Important Information

I wanted to poach some eggs, but the first one I reached for was stuck to the package. As everyone knows, this means it cracked and leaked, then dried. This is why, when buying eggs, one must touch every egg to make sure it moves. Michael Haney taught me this. Sure.

I decided, rather than let someone try to grab it too vigorously and get egg all over the place, I should label it. That done, sharpie in hand, I decided the others might benefit from some more positive sentiment.

LA Decom

Every year after Burning Man, people feel a little lost. They've had a tran-scendant experience, some little fun, and/or a lot of drugs, and they miss it. Kind of like when you leave summer camp.

Enter the concept of the "decompression" party. Several cities around the US (I don't know of any abroad) have large, open-air parties about a month later, inviting people to set up dance stages, performance spaces, wear costumes, etc, just like at BM. To try and recapture some of that Burning Man feeling, in order to feel some of the lost passion that they felt in the Northwest Nevada desert, to cure some of their ache for the experience.

So I bought two tickets to "LA Decom" ($10 apiece). I thought, maybe this is a way for Ellen to get a sense of what it was like -- athough I secretly suspected it would be weird/lame/boring. It was to be held in an open space right near downtown LA, not far from Dodger stadium and right next to Chinatown, in what used to be, I kid you not, a cornfield. In fact the way they clarified the location for the Decom party was to refer to its location as "yes, the cornfield." Apparently this piece of land, once the site of a Tongva Indian village, was for a hundred years a kind of railroad depot. The tracks were then removed and the city bought the land in the early 2ooo's. Then in 2005 an artist planted corn and dubbed the work "Not a Cornfield." I unfortunately never got to see the corn. It's now just a large dry dusty park.

Ellen and I arrived last Saturday for Decom and were greeted with the traditional Burning Man invocation, "welcome home." (I like this about Burning Man.) But the actual event was a bit disappointing. If Burning Man is Disneyland, then this was like a small-town San Gennaro festival. If Burning Man is the Super Bowl, then this was like a rural high school game. So we wandered around for an hour, enjoying the LA sun, and not much more. A few times, we got a little Burning Man type fun: some guy, sitting under a large shade structure, would yell "Gummy Mango?" and then slighshot the little individually wrapped candy at you. It hit me, but it didn't hurt -- I just picked it up and ate it. When I stood arms akimbo and feigned indignance -- "how dare you sir." He smiled and pegged me again. Yummy!

Then there was the Black Rock roller disco. A large area of plywood was laid down, and you could borrow skates and skate around. A few hardy souls tried it out -- they couldn't skate very well. No helmets. An accident waiting to happen. Or, as I then clarified to Ellen, "happening."

I kept saying to her, this is a pale shadow of what it was like. She said she understood. The only way to experience it is to go. At one point the wind kicked up and a significant amount of gritty dust blew in our face. "Now THAT'S what Burning Man was like," I exclaimed.

Still, we didn't have a terrible time. We wandered back out onto the street, hopped back on the Gold Line, back to the beautifully restored Union Station, where we had parked our car.

Burning Man Part 2 -- The Dust

The dust is everywhere, surrounding you, permeating all barriers and entering your very being. Just like, as they taught us in church, God.

Sometimes, the dust would just kick up as you walked, turning your legs an odd shade of yellow, like you have a series of minor bruises, or like you applied spray-tan wrong. (Seasoned burners, as far as I could observe, wore cowboy boots or other high, protective footwear.)

Other times, the wind would begin to blow and the dust would form a few-hundred-foot high cloud, creating "white-out" conditions. There were moments, during one or two days, that you couldn't see twenty feet in front of you. And, memorably, on the night of the "burn," I had to shine my flashlight at the ground three feet ahead of me because that was the limit of my vision in the dust storm. I didn't want to step on anyone. The wind was powerful. It was spooky -- people appeared suddenly out of nowhere, face covered with bandanas and big goggles, like bug-eyed bandits. (I looked the same of course.) As the spirits would have it, the wind died down and the dust cleared in time for the 40-foot high neon-lit man to burn spectacularly.

Now, what remains for me of Burning Man are some great memories. And the dust. Basically, anything I brought to BM, whether it sat outside in the open or lay buried in a duffel bag, is covered in dust. My backyard looks like an exploded campsite as I hose everything down and try to get some of the dust off. It's not working. From now on, whenever we go camping, there will undoubtedly be a significant portion of Northwest Nevada dust on our stuff, reminding me of BM 2009.

Oh, and of course I'll be shitting all the dust I swallowed for weeks to come.

