car starts to zig, starts to zag--it's tough to maintain control. You have to throw it into low gear, and wobble up the street, which, by now, is white with hail. This is no longer my old road. It's a rolling ice sheet, with pea-sized hail covering any traction-surface there was. That means on the street where I live "Dead-Man's Curve" will be in full-force. I determine that I won't be parking in my drive-way as a freeze is coming that night. As I pull in, Mike, the neighborhood caretaker is helping a van swerve wobbley up the hill. I hang back, and Mike walks up. "Park beside me in this driveway," he says. I back in. The van pulls up in front of me. We're all set. But, it's a slippy-slidey thing walking home. The dog loves it. But the street remains obscured with hail for hours afterward. What's next: frogs?
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It's times like these you appreciate friends like Mike who goes out of his way to help. He's a crusty guy who works at the Lazy B. I suppose every time he's lost a tooth, his heart has grown a size because he takes care of everybody. He watches houses when they're vacant. Mows lawns for the folks who're gone half the year. He's brought us wood. Takes care of pets. He's the capitol NEIGHBOR in "neighborhood." There're lots of folks in this area who huff and puff and blow and they're think they're pretty damned important. Mike keeps it going. He's the infrastructure. I try to keep a cold one for him when he's mowing the neighbor's lawn.

Walaka--I'm driving down to Redmond when, out of the blue, he calls to check up, as he'd done earlier for Farmer Scott. Keeping the available lines of communication open when the usual ones fail, that's Walaka. Farmer Scott lost power and some trees, but when I called late Saturday, he was still chain-sawing away at the fallen in the dark.

Dan "The Man"--the erstwhile director of "The Quest for the Noble Desert Poodle" had cured firewood under his deck he wanted to get rid of. I needed fire-wood. "Come and get it!" he said last week, before anybody had heard of a Thursday wind-storm. We kept in contact and arranged for Saturday pick-up. No charge for the wood. I offered a warm meal (West Seattle was out of power I'd heard) and that was what I payed. Turns out, he and his three cats did have power--but Dan was frustrated he didn't have Internet. Still, the meal was needed for both of us, the conversation brisk, and the wood's still impossibly cheap, and doubly warmth-providing for the friendship. Thanks, Dan.

My sister in Kirkland--She lost power early and still didn't have it, last I heard. Nobody could reach her and the Detroit contingent was worried. She called Friday night, worried about us--she was fine.
Hailing Frequencies always open.

Speaking of the Detroit contingent, my brother turned 60 on Saturday (Beethoven's Birthday, too). Here he is, surrounded by his prides and joys: That's Evan on the left, looking skeptical about his sister's camera actually taking a picture; Mom Jane, who we always shake our heads and say, "Wow! How was he lucky to find her?"; Paterfamilias John (he's actually taller than that); and hanging over him, the wonderfully effusive Ann. Picture taken from last Christmas over the dinner table with Ann's automatic flash. Happy Birthday, John. How could it not be?


One other friend: Pat. K's childhood chum had brain surgery to relieve an aneurysm (turns out there were three!) on Tuesday. How'd it go? Well...he's home. He went home on Thursday. He got out of ICU on Tuesday night! He's got a soft spot on his skull and a caterpillar scar going over and behind his left ear, but he's good. He's better than good, with the little bit of defenestration going on. Balance, a little iffy at times, but he's home, he's happy and we're relieved! I guess that "brain surgery" metaphor for something being difficult has to be ash-canned. Toss it! (Ka-thank!)

Attaway, Chief! Mahalo!

And it's a good thing: another long-time friend goes in for an operation this week. More on this later. I'll say early enough for positive energy to be generated.

Stay warm.

ping!
(Saturday 21:23pm)

Batt'nin' Down the Hatches

I'll be going "dark" (hopefully not literally) overnight, as we're expecting 90mph winds on the Island. So, I've got candles, non-cooking stuff for dinner, lots of candles, and a couple of warm animals in case we lose power. It's altered my plans (no Otis-art walk, dammit!), but better to be safe than sorry. Them ferries rock n' roll in storms. Hey, maybe I'll finish writing that "Deja vu" re-vu! ("It was a dark and stormy night....")

