Movies and BBQ

I haven't been a very good blogger lately, I'll try to be better.

Yesterday Ellen and I ended up watching some show about barbecue and I decided I just HAD to have some.  There isn't really a great barbecue place in LA (not that I am the greatest judge), but there is decent, proven by our trip to "Big Mama's Rib Shack and Soul Food" in Pasadena.  We shared a combo platter of ribs (OK but not quite falling off the bone), chicken (pretty good), hot links (OK), and sliced pork (very tough).  Also some pretty good corn bread.  But boy I love barbecue!  I'll have to take my Vegan sister here.  Not!

Then we went to see "The Visitor," a disappointing outing.  Directed by the same guy who helmed "The Station Agent" which I liked very much, this one features a similar sort of emotional restraint.  But here, there's less at the core of it.  Everything happens too easily, everyone's too nice.  (If you've seen it, let's discuss.)  At least in The Station Agent, you had the chatty Italian coffee truck guy trying to befriend Peter Dinklage, and PD did not want friends, so there was conflict.  There really isn't much conflict in The Vis.  I wish we'd seen that documentary about the old people singing.  That's supposed to be good.

We also went to see the traveling "My Fair Lady" this past week, which was fine I guess.  This show, of course, features many great songs -- With a Little Bit of Luck, Get Me to the Church on Time, On the Street Where You Live, I Could Have Danced All Night, Enter Sandman -- wait, that last one is a Metallica song.  Sorry.  But I'd forgotten how boring the actual story is.  Higgins is training Eliza to speak better and have better manners.  Who cares?

Last Saturday, we took Hunter and four friends to Disneyland for his birthday.  Luckily, they are old enough that they don't really want to hang around with us, so it's mostly just Ellen and I chilling in the Magic Kingdom.  Unfortunately, I've been to Disneyland too many times in the last ten years, and it's not that much fun anymore.  There is one new ride -- the refurbished submarine ride, now "Finding Nemo" themed.  We were very excited about that one and didn't mind the 90 -- that's right 90 -- minute wait.  No FastPasses available for this one.

But we learned the meaning of a new word Ellen read recently in a book -- Antici-pointment.  We experienced anticipointment.  The ride was lame.  The new Nemo stuff was almost all projected movie images, not animatronics.  I wanted animatronics!  It felt like getting into a submarine to watch a movie.  Darn you Disney!

Here's a picture of Tom Brady, apropos of nothing.  The Super Bowl was a huge disappointment, and it's taken a while to get over.  The NFL draft is this weekend -- bring on 2008!

This is a relatively busy week for me.  Pitched today at Fox (some minor interest in one of my stories).  Pitching to my former boss tomorrow (she might have some good notes).  Then pitching to Sony on Wednesday.  Wednesday night brings the Little Mermaid 3 wrap dinner, and Thursday I have an informational meeting at FilmRoman, an animation company.  Whew!

Also, Thursday is Hunter's birthday.  There'll be cake.

Waiting

Really not much to report.  Waiting for my manager to set up meetings for me to pitch around town.  Waiting, and waiting, and waiting. 

Waiting.  For a Meeting.

Wasting.  Away.

Fasting.  Metaphorically.

Farting. Is Such Sweet Sorrow.

Parting.  See you tomorrow.

Diamonds and Ducks

Mr. and Mrs. Duck returned to the pool today to spend about an hour with us.  No quacking this time, just some R&R swimming, drinking, and cleaning themselves on the deck.  On the downside, they also felt free to use the pool as a restroom.  Hey -- we don't swim in your toilet man!

Falling into the "can't we have any good news" category, apparently several pieces of Ellen's jewelry have been stolen, probably during one of our open houses.  This was stuff in a drawer in the back of her small walk-in closet, not out in the open.  Granted, it was in a small drawer unit on top of which sits her display of all her earrings, so if you were looking and peeked into the closet, you'd be drawn to the this small drawer unit.

Of course when you have an open house, one realtor sits, usually in the kitchen, while strangers wander the house.  Our realtor had warned us to put valuables away, but we took this to mean put stuff in drawers.  Now we've learned our lesson.  And our realtor will make sure someone comes upstairs with people.

What about homeowners insurance, you ask?  Ours has a $10,000 deductible.

It's not so much the money, although this was thousands of dollars worth of stuff.  It's the sentimental value -- diamond earrings Ellen's Dad gave her, a little diamond trifle I gave her.  Also it's just the frustration that we made it so easy for someone to steal our stuff, and they got away with it.  Maddening.

Please check back for some good news which must be coming at some point.

Leatherheads, Miss Pettigrew

Ellen and I had a relaxing weekend, after having had Hunter for two weeks straight.  Although we really must keep up our effort to look for jobs, can't do much on the weekends.  So we see movies.

But there really isn't anything these days that really floats our boat; most investigations of the movie listings result in a sort of bored disappointment, with an "I'd see that I guess" substituting for "yeah."  Boy Indiana Jones better get here soon.