Burning Man Part 1

Yes -- I went to Burning Man this year.

As you can tell from the above photo, there is a certain amount of hardship involved in attending BM. It takes place in the middle of nowhere, a white dusty dried lake bed in an area of northwest Nevada known as the Black Rock Desert. Really, it's miles and miles from a tiny little non-town.

There are two principles of Burning Man: radical self-expression and radical self-sufficiency. The first means large art installations, crazy modified vehicles, nutty outfits, weird theme camps, and the occasional nude person. The second means bring absolutely everything you'll need: water, food, shelter, etc. Many people come in RV's, but many others camp out in tents, like I did. And you must leave no trace -- not even the water you use to wash with (otherwise known as gray water). Burning Man makes a big deal of "leave no trace," and most people devise some way to take showers while capturing the water to let it evaporate. I just laid out a tarp and took demure sponge baths.

I had been wanting to go to Burning Man for many years now, and only this year did my ability to go coincide with a spike in my desire. Ellen, on the other hand, had no interest, seeing as how I kept telling her about the dust and the wind and the camping out. I had a bit of trepidation -- wasn't it just a haven for hippie losers? Hey I'm no hippie! But what about the other word?

I read obsessively about it for a few weeks before going and prepared diligently. Already owned a tent, bought a tarp for shade, bought freeze-dried food and a camping stove, etc.

Then drove 10 hours to Reno NV and stayed in a depressing Motel 6 ($27.99/night) before heading out to the desert. Set up my tent, got on my bike, and headed out into Burning Man.

What a revelation. The "art cars" (moving vehicles altered to resemble fish or animals or just abstract sculpture) scurrying every which way (there had to be 70 of them), the large scale art installations, the loud dance music coming from lots of camps (and from most cars), the crazy costumes people wore, the sheer size of the place (30,000 people attend, in a huge well-laid out circular grid a few miles across) -- and the Man himself at the center of it all, 30 feet high, surrounded by a weird organic looking abstract base, made of wood and ready to burn.

And that was just during the day. The place really comes alive at night -- every piece of art, stationery or moving, had a nighttime look, lit up with neon or LED ropes. Most people and bikes had lights of some kind on them. The Man is outlined in neon, even though when he burns all that neon will be destroyed.

The whole thing felt like a combination of Who-Ville and Road Warrior and a Fellini film. It was like living in a Terry Gilliam movie.

I loved it.

Even though at least one night, the wind was 50 mph and there was so much dust you couldn't see three feet.

But that's for the next post!

Poker Buddies

These are the guys I play poker on Fridays once in a while. It's rare to see a photo of us -- we generally show up, talk a little entertainment business, and play poker. But the guy in the middle holding the cake, David Himmelstein, a screenwriter, has decided to move back to Cambridge, MA. I envy him. In a rare show of minor emotion, a cake was gotten for his last game with us. (It was festooned with little cards and a roulette wheel.)

One guy's missing -- Chris Kruize, a production accountant -- several days ago he had his gall bladder out, and he couldn't make the game. Pussy.

It's a weird experience, this game. I got into it because my friend Stephen Bulka (pictured to the left of me) got me into it. I've been playing for maybe 5 years? Maybe more. But there's very little personal discussion at the game, so nobody really knows anything about me, except that I used to work in animation, and maybe that I am married. But it's fine with me. We joke, drink a little beer, insult each other's poker prowess.

It must be mentioned, though, that this is no "Odd Couple" cigar-fest. No, it's a modern Southern California poker game. We used to order subway sandwiches, because everyone thought pizza was too fattening. We recently switched back to pizza, but a few guys still bring their own lo-cal meals. I bring peanuts and chips on which to snack, but Bulka brings grapes. Jeez. Also, our stakes used to be nickel-dime-quarter, and I lobbied to raise them to fifty cents-dollar-two dollars. Now keep in mind even these raised stakes mean that on a terrible night you could lose $60. But some of the players fought this tooth and nail. Luckily the higher stakes prevailed, so at least it feels like you're playing for actual money. One other note about the wimpiness of the game: Randy Kornfield (pictured to Himmelstein's right) has a college-age son, who whenever he plays, inevitably beats us and walks away with $80 of our money. We hate him. Really.

Still, it's fun to have a regular poker game, and much to my delight the insults fly and are often hilarious. But I am a terrible poker player.

Angry Old Man

I guess this entry is proof that what really makes me want to blog is anger. Plenty has happened to me over the past few months but this really got my goat.

