We Interrupt This Broadcast...

...to be narrow-minded.

The FCC snuck in like thieves in the night the other day to grudgingly hold a "Town Meeting" Friday night at Seattle's Town Hall on the subject of station consolidation.

They're for it.

They want more of it.

That's why they're considering letting the entities that own every radio and television station in town, also own the newspapers as well.

That would make everything neat and tidy, wouldn't it?

But because the broadcast channels and air-waves are a public trust--we own them, they administer them--they had to hold a meeting in various cities to get the public's reaction. We were the last. And because it's such a big deal, the commissioners made sure they gave very little notice or announcement of it. God forbid, that people should show up and actually give their opinions.

But people did...in droves. And one of them was conservative commentator John Carlson.

Here's a report of the meeting and what he said there.

http://blatherwatch.blogs.com/talk_radio/2007/11/john-carlson-sp.html#more

Thanks to Michael Hood and his snarky little broadcast blog "Blatherwatch" for the word.

"Oh, Wasted 'Sleuth'"

"In Olden Days a Glimpse of Stocking Was Looked On as Something Shocking, now I suppose....Anything Goes"

"Sleuth" started out as a hit play by Anthony Shaffer. It was inevitable that a movie would be made of it, and in 1972, a spit-and-polished version of "Sleuth" hit the screen. Shaffer wrote the screen-play, and it was directed with a rich panache by Joseph L. Mankiewicz (who knew a thing or three about theatricality) and the cast could not be improved--top-lined by Sir Laurence Olivier as mystery writer Andrew Wyke, and Michael Caine as the London hair-dresser Milo Tindle, currently having an affair with Wyke's wife. Mankiewicz's film is devilish fun, a clash between The Old World and The Terminally Hip with the battleground being Wyke's gadget and gee-gaw filled Manor House (designed by Ken Adam). Add to it John Addison's frothy hapsichord score and however dark the film becomes (and Mankiewicz gives it a creepily saw-toothed edge), it is never less than fun to watch, especially seeing Olivier energetically dashing through each scene, precisely mimicking accents and dialects--a brilliant murderous man-child forever playing games and Caine keeping up, trotting warily behind. At the time, that theatricality and staging made everything seem a trifle--a little bon-bon for the rinse-set. But over time, one can't help admiring the energy brought to the fore by Mank and Olivier, defying age and frailty to knock another one out of the park. And Shaffer's play is filled with all sorts of opportunity to...play. It stands as definitive...a champion documentation of the play.

Good Authors too Who Once Knew Better Words, Now Only use Four Letter Words Writing Prose, Anything Goes.

It must have seemed such a good idea to re-do it. With Caine old enough to play the Wyke role, and who else but Jude Law as Tindle, making it "The Battle of the Alfies" (and if you think this is coincidence, a couple of lines makes it obvious it was uppermost in the film-maker's minds). Then, to adapt (at one point Wyke says, cheekily, "You know what the word 'adapt' means, don't you?"), the great Harold Pinter, and to direct, Kenneth Branagh, both men who can mine rich veins out of depleted quarry. And the result? "Sleuth" is still there in skeletal form--it's still Wyke vs. Tindle, but only one line of the original remains*--it's been completely stripped. The fussy old school mysteries Wyke wrote are gone, replaced by "crime novels" that regularly turn up on British telly, exemplified by sweating policemen grilling suspects. Milo's now an actor, who does hair, does the occasional chauffeur job. He plays "killers...sex-maniacs, perverts mostly." Not only is the dialog stripped down to essentials ( and in nice....short little...bursts), so is the attitude. Any veneer of civility from the play has been scraped away, starting in the first moments with the chilly pause before a hand-shake when the two men first meet. No, they start off scrapping and spitting at each other right from "Hello" using all manner of Anglo-Saxon terms for each other, mutual contempt hurled in both directions. Which tends to throw the rest of the play on shaky ground. I suppose the makers didn't think Caine could pull off a stuffy, fusty Brit, and made it two working-class toipes throwing knives between their two sets of blue eyes. It takes the class warfare sub-text completely out of the center of the thing, leaving it all to ring just a bit hollow. The play pretty much runs its course, but the Second Act is considerably shortened, and the Third Act, if you will, is dragged on and on (despite all this, new-"Sleuth" lasts 86 minutes--the first was 2 hr, 18 m-- but seems longer) All this is staged in a hi-tech sterile interior (Wyke had nothing to do with it, he claims which seems...odd). And although there's a lot of bantering and word-play, sometimes annoyingly non-sequitir, it's just NO fun at all. Not a jot. At the end of the original, there is the satisfying finish with two simultaneous wails, along with mocking laughter. Then a curtain comes down. Here, nothing. Silence. Not even the impulse to applaud.

"Sleuth" (1972) is a strong matinee.

"Sleuth" (2007) is a waste of time.

* "The shortest way to a man's heart is humiliation."

Movie Review - "The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford"

Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,
Three children, they were brave;
But the dirty little coward
that shot Mr. Howard*
Has laid Jesse James in his grave.