See ya when they take down the "Storm Warning" flag!

Adrienne Shelley

Adrienne Shelley - The Unbelievable Truth

I worked for Adrienne Shelley years ago, doing sound for a film she directed for the Seattle International Film Festival. I knew of her. I had seen her in "Trust" and "The Unbelievable Truth," the two Hal Hartley films that she was most known for. Now she was branching out--directing her own films, this first foray being a short called "The Shadows of Bob and Zelda" where a warring couple dispose of their troubles by locking their squabbling shadows in a closet. It starred an actor I was friendly with, Mike Shapiro, and it was quite a clever piece. We had basically 10 hours to do the complete post-production on it, and I went to Rocket Films to meet Ms. Shelley and prepare ideas and sounds for what would be a marathon session.

Meeting her, she was impossibly tiny. A wraith with strawberry blond hair, and blazing, intense eyes that bore right into you. She was focused on editing, and so didn't really give me a very good idea of what to expect. I think she expected to just "wing it" that day. Given the tight deadline we had (one day for everything), that probably wasn't a good idea. But she seemed assured. I did some preparation, had some things ready, given what I knew of the script and left it at that.

It was a long day, but a successful day. We met the deadline and Adrienne seemed satisfied with the final product. Probably she was glad to get it over. I do remember one tough situation. She wanted to give voices to the shadows, but didn't really know what to do with it. I had pulled some sound effects and music to convey some ominous quality when they were on-screen, but Adrienne thought it was too subtle, and wanted something with more "punch." "Let's do this!" she said, and marched into the studio with her producer. While we recorded, they made nonsense syllables in a guttural stream. It sounded ridiculous, but she wanted to try it with the picture. She was disappointed with the result. We discussed. We tried it again, this time with the other engineer working on the project. That was better, but not "it."

Finally, I said "let me try." So I marched behind Adrienne into the studio. "Okay," she said. "What ever I do, you do the same..."
"Okay. You sure?"
"Yeah, but you gotta be right on top of me..."
"Okay."
"Roll it."
She started to yammer at me in a squeal. I yammered right back. A long string. I repeated it--fast. A short little yelp. I yelped, but right at her, in her face. I had to bend down to do it. And really concentrate, because she'd turn on a dime. Absolute jibberish poured out of her and I matched her, jib for jab. She must have liked what we were doing, because her eyes were getting wider, and she was working hard to suppress a smile, then she started to experiment, and test me. I stayed with it, matching her screech to screech and with the same intensity. We must have done this for ten minutes. And at the end, we burst out laughing like little kids. It was fun play-acting with her. It was intense, but fun. And we used our screaming-meemie voices for the sounds of the shadows.
And Adrienne want on to direct feature-films, which was her goal. The independent film circuit which was so good to her as an actress, was being equally welcoming with her own projects. She'd just finished filming "Waitress" with Keri Russell and Nathan Fillion, neither marquee names, but both with their cult followings (Russell starred in "Felicity," Fillion was the captain on "Firefly").
Then I'd read she was dead. Hanged herself was the story, but I thought, "With a film coming out yet, why would she kill herself?" It didn't make any sense. And spending the day with her, I never got the sense of someone who would consider suicide.
Turns out she was murdered, and her killer faked it as suicide. You can google the story if you want to get the whole timeline, the coverage by some of the New York papers was lurid and sensationalist...and a bit in error.
Another Unbelievable Truth. And a very sad one.