As we like to do occasionally, Ellen and I went to the movies yesterday. The 4:25 show of "The Hangover" at the Americana. (Very funny, but certainly not the second coming of Preston Sturges or anything.)

The theater was pretty crowded -- our row was full, mostly of teens and twenty-somethings. The young people behind us talked throughout, but I let them alone. Because: soon into the movie, a young woman one seat over pulled out her phone, read a message, and texted one in reply. This happened over and over. After the sixth time it was clear that she was more interested in the text conversation than the movie. (Maybe it was too lowbrow for her sensibilities, and she should have gone to see "Dim Sum Funeral" instead.) I leaned over and said "hey could you stop texting, it's very distracting." She replied, "It's distracting you?" or something like that, to which I responded, "yes." She stopped.

Then later in the movie she started again. I thought of leaning over to her friend (who was right next to me) and saying, "If your friend doesn't stop texting, I am going to grab her cel phone and heave it at the screen," but for some reason I didn't, even though it was making me mad and kind of ruining the movie for me.

But I did make my point. After the movie was over and the lights came up, she and her friend stood up and started making their way past us. I let her friend go past, but then immediately extended my leg to block the offending texter's progress. She was forced to stop. I said to her, "You shouldn't text in movies. It's fucking rude." She looked at me and made her counter-argument: "Shut up old man!" At that point Ellen sort of reached out to push her toward the aisle, saying something like "Get out of here." They left. I felt good that I had said something, but I must admit I didn't like being called an old man, even by a rude young whipper-snapper.

I was glad that I didn't lower myself further by adding "I said no texting fatty!" even though it would have been appropriate.

Sorry

Sorry I've been so lazy.  I cant believe I haven't blogged since mid-March.

But t's been so busy lately.  I've been working more than full time, on this nutty show called "Lost Tapes."

I've also been taking two real estate classes.  Tonight I'm studying for the final in one of them.   It's tomorrow, Saturday morning, at 9AM.  Jeez.  Then the following Saturday I start another class.

Ellen and I have also been looking at rental houses.  And we took Hunter to Disneyland for his birthday last Saturday.

This is the busiest I've been in a long time.   Maybe ever.  Why isn't it making me rich?

More later, I promise.

Invisible Car

The other day, Ellen and I are tooling around Glendale in my dark gray Prius.  Having a lovely time in The Jewel City (which is the inappropriately flattering nickname of our home city).

A minivan or pickup -- my memory fails me a bit -- is slightly ahead of me and tries briefly to merge into my lane, only to veer back into its own.  I pay it no heed.  I'm the best driver on the road and I drive defensively against all the other nutjobs out there.  Probably, this includes you , dear reader.

Anyway, I pull up at a stoplight in the right-hand lane.  The minivan -- or was it a pickup truck? -- pulls up to my left.  The driver motions for me to roll down my window.  I do.  He says to me, with -- and how can I say this without sounding prejudiced in any way -- what I take to be an Armenian accent: "Your car is invisible."  What? I blurt, confused.  "Very difficult to see your car, like it's invisible.  I could not see you." I process this for a second before responding in my usual style: "Maybe it's your driving."

He looks at me.  "I don't mean to offend, it's just that your car is invisible."  "OK" I reply cheerfully, as the light turns and he drives off.  I just assume this guy lives in some Wonder-Woman fantasy world where this is his best explanation for why he veered into my lane.  Good for you sir!

Ellen and I now mock his accent mercilessly as I drive my invisible car.  I'm definitely marking it up when I sell it used.

Claustrophobia

This morning I went for a CT scan.  It's nothing, there's nothing wrong with me, it's just a precaution.  Probably.  Even though I have asthma, allergies, moderately high blood pressure, some trouble swallowing occasionally, frequent colds, and a history of minor chronic ailments, I generally feel like a healthy person.  There's definitely no danger of my becoming anorexic.

Last year I had a scan for an unrelated reason, again no big deal.  But it turned up a little spot on my kidney.  (From Hannah and Her Sisters:  "I was worried -- I found a spot on my back."  "It was on your shirt!") It's a cyst, said my GP, but since your health insurance may run out soon, why don't you go see your urologist, who knows more about this kind of thing than me.  (We have since found new health insurance, but that's a whole different story.)  The urologist, a jovial sort, says it's nothing.  People have little cysts on their kidneys all the time.  Think of it as your own personal urinary Dippin' Dot!  Anyway, just to be sure, why don't we wait six months and do another scan, to see if it's grown at all.