That's from the old song "The Ballad of Jesse James" which I remember from my youth, forever enshrining James and the "dirty little coward" Robert Ford in my memory. It was written by one Billy Gashade (who took pains to include himself in the lyrics, naturally) soon after the outlaw's death. As with so much in the Jesse James business, it is reflective of the myth of Jesse James rather than the reality. For instance (as the Ford character points out in the movie) Jesse only had two kids. The fact behind the myth was that Jesse James was a vicious little punk--racist, paranoid, just as capable of killing friends as enemies, and women and children in the bargain. And while it's true he did rob from the rich--his target was banks and trains (or Union veterans)--the legend that he gave to the poor only extended to himself and members of his gang. No one who sees Jesse James as a folk-hero, or seeks to profit from that image mentions the mutilations he would perform on his victiims. It kinda gets in the way of the "fun." Yet, folks in Missouri still talk of the history of Jesse James (I once stayed in a hotel that advertised he slept there), and there's even a feud going on about whether Jesse really did die, and there are folks who want to dig him up to check DNA evidence to claim family affiliation. The myth rolls on. The lies that were sold in the pulp-magazines during his life are still at work, and as the line from "The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance" goes: "This is the West, sir. If the Legend becomes Fact, print the Legend." Even if it is a god-damned lie and the guy was a scum-bag.

It is the yin and yang of truth and fiction that suffuses "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford," but then it did in reality, too. The conceit of the film (and the book by Ron Hansen on which it is based) is that Robert Ford was a product of a pulp-western inspired hero-worship, that Jesse had his eye on the stories, too, and their mutual attraction and loathing of the truth behind it was the music to the dance of death they engaged in. Robert Ford was a nobody, and, in the film's words "Jesse James stood as tall as a tree." And that set up a love-hate relationship with the unstable hoodlum. "I can't figger it out," says Brad Pitt's Jesse to Casey Affleck's Bob Ford. "Do you wanna be like me, or do you wanne be me?" The fact is Ford doesn't know himself and the answer changes depending on his fortunes...and his fears. But as the cliche goes there's only room for one of them, and if there's no doubt that the strong will prevail, there is some question which one that would be. Maybe it will merely be a case of who is the least weak. Ironically, both will go on to greater fame and infamy.

Andrew Dominick's film meanders between an informative narration** spoken over landscapes beneath time-lapsed speeding clouds, as if Nature is careening to a foregone conclusion, while the figures take their own sweet time getting there. Dominick has a formalism going with those fleeting clouds and shots that are framed by a time-distancing diffusion. But it's very inconsistent, and rendered meaningless--no doubt due to post-production cutting by Producer Ridley Scott and star Pitt to punch up the pace. If it's not all Dominick wanted it to be, at least there remains some terrific performances all-around. Pitt is at his enigmatic best here, an unreadable half-smile on his face in all occassions. Sam Rockwell as Ford's older brother and fellow gang member gives another off-kilter performance that is spot-on. Along the way there are terrific cameos by Sam Shepard, Michael Parks and Ted Levine (and one distracting one by James Carville), but the stand-out is Casey Affleck. Affleck is every insecure, withdrawn kid who talks big, with a defensive smile on his face, and eyes that roll protectively up into his head when challanged. He's a train-wreck waiting to happen. And Jesse James specialized at trains.

If you're of a patient frame of mind, and have a taste for an unromantic West with heavy-handed irony then "The Assassination of Jesse James"is for you. But if not...

"The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" is a rental.

* "Thomas Howard" was the alias Jesse James was using at the time of his death.

** The narration has its own problems. One is not too sure of its reliability. For instance, in describing Jesse it states that he had "granulated eye-lids" which caused him to blink excessively, though part of Brad Pitt's performance is a protracted concentration, where he stares but does not blink. Then, the narration goes all flowery on the subject "...caused him to blink as if the world was too big to take in for too long." The film has its own problems with truth and myth.

More Tales from the Socialist Literary Collective*

"Call Northside 777"(Henry Hathaway, 1948) There was a brief period in American films where Hollywood embraced the neo-realist school coming out of Italy--where stories were filmed out in the streets, not in the rarified atmosphere of a film-studio (Italy's huge studio, Cinecitta, was being used to house refugees), and it dove-tailed with the gritty world of film noir and crime-thrillers. Elia Kazan made one, even Hitchcock did. But the most well-remembered of them was "Call Northside 777" with James Stewart as blasé "Chicago Times" reporter Jim McLane, who, upon taking an assignment he doesn't want, turns it into a cause celebre and his own obsession to see Justice done.

This was one of the first movies Stewart did after his Air Force service, as he was beginning to challenge and even destroy his callow image at the beginning of his career. Now, with an added maturity he could actually pull off the cynical journalist role he wasn't too convincing as in "The Philadelphia Story" (which won him a "sympathy" Oscar after losing the previous year for "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" the year before) He returned from the war determined to play characters with a darker edge.

Henry Hathaway directed with a subtle eye, finding interesting deep-focus shots in lackluster surroundings. McLane's first encounter with a scrub-woman washing the stairs of a cathedraled office building carries the visual weight of years of work needed to raise the reward-money to help spring her imprisoned son (Richard Conte). The jailhouse of the visitation scenes IS the jailhouse, and the arrest of Conte's character looks and feels like actual newsreel footage. Finally, you get to go back in time and watch vital clues produced by the old technology of wire-photo transfer. It's another instance where the straight-laced neo-noir style goes a long way in selling the truth of a story, however implausible it might seem.

"The Wages of Fear " (Henri-Georges Clouzot, 1952) Some movies are so good they defy time, place and stay universally fresh, seemingly like they were made yesterday. Clouzot's "The Wages of Fear" is that kind of movie, and I would call it the best film 0f 2007 if it was released today instead of 1952. It tells the story of four vagrants scratching out a living in a South American village existing in the shadow (and under the thumb) of an American oil company. One of the distant oil rigs goes up in flames, and these four are hired to drive two trucks of nitro-glycerin over unforgiving roads to the inferno to snuff it out. Why take on this task? $2,000 per man--enough money to fly out and make a new life. Why these four? They're not union workers, and should they die--the odds are fifty/fifty, hence the two trucks--they have no families who might sue or require compensation.