Review -"A Prairie Home Companion"

Spiel mir das Lied vom Tod*

"A Prairie Home Companion" is one of the best shows on the radio (the best being "This American Life," but we'll save that for later...or better yet, check it out for yourself on the link). Over the course of its 30 year run, this less-than-"Grand Ol' Opry"-wanna-be has presented home-spun music of all genres--from Gospel to Grand Opera (and has seemingly unearthed every folk-artist extant in the country) and combined spriritual optimism (albeit Lutheran, which takes the joy out of it) with a cynical farm-land realism, all reflecting the philosophy and upbringing of its host Garrison Keillor, whose low story-telling voice is as lulling as cattle moaning in the pasture at night. Keillor writes it all, performs in most of it and serves as ringmaster, finally capping it off with his stool-talk reverie, The News from Lake Wobegon, land of low expectations ("Where all the women are strong, all the men, good-looking and all the children are above-average"). Old time radio techniques and phony commercials--for "Powder-Milk Biscuits" ("Heavens they're tasty and expeditious!") or for "The Ketchup Advisory Board" wind their way through everything, with just enough toothsome satire to leaven the bitter with the sweet. It's Community-Theater of the Mind, a staple of Public Radio, and manages to embrace and cherish both red and blue states in it's musty woolen blanket of nostalgia.

In the long string of Saturdays that I've listened I've heard moments of great beauty that I'll never forget,** while, on the other hand, I've wondered more than once why Keillor needs to sing so damned much. It's been a comforting friend on lonely cross-country drives, and it's been known to make a car load of rowdies quiet in contemplation.

But anyone going into Robert Altman's "A Prarie Home Companion" or "PHC" is due for a bit of a shock. Written by Keillor (from a story by him and Ken LeZebnik), it incorporates familiar bits and pieces from the broadcasts throughout. Characters come to life in the form of show-stalwarts cowboys Dusty and Lefty and private eye Guy Noir (not hard-boiled, so much as hard-up), as well as the subjects of one of Keillor's Wobegon yarns-the Johnson Sisters. There's an old country music type named Chuck Akers, who stands in for the PHC perennial guest, Chet Atkins. Why, I even remember the episode the Penguin joke came from. But the radio show itself is used as backdrop to the intertwining stories of the participants on the last night of the show, which overwhelms the conceit of using the show in the first place. And then...it's about death, primarily.

Which must make every blue-haired old lady in the audience go, "What'd they do that for? It's supposed to be 'A Prarie Home Companion!!"

A little back-story: Keillor had written a screenplay called "Lake Wobegon Days," about a local boy coming home to bury his father (it sounds alarmingly like "Elizabethtown!") Altman rejected it, saying: 1) "The death of an old man is not a tragedy" and 2)"I want to make a movie of 'A Prarie Home Companion,' instead!" I can just see the sour-lemon look on Keillor's face when Altman said that! "What does he wanna make a movie of that for?" he no doubt grumbled. "I've been doing that for years! And it's RADIO!"

Yup. But it's also live, which means chaos, and Altman always loved chaos. And it has music, which to Altman means community, and PHC ends, as the show usually does, with a group-sing of an old gospel standard--kinda shaky and maybe a little off-key, but still, it's everyone putting aside their differences and pulling together to make something nice, a trope that goes back to the films of Howard Hawks. And it ends with a grace note--an impromptu final bow from the wings.*** Altman's been making that kind of film for years, and death has always been a player, in "M*A*S*H" (whose so-familiar theme song is entitled "Suicide is Painless"), "McCabe and Mrs. Miller," "Nashville," "The Player," "Short Cuts," and "Gosford Park." And "The Long Goodbye."

And the reaction is usually "What'd he do that for?"

Amidst the songs by long-time PHC participants, the bits and skits, the players**** hook up and separate and talk over each other in a life-like muddle, Keillor's self-initialed character is constantly correcting the details of the various versions of History that he's concocted, and Death in the form of Virginia Madsen wanders the theater. Madsen's a wonderful actress (she deserved her Oscar nomination for "Sideways" and to win it, as well), but she's not terribly convincing in the part. Not entirely her fault. It's written as clueless and all-knowing, deeply philosophical and naive--Meryl Streep would have had difficulty with it. Plus, it's a little unclear just how she operates. Some people who see her, die. Some don't. Some folks who are unaware of her die. It's inconsistent. You'd want Death to have some kind of definite procedure, but I guess that's asking too much of a Grim Reaper. Death doesn't have rules.