I thought, maybe it's one of those undeveloped twins you read about, a tiny little head with arms, growing out of my kidney, just waiting to gain enough power to take over my brain and force me to start killing hobos.  This is a theory I developed in film school, not med school.

So the six-month check-up scan was this morning.  I've had MRI's and CT scans before -- that's right I've done it all sister -- and I've had claustrophobia issues.  Particularly during an MRI on my head years ago (negative on all counts, including personality).  They put you on a motorized bed and slide you into a tunnel not much larger than you are.  Sort of like being in a smooth white coffin, open at both ends.  But the openings at both ends don't do much to calm the feeling of being closed-in.  I barely made it through the MRI, which lasted forty-five minutes, and the only way I did it was to close my eyes the entire time.  The nurse, who promised to stay by the intercom at all times, actually wasn't there one time when I called out to her.  Nice.

So before I agreed to this current CT scan, I made my urologist -- a really good sport -- show me the machine.  Telling me it was no big deal, he took me to the CT room.  This machine was really just shaped like a big donut, only about a foot thick, not at all like a tunnel or coffin.  OK, I said, I can do it without any prescription relaxers -- but really maybe feeling a little peer-pressured into saying "no problem."  Besides, if I took a stress pill, then Ellen would have to drive me, a big pain in the ass, I can handle it.

Or so I thought.  When they had me lie down, and the little motorized bed from hell moved me into place inside the donut, it started to look a lot more like a tunnel.  Sure seemed like my head was pretty closed-in.  And if I started to freak, getting myself out of this damned oppressive donut would be very difficult.  I could feel it coming on -- a bit of a panic attack.  I had to consciously control myself: don't ask to be taken out, don't try to get up and out, don't start clawing frantically at the machine and sobbing uncontrollably.  Conspiring against me: the room is kind of cold, the machine makes a whine like a particle accelerator, and although I am covered by a sheet, my dungarees are around my ankles.

The scan starts with my head almost directly inside the donut but slowly moves me out during each of five scans.   (We're scanning my kidney, remember.)  The moving out feels good, the stress ebbing.  But after the first one, moving in again, looking up at the machine very close to my face, I decided again to just close my eyes.  For the whole duration.  If I open them, I just see the machine looming over me and the panic creeps back.  Better to keep them closed.  Whenever I am moved back into the machine, I can sense through my closed eyes the shadow of the machine over me.   I fight the unease.  The technician, a personable if young hispanic man, can communicate with me via intercom from the next room where he operates the machine.  So I suppose he could hear me also humming a little tune to calm myself (Beatles: "...and in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love... you make").

For each scan, I have to hold my breath.  The technician's intercom voice was replaced, incongruously, by a recorded male midwestern voice telling me to stop and start breathing.  (The technician told me this voice "came with the machine.")  The breath-holding was for 28 seconds, long enough to be slightly uncomfortable.  I wish the tech had warned me about how long, because the first one was disconcerting -- I had no idea when Midwestern Joe was going to let me breathe again.

For the last few scans, an iodine IV, just to increase the discomfort.  Isn't iodine poisonous?  Is this tech some sort of madman, poisoning white CT scan patients to gain revenge for the Aztec Empire?  I closed my eyes.  Thought of Hawaii.

Then -- done.  Gracias, mi amigo!  The whole thing lasted about twenty minutes.  I leapt off the cot of death and pulled up my pants, feeling a little silly.  It was nothing!

I get the results next week, which I'm sure will be nothing other than a $10,000 bill for my insurance company.

But if there is a next time.... bring on the Xanax.  Make it a double.

Coraline

The iPhone takes terrible pictures, especially in low light, and especially when you ask a stranger to handle it.  Thus the "this is the only known photo of the bell tower gunman" look of the photo to the right.

But this is Ellen and I after seeing Coraline, a movie we really liked.  The movie's in 3D -- so everyone had to wear these bug-eyed glasses.

I have liked stop-motion movies in the past -- Wallace and Gromit comes to mind -- but they all kind of have a matte-finish, clay plainness to them.  Which kinda works for the drab English life of W&G.

But Coraline absolutely glowed from within, with a beauty to which it had no right.  In particular, the garden scenes (let's discuss after you've see it.)

The story sometimes lagged, but during those times, there was always some clever bit of design or animation that kept me entertained.  For instance the "snapdragon" flowers in the garden are actually shaped like dragon's heads.

After you see the movie, let's discuss of what the soft crinkled tunnel to the other world reminded you.