It's a neat little trap, and that doesn't cover the obstacles that Nature (and uncaring road-workers!) have along the way. All these desperate times call for desperate measures and the efforts taken can be undone in the blink of an eye, or a flash of fire. For the four, the journey strips them down to their real selves, all pretense and masks disappear in the face of impossible challenges that must be overcome, and the looming threat of death riding behind them. The wages of fear may be death, but "The Wages of Fear' is a bleak metaphor for life itself.

All of this is played out over a blasted landscape, the results of the presence of Big Oil, and the journey feels like going back through time as well as space, through the spare white jail-bars of a denuded forest, back to the primordial ooze and finally ending up in Hell. By the end one can't help wonder if the fate of Nature and the nature of Fate are intertwined. Except for one fairly amateurish performance this is a near-perfect movie.






"Tom Jones" (Tony Richardson, 1964) I have been hearing for years and reading in books of the freshness and originality of "Tom Jones," and after seeing it, one wonders what all the fuss was about. Yes, it's fun and frivolous. Yes, it won the Academy award for Best Picture. Finney is marvelous, but one also looks at the techniques used and must admit that it has not aged at all well. One must be careful, though, as a film should be considered as it was of its time. The current discussion (one could hardly call it a controversy) where "The Searchers" is a classic--for the simple reason that its sensibilities are of another time and picture-making makes one wary of arguments like this. I've also had to defend "2001" for being full of cliches--yes 'tis, considering every "space" or sci-fi movie since then has ripped it off--merely because it was of a time and sensibility. To someone growing up on MTV cutting "2001" must look stunningly tame (Be that as it may, I'll bet an MTV movie-goer, would still be affected by "long-take" syndrome, where the longer a film-scene goes on, the more nervous-making it becomes.

They'd never have that problem with "Tom Jones." But after sitting on it a week, dissipating the expectations and prejudices and going in for another viewing, one has found the context: the past is not a pageant. Historical dramas before it, were as stiff as the multi-layered costumes and as formal as a ball-waltz. "Tom Jones" got rid of the tracking camera and the stately walks, and made the 2-dimensional costume-fillers 3-dimensional people, and did so with a markedly ribald sense of humor, and the understanding that what drove them, drives us. Since then, Richard Lester and Ridley Scott (and Merchant/Ivory and everybody else making historical dramas of classic novels) has taken Richardson's path and taken the "hit-the-marks" formalism out, and lensed with a satirical eye to show us the past and how we repeat it. "Tom Jones" bursting on the scene must have felt as relieving as removing a whale-bone corset!

"The Spirit of the Beehive" (Victor Erice, 1973) Victor Erice is the Terrence Malick of Spain (though to be correct it should be the other way around). His films are precise and planned so carefully that he has made three films since 1972's "The Spirit of the Beehive." "Spirit" tells the story of two children; Father is a bee-keeper, Mother is a repressed housewife. The children go to see a matinee of James Whale's "Frankenstein," which deeply affects the youngest, Ana. She wonders why, in a pivotal scene, the monster kills a young child (in the film it's never seen) and if the monster is real. She's told by her older sister that the monster is a spirit who will come at her call--"Hello, I am Ana." This sets in motion a series of events that juxtaposes life and freedom, identity and society, death and repression. This film was made in the last echoes of the Franco regime and the people walk around in a form of zombie-state, their expressions impossible to read. That the Frankenstein monster is seen in this context as a symbol of life and freedom shows what a palpable symbol it remains, and how malleable.

"The House on 92nd Street" (Henry Hathaway, 1945) Another of those neo-realist films, filmed in the locations in which they occurred. But this one goes a step further--except for the lead actors, everybody's a real FBI agent--you can tell, the line readings are merely that, line readings. "Bob, let's get this over to the Cryptanalysis boys to see what they think." "O-kay, Wendell!" And the actors, mostly unknowns except for the always-natural Lloyd Nolan stick out because they're at ease and have better hair-styles. Real surveillance footage of the German Embassy during the war is used in this story of a Quantico-trained double-agent tracking a Nazi plot to discover the secrets of The Manhattan Project (or "Project 97," as its called in the movie--it was made in 1945, after all). It's a stunt-film, a propaganda document, an early film-noir (without the noir stylistics). And the blend of styles almost gives it a documentary feel. Henry Hathaway does some ingenious work making this all work together, at the cost of making the staged segments feel extremely staged in a D-budget sense.

"The Hound of the Baskervilles" (Terence Fisher, 1958) I'll go see any Sherlock Holmes story (as long as it's not a spoof), not so much because the story's are compelling--they're fascinating for the glimpse of salaciousness in Victorian England, but the story-template is rarely altered--but because the portrayal of Holmes is an actor's showcase. Holmes by Doyle is something of a blank slate, so an actor can infuse him with whatever qualities they choose to emphasize: Basil Rathbone, the heroic; Jeremy Brett, the neurotic; and on down the line to the worst--Stewart Granger who was content to make Holmes merely British (we won't get into Hugh Laurie as "House"). So, it's interesting to see the Hammer Studios' "take" on Holmes. Hammer was the British equivalent of Roger Corman's AIP, but with a distinct advantage. They also purloined classics in the public domain, but they had Terence Fisher, with his flawless eye of direction (and cleavage) and a repertory cast that included Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee. Here Cushing plays Holmes and he's obviously devoured the Doyle stories for Holmes quirks, stabbing documents into his mantelshelf and writing notes on his cuffs. His Holmes is energetic and flinty, bordering on rude with a relish of the melodramatic. His skull-like face even recalls Sidney Paget's original drawings. Until Brett came along, Cushing, to this Baker Street Irregular, was the best of the Holmes portrayals. Christopher Lee plays the put-upon Henry Baskerville, and as the actor is quick to point out in a "Special Features" interview, it's one of a handful of romantic leads that he's played in his long, long career. What makes this "Baskervilles" different from the countless others? Holmes is absent for less time, a lurid flash-back acquaints us with the origins of the Baskerville curse, there is a romance (of sorts) and the death by quicksand is given to someone entirely different. It is, though, faithful in spirit, if not in detail.