But it's significant that before the final song, Death makes one final appearance and she heads our way until she obscures the camera in white.

"A Prarie Home Companion" was Robert Altman's last film. He died at age 81 on November 20th.

And as he said, "The death of an old man is no tragedy." Especially one who could still challenge an audience right up to the end.

"Live Every Show Like It's Your Last." The bow's yours, Bob.

"A Prarie Home Companion" is a Rental--but that's because it has left the theater...I repeat, it has left the theater. Before, it was good for a thoughtful Matinee.

* The German Title of "Once Upon a Time in the West," translated, means "Play me a Song of Death"

** a college chorus group solemnly singing John Lennon's "Julia" will haunt me for the rest of my life, and even a sing-along with a crowd in Buffalo last week, made me dab my eyes and smile at the cleverness with which it was done (It's "Angels Watching Over me" in Segment 2 of the link)

*** Courtesy of the always-wonderful John C. Reilly. But before that, one of the joys of the film is an impromptu bit by Meryl Streep, where she runs from the stage, grabs Keillor, who's already shambled off, drags him, surprised, back for a short, sweet dance--then turns around and leaves him, his arms holding her memory, as he watches--not sure what to do next. Then he turns and shuffles off-stage again. It feels spontaneous, and it feels perfect for both characters...and for Keillor in real life.

**** How's Lindsey Lohan, you gossip-mongers ask? Good, actually! How're you?

Happy Birthday, Martin

erm...Steve's the one not sitting one the warm cable remote. Just thought you should know....

Flotsam

Back to the grind of the day-in/day-out Job from last week's Snow Job, but the routine is comforting, though the commute is still a bear. Still, nice to have it. Buffing up my resume and taking it around various places on the Island is my new project for when the Temp goes away, plus there's an offer pending on something else.
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K's taking off (again), this time for an oft-delayed visit to Mom, as well as another visit to friend Pat. When we went down to Tacoma, K had just heard that Pat was going in for emergency surgery the next Tuesday. Aneurysm. Brain. Risky. She couldn't go down there with all that was going on previously, but it was delayed a week (delaying emergency surgery a week...what's up with that?), so she's paying a visit, stiffening upper-lips. My father had an operation for an aneurysm on his aorta way back in 1976. He was 65 at the time and made it through, so Pat's prospects are good, but it's still a grinder of an operation with quite a bit of recovery-time. It's this Tuesday. Keep a good thought.
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Speaking of my father, this is December 7th. You can read a bit about what he was doing on this date in 1941 here (starting 9th paragraph in yellow-the "Let me interject paragraph") and why, as a result, I'm here to link to it.
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Christmas decorations are going up around the town of Mossback, and when I'm driving home at night a thought strikes me--what do the real deer think of these glowing "light-bulb" reindeer on people's front lawns? Do they recognize them as the forms of deer? Do they look at them and wonder what they can do to avoid such a fate? Or do they think of them as some form of deer-deity? Do they know their gods can be bought at Home Depot?

Probably, they see them just as bright lights and try to avoid them...and the things don't even smell like deer, so... So much for those random thoughts.
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Rented "The DaVinci Code" last night. It's a cable-watcher, but better yet, the book is a fun read (well, fun with some exceptions made for self-flagellation, horrific faith-based murders, mutilation, and deep skepticism running over your dogma), so read the book, skip the movie. Some of Opie's alternate-universe-imagery during some of the long explanations was quite inspired, though.
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I've got a couple of reviews still to write--just haven't been "into" writing them, but maybe I'm also thinking about them too hard. I've also been using my writing time to go further west with Lewis and Clark, and dang, if they haven't made their way to the "Ocian" and built Ft. Clatsop. The next chapter is all about their depressing winter spent in the Northwest. "O! The joy!" <\sarcasm> Yeah, I think I know how it'll go. I might even skip this chapter. Lewis didn't write much at this point of the journey. The speculation being that, having achieved the Pacific Ocean, he sunk into a funk and just stopped writing. The PNW will do that to ya. Or, maybe he was taking the time reading a book about famous explorers rather than writing (Fictitious Clark entry--"Lewis spinds day reding book ubout DeGama. Makes me writ all day. Kramps in hand turrble. Ow. Goin out now to kik Seaman.") Whiny-ass Lewis. Readin' instead of writin'.