Over Stimulus

Saturday we attended a Deaf West Theater production of "Pippin," that 70's pop chestnut.  The cast was a mix of deaf and hearing actors.  Those hearing actors who spoke their own roles also signed them.  Deaf actors had a counterpart who spoke their lines while they acted and signed them.  This was occasionally beautiful, but had a weird effect on the show: not much dancing.  Now there's not much to the story of Pippin.  In fact the book is lame.  But in the 70's production I saw, the lead character (the role originated by ben Vereen, played by Northern J Calloway when I saw it) performed some real show-stopping dance numbers.  But not this production, everyone was too busy signing!  Putting on Pippin without the dancing is a little like porn without the sex, if you ask me.  Two thumbs down.

Yesterday, as if to cleanse the palate, I went to a two-hour "Support the Economic Stimulus" meeting of a local Obama support group, for which I had done some phone-banking during the run-up to the election.  There were about 40 of us, crammed into a coffee-break area in an open-style office space on Melrose.  It sure seemed like a motley crew of people my age, if the pre-presentation chatter was any clue.  The somewhat overweight lady next to me seemed, from her slow and simplistic speech patterns, to be a little "off," kind of in the way the men and women who worked in my high-school cafeteria were "off."  She kept interrupting other people's conversations to say something like "I hope I can help."  I avoided looking at her.

The meeting started boringly enough, with the showing of a video made by Tim Kaine, governor of Virginia (?).  Oddly, the TV was somehow mis-calibrated, and the only color possible was blue.  So it was sort of like a Democratic infomercial filmed by a Nam Jun Paik.  Gov. Kaine -- not the most entertaining orator --  answered e-mailed in questions about the stimulus.  To me, his answers were glib and condescdending, which I thought was a rip-off for us faithful.  He didn't seem to think there were going to be ANY problems with transparency or getting the dollars out there.  Well whoop-de-do for you.

The real entertainment started when the video ended.  The two meeting leaders asked us to go around the room and for each person to describe how the economic downturn had affected them.  It started out calmly enough, with seemingly more than half of the room un- or under-employed (me included).  The lady next to me said something short and sweet about wanting to help, but I was nervous about allowing her to help.  Maybe it was just me.

Then we got to the fat gray-bearded man in the corner.  This guy was ANGRY.  Angry at Republicans, angry at Democrats for giving in too much to Repubs, angry at Obama for compromising.  Is this what he worked so hard for?  (He never got around to his own situation, but I can't imagine it was good.)  Some granola muncher who reminded me of Janice from the Muppets band jumped in to defend Obama ("we need to trust him!"), others dove into the fray, and we had a full-fledged argument going on!  A smile crept onto my face as I saw the fat man's visage turn red.  Now we're talking!  The two meeting leaders tried impotently to calm everyone down, like the cops on the street in the final chaos of "Animal House" -- but without success.  Others in the room had to shout the arguers down before we could being going around the room again.

No more arguments broke out, but there sure were several people who were passionate about the current economy, or who liked the sound of their own voice a lot, or both.  Teachers, retirees, unemployed film producers, and even one hypnotherapist who said his business was doing just fine.  Bastard!

Finally catharsis was achieved when one woman -- another underemployed film producer -- gleefully started letting loose with "fuck this" and "why the fuck won't they do that?"  It's amazingly freeing when everyone's been speaking very politely if passionately and then someone just starts using the f-word, like we all do all the time.  People smiled and I laughed out loud.   Hooray for you!  Although I think I might have smelled alcohol on her breath.  Oh well, no matter, you go sister!

Of course the meeting was only two hours long, and this "everyone talk about their situation" took almost the whole time.  The meeting leaders did very little to try and move it along from the zealots and the bloviators.  Only the very last few minutes were left for brainstorming things we could do to support the stimulus, which naturally devolved again into every shouting about boycotts and calling Gov Schwarzeneggar (sp?).  Janice, fat gray-beard, and everyone else just started yelling.  I loved it!

Curry Flavor

Although it may seem inadvisable given the end of my last post, tonight I made chicken curry for dinner.  It was delicious!

Now I guess I just have to work on my food photography skills, since the accompanying picture isn't that appetizing, if you ask me.

Along with the curry, besides peas and rice, was Garlic Nan, purchased at a local Indian market that Ellen and I visited for the first time.  It was like stepping off an LA street into a third world market, where everything looked foreign: big bags of grain and rice on pallets, weird brands of food mix, bottles of barley soda.  Also available, on top of the shelf units, were tablas and sitars.  Behind the counter were all sorts of religious icons.  We stuck with the nan, mango candy, and some dubious looking Indian cookies.

Bon Appetit!