"The World's Fastest Indian" (Roger Donaldson, 2005) A labor of love for Donaldson, who first did a documentary of the man in 1971, "The World's Fastest Indian" tells the story of New Zealander Burt Munro who fulfilled a dream of testing the 1920 Indian Spirit motorcycle he'd been tinkering with his entire life at the test track on the Bonneville Salt Flats. Everything seems to be against him: he's old, lives in a shack, has a pension and angina, but his basic subsistence-level, his spirit, energy and resourcefulness (and his not inconsiderable charm) are enough to get him to America during "Speed Week" in Utah. Recommended by FarmerScott, K. was a little underwhelmed by the prospect--"I'm not into "engine" movies," she said--but was charmed by it, and so rooting for the man, that any set-back was felt keenly. It helps that Anthony Hopkins plays Munro as a slightly-distracted charmer, who, when he goes off on a story or a philosophy turns away from his audience as if he's addressing the world, but takes things in great genial strides and an attitude that it can all be overcome. It's one of those "Based on a True Story" tales that actually is a true story, as the documentary that Donaldson originally wrote and directed is also provided on the DVD, and the real Munro's words and manner are displayed. It's a truly heart-warming, uplifting tale, made doubly so by its provable authenticity. It is easily Donaldson's best film, and a tragedy that so few people went to see it in a theater. It's always asked, "Why don't they make movies like they used to?" And the answer is--because people don't support them. "The World's Fastest Indian" is one of those that "got away."





"The Innocents" (Jack Clayton, 1960) One of the truly great horror movies ever made, though without a drop of blood in sight. Jack Clayton's film of William Archibald's play (based on Henry James' "The Turn of the Screw"), with a polish by Truman Capote, and a final coat of lacquer by John Mortimer, is a creepily finessed horror story/psychological thriller depending on your point-of-view. Miss Giddens is given her first governessing job by "The Uncle," a cold bon-vivant, who wants her to "handle everything" and "leave me alone." Arriving at the country estate, she finds a world alive with life...and some dead stuff, too. Isolated and buttoned-up (minister's daughter) she starts to suspect that her little charges are more than they seem to be, finally convinced that they are in the thrall of the dead care-takers previously employed. Deborah Kerr treads a fine line between gentility and hysteria, and Michael Redgrave, appearing briefly, is the coldest of rakes. The stars of the film, though, are little Martin Stephens and Pamela Franklin, she, vibrating like a thing possessed (well...) and he, all-stillness and eyes that are fathoms deep. There has rarely been two kids as quietly malevolent as these two. Then, too, are the presences of Peter Wyngarde (Britain's epitome of the degrading satyr) and Clytie Jessop, as the figments of Quint and Jessel, who have gone before. The image of Jessop, standing ethereally among the reeds of a lake still is one of the singularly creepy images in all of cinema for me. Freddie Francis did the outstanding cinematography, and A.G. Ambler and John Cox, who provided the outstanding sounds evocative of things both natural and not. Talk about the road to Hell paved with good intentions...



* Your Public Library

When "Pack" Authority Breaks Down

No one tell "The Dog Whisperer," please?

On the Road Again: I'm heading for Portland. K's heading for Bonneville (Washington), then Mehico, then Eugene. Smokey the Hat will be staying at the Dog-Sitter's 'til I get back this week. Splendid times are guaranteed for all.

Coming Attractions: More Tales from the Socialist Literary Collective (lots of 'em!), Some Tales from the Red Envelope, and at least two new reviews--probably more.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bumper Sticker of the Day: On a sticker with a monkey-head silhouette: "I fling poo"

Song in me Head: "I Shot the Sheriff" (Eric Clapton) --but with the lyrics "I bought Musharraf, but I could not buy de-mo-cra-cy"

It's Cartoon-Time, Kids!!*

"Sunny" Day sent me this and I laughed so hard (and K laughed so hard) that I am compelled to share, despite the fact that I can't embed the damn thing. No, you have to go to all the trouble of clicking on a link.

Rest assured, you are going to a safe site (it's Yahoo!®Video), but this is the only place I've been able to find this cartoon.

It's worth it, though.

Joy of Cat

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Of course, that line comes from every kid's show ever transmitted through a photon tube, but the guy I remember saying it the most was Chris Wedes, aka "J.P. Patches." Today the Mayor of Seattle declared November 5th "J.P. Patches Day," which hardly seems like enough. The man would pull down 2 shows a day and one on the week-end and then go out and open every single grocery store in the Puget Sound region. To read more about the self-proclaimed "Mayor of the City Dump," click on the "City Dump" link over there on the right, and enter the peculiar (and mostly ad-libbed) world of J.P. It's an understatement to say he had an influence on my life and career. Here's a check-list that I still have from J.P.'s show:

And Now, For Something Completely Different...

Q: If you had an infinite number of marshmallows, how many Lincoln-Logs would it take to reach the moon?