Saturday: Leatherheads.  A seemingly appealing throwback to the screwball comedies of old, and it's about football to boot!  My choice.  But I can now report, without fear of contradiction, that it is Snedeker-certified comedy free!  A boring slog from start to finish, with Clooney mugging way too hard to try and rescue unfunny situations and dialogue.  And I usually like him, the Lake-Como-living, model-dating bastard.   Also extremely poorly directed for a comedy, with almost every scene ending with a long pause, apparently waiting for that perfect bon-mot scene-ending line which never comes.  Clooney just waits a few more moments and cuts away.  And here's my biggest criticism: not enough football!

Sunday:  Another open house day, so the dogs needed to be deposited at "Wagville" while we got out of the house for three hours.  This day it was "Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day," starring Frances McDormand.  Ellen liked it, but I napped a little -- "Mr. Snedeker Snoozes for an Afternoon."  It had some good actors, and Amy Adams was fun and delivered her lines with gusto.  A minor affair.  Two stars.  Whoop-de-do.

Then we went to pick up the dogs.  While they go retrieve them, you can watch the doggie play area on webcam.  I could see Louie just sitting there in the middle of the area, watching the front door, Elliot was orbiting him like some wobbly moon.  It's sure seemed as if Louie does nothing but sit there and wait for us to return.   Hmmph.

Washcloths Make the Man

It's time for the first installment of what will perhaps become a semi-regular BSB (Brian Snedeker blog) item called "marital bliss."  Perhaps I'll come up with a better name sometime, something cleverer, like "Wife Lessons" or "This Old Spouse" or something like that.

Anyway, the other day I was laying in bed, wondering whether to get up or not.  I look into the bathroom and see Ellen grab the washcloth that rests atop the shower door.

B: What are you going to use that washcloth for?

E: I'm going to use it to wash my face.  Is.... that OK?

B: Have you used it before?

E: Yes.  Why?

B: I mean, feel free, but that's the washcloth I use in the shower to wash my ass.

After laughing, we started naming the piece of material in question: the "butt-cloth," the "ass-rag," the "poopah-loofah."

Tune in soon for the next installment!

Choking at Lunch

I can't believe it's been since March that I added a blog entry.  I'm a terrible blogger.  But I guess -- if a blogger apologizes in the forest and no one reads it, did it really happen?

Occasionally, over the past few years, I have had trouble swallowing food.  Nothing major, just sometimes a piece of food will get caught in my esophagus, a feeling I find very uncomfortable, slightly panic-inducing.  As long as I have a beverage with which to wash it down, I'm fine.  But there have been times when I have had to jump up from the table and quickly open a 7up, trying hard to look like nothing is wrong.

A few years ago I went to see my GP about it, and he ordered some tests, one of which was to drink a horrible chalky barium drink while x-rays (or mri or something) were taken.  The diagnosis was nothing more than inflammation of the esophagus and the valve that leads to the stomach.  He prescribed something for me, which I was to use as needed.  A few years ago he told me I could just buy Prilosec over the counter.  Problem solved?

Lately the symptoms have returned, although in a minor, non-concerning way.  I just occasionally get something stuck.  I'm always able to wash it down.

Cut to: today Ellen and I had lunch with our friend Doug Segal.  He's always a fun date, very easy to talk to, good storyteller.  He regaled us with the saga of his nascent screenwriting career, and of directing the annual all-school show at his kids' school (a harrowing tale).  But after a few bites of my rotisserie chicken, a piece stuck.  I do not in any way blame this on Doug's story.  I tried swallowing, but it wouldn't go down.  I immediately took a sip of my lemonade, but it STILL wouldn't go down.  I could feel the cold lemonade sitting in my esophagus on top of the lodged piece of chicken as I tried quickly, over and over again, with a rising level of alarm, to swallow.  But no dice.  I tried coughing it up, still no go, but I did sort of spit up the lemonade onto my plate.  I think this got Doug and Ellen's attention.

Then I tried to breathe, and realized I couldn't.  I attempted to inhale, but got nothing more than a little bit of air, generating an alarming rasping sound as I sucked in as hard as I could. For better or worse, Mo's is a loud restaurant, and no one else notices.  But as if to echo my rising panic I stand up, laboring to breathe, with (Ellen told me later) a bright red face.  Doug and Ellen are staring with some concern at me while I continue my desperate but vain attempts breathe and swallow.  Ellen asks, "heimlich?" and I nod hurriedly yes, please.  She jumps up, gets behind me and squeezes once -- nothing.  Then another squeeze, and I finally swallow the recalcitrant chicken morsel.  Whew!  I take in a nice generous supply of air, sit down, cough many times, but I am fine.  Ellen looks more relieved than I do.

After a brief moment to make sure I am OK, conversation starts up again.  To be polite, I continue to pick at my vegetables, until I remember that I had very recently spit up lemonade on them.

But this kind of choking episode has never happened to me before.

Wait -- yes it has.  I remember at maybe age 12, putting WAY too big a wad of spaghetti, covered with only dry grated parmesan, into my mouth and it getting stuck.  I don't remember anyone having to give me the heimlich, I think I just finally spit it out, but I have a strong memory of the dog starting to eat the ball of spaghetti before being shooed away.  No, Whiskey!

Anyway, because of this near-death experience, I have decided to completely change my life and devote myself to helping those less fortunate than I.

Wait -- no -- that's not right.  I think I'll just take a nap and sleep it off.