The Clifton's Diet

An article in the LA Times alerted us to a Los Angeles institution -- Clifton's, a downtown cafeteria.  Fun!  Kitschy!  Good cheap food!  Authentic LA!  I love cafeterias (ever since the one in Dadeland Mall, Miami FLA), so I convinced the wife to accompany me that very day to Clifton's for a late lunch around 3PM.

Parking is such sweet sorrow.  Actually not sweet at all.  You'll pay $15 to park anywhere near Clifton's, thus ruining anything "cheap" about your lunch.  But no matter -- we were full of eager anticipation for our gustatory adventure.  We haven't walked a downtown street in years, so we were enjoying the multi-cultural throngs on a warm winter day as we strolled towards the restaurant.  The entire jewelry district lay before us, but we didn't see any elderly Nazi war criminals.

Walked in the front door of Clifton's and were immediately struck by the dingy sadness of the place.  The famed bakery counter, bathed in non-appetizing flourescent tones, was only half-full of lonely, aging cakes and pies.  On a bench right near the entrance sat a 400 lb woman in a mauve jogging suit hiked up her top in order to scratch her Buddha-like belly.  Surprisingly, I remained hungry.

The decor itself seems to have seen its best days about 40 years ago.  It's meant to have a sort of log-cabin, Country Bear Jamboree feel to it, but now has the feel of one of those run-down Santa's Villages, as if the Bears had gone bankrupt a while back.  There are little pockets of theme-park-ishness with woodsy cabin interiors next to formica tables, and back-lit photos of the American west on the walls.  There's even a motorized racoon who slowly, jerkily pops up out of a tree trunk every five seconds or so.  His fur looks dirty.

We grabbed trays and ambled on down the food line.  It seemed like "late lunch" was a bad choice, since the food looked old enough to vote and many of the sneeze-guarded countertops were bare.  I chose a fried chicken leg, spinach, mac n cheese, and a piece of chocolate banana cake.  The lovely wife got spaghetti and meat balls.

We chose an upstairs table overlooking the great unwashed below.  The place was sparsely populated, with the occasional patron yammering to a seemingly perfect stranger about some inanity.

The food was LOUSY.  Chicken leg bland, ditto the mac n cheese.  Cake a little bit stale.  (Spinach OK I guess.)  The wife glumly ate her spaghetti in dutiful silence, offering up that it was cold only when asked.

But here comes the best part.  I almost immediately started to feel a rumbly in my tumbly, and not the good kind.  (Is there a good kind?)  My stomach twisted and turned, as if trying to avoid the food coming down my gullet, like Regan in the Exorcist trying to avoid a splash of holy water.  I hastily recused myself to the downstairs mens room, which was old and run-down but clean.  Still, this was one of the rare times I used one of those tissue  paper toilet seat covers.  Isn't it neat the way its little paper tongue makes it flush itself down?

I told the wife we better cancel out movie plans and head home.  She nodded, worried.  Pretty much once I got behind the wheel of the Prius and motores back onto the streets of downtown, heading back to Glendale, my intestines started sending me a message.  An urgent one.  I had to GO.  I gunned the little engine and turned my wheels onto the 110 North.  Right into bumper-to-bumper TRAFFIC.

Now it was a race against time.  And not a fun one.  I needed to go, and I wasn't about to stop in Chinatown and look for an open restaurant.  We inched along as I tried to visualize making it home in time and breathed deeply.  Things were getting more urgent with every minute that passed.  Soon we got onto the 2 North, out of traffic, and I stamped on the gas pedal.  The fried chicken leg sped through me.

Got home, ran into the first floor bathroom just in time.  Phew!  Look out below!

So thank you Clifton's, for a memorable afternoon.  Never again.

Iron Lady

Hillary Clinton for Secretary of State.   I may not be her biggest fan -- I really held her vote authorizing the Iraq war against her, like many Americans.  But I'm also far from a Hillary hater.  I think most "Hillary haters" really made no sense -- they really blamed her for her husband's transgressions, or they thought that any agressive woman was a plain old bitch.

But I always liked her toughness.  It became clear that my man Dennis Kucinich had no chance -- about the same time it became clear that bears shit in woods -- but I voted for him in the primaries anyway.  If I can't vote for the guy who most closely reflects my views, regardless of his viability as a candidate much less as a fetus, then when can I?

But after that, I was impressed by Obama's passion but also impressed by Hillary's toughness.  I couldn't decide.