A: No, because ice cream has no bones!

This was first thrown at me in a High School English class by a smart-ass who wasn't following an argument I was making about some novel of some kind. It did exactly what it was meant to do: it stopped me cold, derailed my train of thought and made me shut up for a few seconds while I was dealing with the flow of non-sequitirs.

Now, so many years later, I can use that timeless (and time-twisting) poem:

Turn backward, turn backward,
Oh, time in your flight,
Just thought of the comeback
I needed last night*

...which would be:

1) That the best you can do: babble nonsense at me?

2) If you don't have a valid argument, why don't you shut up and let someone speak who does?

3) What's your point?

4) That was a good line when Groucho Marx said it, but what's it got to do with this?


That's what I should have said...(wish I had a Time Tunnel)

* Just a sneaky way to plug the fact that you need to turn your clocks BACK one hour Sunday morning! A Public Service Message from this station.

Jetsam!!!

We've done Flotsam. Here's Jetsam.

Customer Relations--A Study in Contrasts

The Good Example: Over the weekend while K. was gone, I was taking the near-occasion to walk the dog when we got into my car and discovered that it wouldn't start (I was driving). Well, I tried to compression-start it to no avail, so we (the dog and I) decided to walk down to the beach (he was driving). Anyway, no juice in the car. It could be one of a couple of things: dead battery (not uncommon when the weather turns chilly), or a bad something-or-other, either the ignition, or the distributor. In any case, I was not going to move forward with at least a jump. But I really didn't have anyplace to go, so I let it set. K. was coming home Monday morning. Not a big deal.

K. came back, we hooked up the jumper cables--and "Lookit, Igor!" it came alive, ALIVE!! But the next morning, not so much. So after another boost, I took it in to Les Schwab--known around these parts as the very model of a modern Better Business. I left the house at 10, and I was going to be doing chores in town all day, but let me just start by saying I was on the 11 am ferry. So I left my house at 10. It takes 20 minutes to get to Les Schwab. I was ON the 11 o'clock ferry.

What transpired? I went inside, explained the problem, they gave me dollar options and then went to work. They were done within a half-hour. As I was paying I mentioned to the mechanic, "Now I just hope it's not the generator or distributor acting up.." "Oh, we checked those," he said. "You're good to go."

He CHECKED all that. I was GOOD to GO.

And, indeed, I was. But, I had to tell him my admiration for the Schwab shops by telling him of this story, to which he laughed and just said, "It's what we do..."

And exceptionally well. Next stop:

The Bad Example: My first stop was to get the pads of my eyeglasses fixed. The one pressing against the right side of my nose had cracked and split off, causing my some irritation, so I thought that that was the day to get it fixed. I went to the Group Health "See Center" on the Eastside. They were up on the third floor of the building, so I went into the Office, and was promptly beckoned to a cashier. What was I there for? "I just need to replace the pads on my eye-glasses. You can do it here, or I'll just buy the pads and do it at home." Fine. My name? I told her. I have a common name, so I had to do the standard wait while they find which of the "me's" is actually "me." What's my address? Not there. What's my phone? Not there? Any previous address? Not there. How about my birth-day? Not there, either. This went on for 10 minutes. "Well, I can't find you in our data base, so we'll just have to start a new account. Name?" You've got my name. You've got my phone number, my birthdate, and my last two addresses. I could've applied for a job by now. Do we really have to start a new account? "Well, we need it for payment purposes." I'm going to be paying CASH. "It doesn't matter. We still need a record for..." No, you don't. I don't want to start a new account. I'll go someplace else. "Well, if that's what you want to do..." Thanks, I lied. And I left.

Bad Group Health. Very bad.
----------------------------------------------------------------------

I don't give two hoots about sports (though I did cast an eye towards the World Series results), especially College Football, but this caught my eye. Like I said, I don't like c-football, but I do like chaos, and I understand that when a play is made, it takes equal parts planning and luck, and something like a miracle for a complicated play to be completed.

But, this? This is insane. This is a play being made on the edge of a razor blade for a staggering minute and a half, when at ANY TIME, something could and probably SHOULD have gone wrong. But it's been that kind of crazy year for football.

Here's the last play--Trinity College and Milsap. :02 on the clock. Amazing. In fact, legendary.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
So, what's up with you, anyway?

Well, this year I decided that I wasn't going to buy Hallowe'en candy. We (I) always buy too much, and it just sits around the house calling our name, because for the past five years or so, we've always lived in "the spooky house." The house with very few lights. The house that's difficult to get to. Whatever the reason (Hmmm. Maybe it's the ferocious barking of a certain Hound from Hell*), we don't get a lot of kids for Hallowe'en. None, precisely. So no candy shopping this year.

K. went off to her "Smoking Cessation" class (She's doing EXCELLENT, by the way). Before she went, we discussed the Hallowe'en situation. "Do we have anything to give 'em?" No. I've got some Toll-House cookies baked, but parents will be concerned about razor blades and stuff like that. "Well, I don't know..." I could give 'em some of that nicotine gum you don't like.... I thought that was an inspired plan, but K. said you weren't supposed to give nicotine gum to kids, so that put the ki-bosh on that. I guess we would have to contend with T-P in our trees, if any pint-sized pirates and princesses showed up at our door.

But they didn't. Saved by the lack of a bell. K. came home, I put together dinner and sat down to watch our Hallowe'en movie, "The Innocents," starring the recently late Deborah Kerr. It's a great little hysterical romp of a movie with a sound-design track I've always liked, and some images that have always stuck in my head. But it was made even more spooky, when all of a sudden...the lights went out, and the DVD went dead, and the stereo quit.