History. It repeats itself.

But then, so did my Grandmother...all the time. And now, she's history.

Am I repeating myself?

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Steve B is taking time from writing comments on this very blog to pay a visit this weekend. There might be a get-together. We'll see.
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And a belated Happy Birthday to my Seester from Monday. I'm stopping by there tonight to celebrate. She's quite the inspiration to me. Thanks, sis'!

Review-"The U.S. vs. John Lennon"

Yes, We All Shine On

First off, it's a VH-1 documentary, and you know what those look and feel like. Heavy on the art direction, light on the content, "The U.S. vs. John Lennon" single-mindedly paints the impression that John Winston Lennon was considered a threat to the Nixon Administration, and thus, singled out for investigation and action by federal agencies to toss him out of the country. All true to a certain extent. But what the documentary, in its rush to lionize both Lennon as a martyr and rock n' roll as a powerful political force ("Corporate rock n' roll," mind you), fails to point out is that was a far-too-commonplace tactic for that governemnt, whether under the aegis of J. Edgar Hoover, or by the group that was organized by the White House after Hoover decided he didn't want any part of Nixon's dirty work, "The Plumbers"--they of "Watergate" fame. First off, the filmmakers have the disengenuousness to say that John Lennon was unique in that he used his celebrity to advance a political cause.

No! Really? Bet that never happened before! Gosh! I wonder what all those HUAC meetings were for in the 50's?

Nor was Lennon unique being targetted by the Nixon administration. During the Watergate Hearings, it was revealed that Nixon had an actual "Enemies List"--involving such folks as Daniel Schorr and Paul Newman. The only surprising thing about its existence was that the clowns actually wrote the names down and kept copies of it (for the memoirs, no doubt).

Another point of emphasis is Lennon's participation in a benefit rally that saw its benefactor released from jail three days later. The documentary would have us believe it was "The BIG NAME of LENNON" that got the wheels of justice rolling, when it might actually be that John Sinclair was released by a sympathetic judge who came to the same conclusion the rallyers did: that the man shouldn't have been senetenced to ten years in prison for selling two joints to undercover cops; that the charges were trumped up, and having been so trumped were thus dismissed.

Now Lennon is the Beatle that I have the most admiration for (then George, then Richard Starkey, then Pete Best, then Jimmy Nicol, Murray the K, then Sir Paul, the git), and its always fun to see old footage of him, sporting and sparking. What Lennon did do that was unique was to take Yoko's challenging, simple ideas and exploit them as marketing slogans, whether with songs, on billboards, or the various stunts the two pranksters would use to lure in the press. Lennon didn't give a shit if he was thought a fool as long as the message got out--when you were a Beatle you developed a hard carapace. The film is at its best showing the two manipulating the "five steps behind" fifth estate, and clearly enjoying themselves, being very much in love, and showing how the government actions against them (surveillance and threatened deportation) weighed heavily on them.

But its not the whole story. Nothing is made of Lennon's drug abuse (what, they couldn't get rights to use footage from "Let It Be?") or about what has become known as "John Lennon's Lost Weekend." The filmmakers use "Instant Karma" as the End Credits song implying (I guess) that everybody doing dirty deeds got their "comeuppance." Ironically, one of the lyrics from that song is "And We All Shine On...(like the moon and the stars and the sun)." Taking another interpretation of the word "shining," one can say that applies to the film-makers as well, since they "shine on" any embarrassing facts that might contradict their simplistic view of a complicated artist.

"The U.S. vs. John Lennon" is a rental...but you might as well wait 'til it shows up on VH-1, MTV, CMT, or it is morphed into an "E! True Hollywood Story." Googoogajoob.