Now I'm glad she'll have a central role in what I hope is this country's turnaround.  (Is there anywhere to go but up?  It's like inflating a helium balloon in the Marianas trench.)  Obama will negotiate and be conciliatory.  But is there any doubt Hillary can and will, when necessary, kick some ass?

A Shout-Out to the Nonbelievers

Amidst all the exaggerated hubbub of the Inauguration, one moment stood out to me, the cynical godless heathen.  First, I don't know if any of you noticed, but our new President is black!

But also, in his Inaugural address, he inclusively mentioned Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Hindus.  But he paused a moment and added, "and non-believers"!!!  I think that's a first -- the atheists included!  Sweet.  Made me feel good.

Now I'm off to officiate at a naked Wikkan wedding.

Al Franken

Of course my first choice for Minnesota Senator was "Lizard People."

But my second choice was Al Franken, and it looks tonight like he is going to win.  Hooray!  I don't know why I care so much, but I've always been a fan and used to listen to his radio show a lot.  He seems smart and funny and certainly suffers liars poorly.  Don't we want more of that in Washington?

(Side note: Usually it's the Republicans who choose unflattering photos of Al from his comedy days in order to try and diminish him.  But I say, why run from your past?  Embrace it!  Let Bill O'Reilly call you Senator Smalley!  Who cares!  You're a senator!)

As many of you know, on Election Night Al seemed to have lost by 400 or more votes.  Then lots of corrections were made, and the actual election tally had Al losing to Norm Coleman by 200 votes and change.  (Out of millions of votes.)  Then, because the margin was so slim, state law required a recount.  And now the recount has been completed, including lots of absentee ballots counted today.  After the recount, Al is up by 225!

Of course there can be court challenges by the Coleman campaign, but they seem unlikely to win.  A good summary can be found at talkingpointsmemo.com.

One question I have in the aftermath: why were all the initial corrections to the vote count seemingly to correct errors that went in Coleman's favor?  Was there some minor Republican hanky-panky in many counties, as usual?  Someone should look into this.

My Top Ten Movies

It's January 2 2009.  I'm a few days late with this -- no excuse really.  But I know you've all been waiting for my first annual best and worst movies list for 2008.  Oh sure, many periodicals with somewhat larger readership weigh in on this topic, and many of them see every movie (not me), but no lists generate as much buzz among my 7 readers as this one.

So -- even though I haven't seen the Hannah Montana concert movie, or Speed Racer, or the I-thought-sure-to-bomb-so-what-do-I-know Beverly Hills Chihuahua, here goes.

Best ( in no particular order):

Cassandra's Dream:  Although I love Woody Allen when he is funny, this movie generated actual suspense and drama.  Ellen and I looked at each other afterward with slightly surprised expressions and said to each other -- I liked it!  Some quibble with the ludicrous set-up of the uncle suggesting the brothers murder someone, but I just went with it.  Colin Farrell was excellent.

In Bruges: Violent, but really fun twists and turns, great characters especially (again) Colin Farrell and Ralph Fiennes.

The Hammer: Made my list I guess because it was such an underdog.  Featuring "Man Show" and "Loveline" alum Adam Corolla, who I think is funny already.  But the movie told a surprisingly simple, hilarious and ultimately touching story of a grown man who decides to get back into the boxing ring.  Not rocket science, but a solid funny movie.

The Fall: Simply spectacular to look at.  Many faulted the weak story but I thought it worked great, involving me enough to care, all the while showing me amazing places.  Apparently there are no effects in this movie.  Hard to believe when you see all the crazy beautiful locations.

Bigger Stronger Faster: I love a great fiction film, and I love a great documentary.  But I'd rather watch a decent documentary than a decent fiction film any day of the week.  Unless of course the decent movie features Marisa Tomei naked.  But Bigger Stronger Faster tells a really interesting story of one man's investigation into steroids in sport.  He and his brothers all took them at one point.  All weightlifters.  But what really makes the movie great is the twist it takes halfway through: the filmmaker begins to make a pretty good case for the notion -- what's really wrong with taking steroids?  He punctures the commonly held belief that they have been proven harmful.  Very interesting.  Watch it.  (Sad footnote, one of the brothers was just found dead.)

Wall-E: I know, everyone else likes this.  And Pixar can go suck it, as far as I'm concerned, given my experience with them at Disney.  But luckily that attitude does not keep me from enjoying their movies.  I put this one on my list more out of admiration than love.  I don't really like the moralizing about fat humans in the second half.  But any modern movie where the two protagonists are basically non-verbal, and it's still highly entertaining, is OK in my book.