Not so much scary as disappointing. The outlets on one wall of our house went dead for some reason. So, we plugged everything into a surge-protector and plugged it into a wall-socket in the bedroom. We resumed the movie, but we kept furtively glancing at the wall-sockets to see if their might be melting or erupting in flame. Anyway, it made for an interesting Hallowe'en!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tying it up in a Nice Thematic Bow

Remember the storm we had October 18th? 50+ MPH winds, and all? I was in Portland. But if you were taking a ferry from The Rock to The Mainland, it might have looked like this:











This is the ferry Cathlamet making its way to the Mainland. I've taken this ferry on rides similar to this, but I've never seen this happen:

Now, that is a big, hurkin' wave splashing up and over (and through) the car-deck, completely drenching, and no doubt re-arranging the cars positioned there. The usual procedure is to put motorcycles on the front lip of the car-deck, so that they can egress first--that is, egress once they've docked. I think this time egression was a bit premature.

Which brings us back to "Jetsam." According to dictionary.com, "Jetsam applies to cargo or equipment thrown overboard from a ship in distress."**

Though I doubt the Cathlamet (or is it the Klickitat--I'm not really sure) is not in REAL distress, it would sure seem like it to someone on board. I'm hoping nothing was thrown overboard, but that is one scary looking "hit." One more reason to someday get off "The Rock."


* Ya know what I'd like to see? A "dripping blood" font. That would be ever-so-handy for Hallowe'en, Horror movie invites, James Bond film festivals, Stigmata conventions....

** And "flotsam" is the floating debris from a wrecked ship. You can have jetsam without flotsam, but you can't have flotsam without jetsam.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Bumper-sticker of the day: "Boys Lie"
Song in me head: "Yes It Is" by The Beatles
Oh, and Happy Birthday, Ev'!

Ghost Story

Happy Hallowe'en!

I'm a "recovering" Catholic. I don't believe much (but, I do believe I'll have another beer ), so Hallowe'en does nothing for me except raise my blood-sugar. I don't believe in God and Heaven. But angels? I don't know. Satan? Well, I told that story here, here and here. Again, I don't know. I need to see it with my own psychic orb. But nothing is black and white. I know people who've seen spirits. I know people who've seen Jesus.

I know people who've seen my dad.

The day my dad died was a traumatic, nearly incomprehensible thing. One minute I was sitting on his bed, talking stuff inconsequential and consequential; "Don't worry about stuff. It's just a waste of time..." Two hours later he proved the point by dying.

One minute he was there, and the next--no dad. All or nothing. 24 grams of difference, they say.

When the doctor came in and told us he did all he could do, my mom collapsed into my brother's arms and wept. It's one of the few times I've ever seen him cry. My sister grabbed onto me, and me? All I could do was not believe it. It was inconceivable that my father could die, and I couldn't imagine what life, for us, on the other side of that event, would be like. It didn't occur to me to think about him. He was dead, and that was it. His troubles had ceased. I remember crying violently and pounding on my leg in disbelief, like it would wake me from a nightmare. Pound pound pound. For all the good it did. Dad was just as dead.

And life was just as changed. It would never go back. My family went in to see Dad's body to see him at rest. I demurred. Mom told me it would reassure me, but I said no. I've never regretted that decision. My memories of my father are only of him alive. *

We went back to our house, stunned. No more Dad. We were cried out, in shock; not much to say, not much to be said, really. And then the relatives started showing up, with casseroles, with sympathy, and with stories...and a miracle. Within two hours, my morbid Uncle Rob and his brother-in-hijinks, Uncle Bill, had us laughing hysterically--my Mom, too, laughing gratefully at their jokes and cutting up. It's my fondest memory of my uncles, and whenever I see their kids I remind them of it.

But at some point, everyone had to leave. We were exhausted. I had a date that night, and I cancelled. I stayed at home with sister and Mom and tried to make sense of it all. Failing that, we all went to bed early....

I was the last to get up. I hadn't slept well and was restless all night. I groggily made my way to the kitchen, noting that coffee would be nothing like my father had made it--thick, black and slightly chewy. He'd learned to make coffee in the Navy. Both my mother and sister were up. They looked at me. My mother looked at me gravely.

"Did you see Dad?"

HUH?!

"I saw dad last night," my mother said. "So did I," said my sister.

What'd you see? Are you sure it was him?

"Yes. I saw a flashlight first, like when your dad would get up in the middle of the night. I looked at him and I said 'John?' He told me not to be afraid--that everything was going to be alright."

What'd he look like, mom?

"He was beautiful. He seemed so at peace. He said not to worry about him, he was alright, and everything was going to be fine. Then he walked away. I got up to follow him, but he was gone. So I went to your sister's room, and she was sitting up in bed." My sister nodded. "She looked at me and said, "Did you see him?"

I looked at my sister. "You saw him, too?"

"Yeah. I saw a light, and I saw him. He said he was alright, and everything would be fine. The mom showed up."

"Did you see him?"

No. (But that doesn't mean anything--I'm as psychic as a brick.)

Both my sister and my mother I consider rational people. This was twenty years before my mother's Alzheimer's diagnosis. After my father's death, she would go to work at a mall bookstore, and for the majority of the time before her retirement, worked the mall Information Booth--ironic, as that's the least-likely job for someone who would suffer from short-term memory loss. I could argue that the shock of my father's death triggered some chemical spurt in their brains to manifest his image (the way they say that those stories of "life flashing before your eyes" is caused by strength-producing adrenaline being released through your system). I don't know, but I suspect not. In the subsequent years, when I've heard similar stories--many of which came from an all-day session recording people's near-death experiences--I've been alert to the similarities between those stories and my mother and sister's. For instance, the phrase that seems to be a lulling mantra--"Don't worry about me, I'm alright and everything is going to be fine"--is common in the majority of these stories. The similarities are striking--unnervingly so.

But is that real or the imagination? Are we consoling ourselves through brain chemistry, or does St. Peter allow a free phone-call at check-in? Either way, I find myself marvelling at the mechanics of the Universe that would provide such comfort. Does it work for everybody? How about when everything isn't okay, and not fine?? Do the dead return to console in war? How about a death by violence? Are those the ghosts who wander the Earth as wraiths, poltergeists and banshees?** In death, apparently, one size does not fit all.***

We will all die (Garrison Keillor says that "Nature doesn't care about your golden years--it's aiming for turnover" and that's exactly right). But some of us could die "better" than others. One hopes that when The End comes for us, we can have the opportunity to reassure those we love...one way or another. It's the unfinished business of a finished life. The opportunity of a lifetime.

"Don't worry about me. Everything's going to be alright."

Reading over this, I'm a bit frustrated that there are far too many questions and not enough answers, but I suppose I won't know those answers until I cross-over, with the possibility of discovering The Big Picture.

When I do, I'll get back to ya.

*Subsequently, when my Mom died, I was the one to go make sure the funeral arrangements had been met, so I elected to view the body. My brother and sister did not. My sister-in-law, Jane, went with me. I've never regretted that decision, either, relieving them of that task.

** I'm sure I mentioned my psychic-friend. On this subject he was blunt: "Ghosts are ass-holes!" he said. He was very contemptuous of them.

*** I remember reading that Stanley Kubrick thought his film of "The Shining" was, actually, quite hopeful. "Isn't anything that implies life after death?" But Kubrick gave death his own spin by implying that it could be just another trap, waiting to make life...or death...hell.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bumper-sticker of the day: "Yes! This is my truck and NO! I won't help you move"

Song in me head: "Mrs. Robinson" (Simon and Garfunkle)

The Political Haunted House

It's not too late. We can still do this for Hallowe'en.

I was reading Stephen Colbert's guest editorial in the New York Times,* (here's the link to it, it's hilarious), and the image that stuck with me the longest was his vision of Dick Cheney driving a tractor through the Times newsroom while drinking sweet crude oil from Keith Olbermann's skull. That stayed with me for days, and though I'm a flaming liberal, not only could I imagine it, it was something I'd like to see. It got me to thinking: here it is the time of year every radio station and/or charity group--wait a minute, aren't they the same thing?--trots out any old abandoned warehouse/church/crack-house** and turn it into a "Haunted House." (OoooOOOOoo, spoo-oo-ooky!) The only people who like these paper-mache nightmares are kids in the narrow slice of life from 8 to12, and frat-boys who can get a cheap feel and blame it on the volunteers dressed half-heartedly as ghouls and trasvestite vampires.

And seeing as it's the start of a new political season, AND Hallowe'en season--wait a minute, aren't they the same thing?--why not COMBINE the two into your very own

POLITICAL HAUNTED HOUSE!! (thundercrack!)

a concept that just drips insincerity

But what (I hear you cry) WHAT would you PUT into the Political Haunted House (tc)? Bwa-ha-haa! Funny you should ask...Step this way..lead with your left or your right, it doesn't matter...and mind the broken step, the troll might grab you.. (Back off, Ron Paul! Put down that torch!!) Now we'll start in the foyer (yes, there's lots of cob-webs which indicates inactivity, but we're trying to make this an exact replica of a legislative chamber!). Any direction you go is better than no direction at all, and if you know that, why aren't YOU running for office? Oh, you hear screaming? Pay it no mind. That's Howard Dean.

Off with you now.

The Dick Cheney Halliburton Bunker Maze (and Shooting Gallery)- It's a House of Mirrors buried deep underground in the moral and physical swamp-land that was Washington, D.C., but now more resembles a quick-sand field. Good! It can't go to Hell fast enough. Step inside the distorting House of Mirrors, 'cause if you happen to shoot somebody, you'll only be shooting yourself. And if you don't like what you see in one mirror, there'll be one you like somewhere down the line. See how many dead-ends you can hit and still bluster that it's the way to go, anyway. There's a time-limit, but don't get the clock-ticking confused with your pace-maker. Either way, time is limited, so spend your capital--political and financial--as fast you possibly can. Who knew that when you said you weren't going to go to Viet-Nam because you had "better things to do," it was planning how to destroy THIS country, instead! Good job....Dick.

The Emperor George W. Bush Quo Vadis Vault- A man of many talents, "W." fiddles while effigies of American landmarks, made up of bricks of cash, go up in flames. One can't help wonder that, though he takes his marching orders from the "Other Father," the tableau looks more like the Other Place, with the Commander-in-Cheat as it's...Commander-in-Cheat. It's actually a good thing that if we're going to go to Hell as a Nation, his tax-cuts were just enough that we can buy a hand-basket to go in. And they're flammable. The only thing that could douse the all-consuming flames would be a level-5 hurricane--and we know how effective he is against those.

The Condy Rice Ti-tanker Room - If you're going to be on a sinking ship, it might as well bear your own name. The oil-tanker Condoleeza Rice (I'm not making that up) is seen going down for the first and last time, while on the prow Condy, Rummy and Paul Wolfowitz, their arms extended, scream "We're Queen of the World!" And when they go under, the only open arms they'll find will be their own. But of course, I'm being facetious--they''ll be on the board of directors of an oil company in the very near-future. Trouble is, with their wrong-way of looking at the world, they see a sinking-ship as a prelude to deep-ocean drilling.

Rudy Giuliani's House of Rubble: Six years after 9-11, the only thing that's been built on the site is a clueless campaign for President by the Mayor who thought the best place to put a disaster center was the place that had been bombed years before, and would be a crater years later. We won't even bring up the cross-dressing, the shameless exploitation of a national tragedy, or the rotating mistresses. The only reason he's running for President is no one'll give him a job in New York. And if the best thing you can say about him is "He went to a lot of funerals," it makes you think. But this room does exactly the same thing its namesake does--blow a lot of smoke.

The Hillary Rodham Temple of Dominazons: Every Haunted House should have something REALLY scary, kids. And nothing scares males (and some females) more than a woman with power over your life...or your career...or your government. In this little tableau, all the deep-seated insecurities from Mommy-fixations and parent domination are given a damn good prodding--This will HURT! (Whack!) But it's GOOD for you! (Whack!) And my health-care will cover any permanent DAMAGE (WHACK!)--your life will be regulated, curfews fixed, and you'll be "carded" for everything, while personal information is gathered and distributed. Sort of like now, but with a really bitter den-mother where an "all-hat-no-cattle" cowboy used to be. Four years of "Mommy, may I..." sounds bad, but think of the First Husband (which implies there could be a second!)--he gets the karmic experience of finding out what it's like to be on your knees in the Oval Office. Payback is a bitch!

The John McCain Tilting Balance Room--It's tough to keep your balance when the room turns on a whim--lurching to the left--lurching to the right. You begin to think that the best position to take is low to the ground...but WHOOPS!..there goes your balance off in another direction. But see, that's the funny thing about tilting rooms. They start off balanced, but if you make a move, everything shifts with you, and you usually end up over-compensating and looking like a fool...or flat on your ass. Whoops! Off to the right, again! Not to worry. This installation is temporary, at best.

The Alberto Gonzales Memorial "Crafts" Room: The only thing different from when he was A.G. are a few more cob-webs, not only on that unused Constitution, but high up in the rafters. But don't worry, the place is still doing a cracking business, just not with the same "fresh zeal" when everything was a new experience. Why, the world was your gulag with everything from psychological brow-beating in a hospital room to full-on electrified alligator clips. Come on in and desecrate a sacred text, play with the dogs (or their feces) or practice your simulated sexual positions. It's a party, and the music is loud and 24/7! Need a break? Step into the relaxing water-boarding room (it's like bobbing for apples, only you're the apple!) Be sure to get directions to this one, because the location is a secret. It's quick! It's painful! It's unconstitutional! (And as a parting gift, you get a web-page of black-hooded memories). The Alberto Gonzales Memorial "Crafts" Room: He may be gone, but his legacy lingers on--you know how slow the kangaroo-court system is!

The Al Gore Conversation Pit and Aquarium (Sunken)--Yes, it's underwater. Yes, you have to go in there. But at least, you don't have to LIVE in there...not for forty years, anyway. Yes, the price of global warming will be lots of developments that might as well go by the name of "Atlantis," for all the good it'll do ya. You think those climatologists who doubt the ice caps are melting are all wet? Wait a year, they WILL be! But you can help stop it by buying "carbon credits." After you've bought all those carbon credits, all you'll afford for Christmas is a lump of coal in your stocking. Carbon Credits is a lot like buying insurance. You throw a lot of money you may never see again, even if you do get sick. Don't worry, though, you've got a choice: Take the moral high ground now, or scramble for high ground later. In the meantime, I've got some swamp-land to sell ya.

Actually, Swamp-land futures.

Actually, Texas.

Hope you enjoyed your visit to the

POLITICAL HAUNTED HOUSE (thundercrack)

Just remember--it's only for Hallowe'en! What? It's just the same outside the Haunted House?

Ooooooh---SCA-RYY!!

*He was subbing for Maureen Dowd--a writer I just can't get behind. For all her crowing and lambasting of the Bush Administration these days, back during 2000 -election-time, she was one of the lazy reporting bunch who would parrot back the latest mis-characterization of Al Gore's speeches portraying him as an ego that invented everything, when a simple reading of his words--or...you know, research?--would have revealed that it was merely niche-reporting by the scribblen-lumpen, that Dowd and her ilk would just parrot back and howl about over their gin-and-tonics. Meanwhile they kept giving Bush the benefit of the doubt when he proved to be not as stupid as they assumed--and they had a grudging admiration for the unapologetic craveness of his campaign. After he was elected, these reporters were stumbling all over themselves with sober pontifications of "He's very smart--He's smarter than we thought he was--Smart, Verrrry smart!" Now, he's been proven to be the incompetent boob anyone who looked at his record as a businessman knew he would be, and these bandwagon reporters, who a few months ago were still fawning for press credentials and White House Invites have decided that they're now working for the Good of the Nation. Wrong, as always. She may be a leader in the Press Corps, but it's a Corps of lemmings, and chickens. If you want to lead a stampede in no particular direction, send the Maureen's.

** For years, I lived across from the building that was the traditional "haunted house" for one particular Seattle radio station (couKJRgh!). It was originally the site of Children's Hospital. Then The Seattle Police Department turned it into The City Morgue (talk about "cradle to the grave!"). Then, after the Morgue moved (and became a part-time Haunted House), someone got the bright idea to make it an assisted living facility. Someone with a short-term memory problem, no doubt. In fact, they're probably living there now.