Man on Wire: The images of this guy wire-walking between the towers of Notre Dame and the Twin Towers are strikingly beautiful.  And the movie is surprisingly suspenseful and fun as it tells the story of how they managed to get to the top of the Twin Towers past security, how they managed to string the wire, and how he did it.  Of course underneath it all is deep sadness at what the images of those two building now represent.  A great movie.

Ghost Town: The funniest movie of the year and effectively emotional to boot.  I hate when romantic comedies, or any comedies for that matter, feel they have to turn sweet in order to tell their story.  (Here I sincerely apologize for my role in "The Mighty Ducks."  Everytime I watch the great "Bad News Bears" I am ashamed.)  But in Ghost Town, perhaps the funniest movie of the year, it is done with great care and truthfulness and even a bit of cleverness.  (Minor Spoiler: I loved that the woman patient he constantly and carelessly ignored turned out to have her own tragic story.  It's so true -- the people we disdain often have much more going on, and deserve much more of our attention, than we assume.)  Really well done, I thought it was truly the most entertaining and crowd-pleasing movie of the year, and a shame it didn't find a wider audience.  Maybe on DVD.

Synechdoche, NY: My favorite of the year, probably because it reflects, to whatever extent, my worldview.  Ellen did not enjoy it.  I loved every second of it.  An often somber, but wildly inventive and entertainingly absurd look at the essential tragedy of life and the necessity of dealing with our coming deaths.  And, even given that previous sentence, it is, more than one would think, funny!  Though it was frequently surreal in a Bunuel-ish way, it felt very true to me.  A woman buys a house that is literally burning.  An obvious metaphor but one I liked -- aren't all our houses burning, sure to consume us eventually?  I can't wait to see it again.  I know most people will hate it -- but don't fall into the trap of "I didn't get it."  Take it on its own terms, "get" what you "get" and don't try so hard to "get" the whole thing.  I think you'll enjoy it.

Role Models: Again not a masterpiece, but really really funny.  A very simple idea played out beautifully, with some hilarious performances -- especially Paul Rudd, whose odd scrunchy-face every time someone says something that could be construed as dirty made me laugh.  But also the bearded guy in the medieval battle game who would only speak in Renaissance English, "Forsooth we must needs to do battle anon" and other ridiculous things like that.  I was a little disappointed that it opted for a sort of standard trajectory to a sweet happy ending when I was enjoying its snarkiness so much, but it didn't ruin it for me.  I needs must watch it again anon.

Doubt: Loved it.  I've seen the play twice, and the reviews have been mixed, so i went with some trepidation.  But of course the actors were great, and I thought Shanley found new things in the story to make it feel fresh for the movies.  It's really a movie that makes you think and want to talk about it afterwards.  As Roger Ebert said, how many movies do that>

Nights in Rodanthe: I never thought a romance like this could make my heart so, but....wait, I didn't see this.  I would never see this is a gajillion years.  I sped up as I walked past the theaters showing it.  If this didn't suck ass, then my worldview is deeply shaken.

Worst (at least of the movies I have seen)

Leatherheads: It sucked, really sucked, but perhaps no more so than any other non-funny comedy.  I guess I just thought, what a missed opportunity -- that era of football seems ripe for the plucking, and I think George Ca-loony is funny.  But this one made a stench most foul.

Narnia--Prince Caspian:  Is it just me or have both these movies set new standards of boring?  These kids couldn't be blander, in an "I say Daddy, could I have another drop of tea" British way and the story could not have been more drably photographed.  Now normally I'd sit up and take notice of any movie featuring a talking beaver, but this one left me uninterested.  If these kids are who I'm supposed to root for in Narnia, then I say bring back the Ice Queen.

Get Smart: I love Steve Carell and thought this would be a no-brainer.  Until I saw the trailer, and realized that the movie wasn't funny.  It's almost a given that if the trailer isn't funny, the movie isn't funny.  Movie marketing execs are shameless for taking the five funniest jokes and putting them in the trailer, often ruining what might have been a mildly funny movie.  But in movies like Get Smart, there really are no funny moments.  How is this possible?

Tropic Thunder: Almost everyone I know thought this was really funny and a really clever send-up of Hollywood and actors.  Not me.  In particular, when a fairly realistic movie with a fairly realistic tone has a character for whom we feel some sympathy step on a mine and blow to fleshy bits right before us, I tend to turn off.  It was all downhill from there.  Did people really think Tom Cruise was funny?  What part?

Space Chimps: Well no one involved with this really knows how to make a movie, much less an animated movie, so including them on this list feels a little like booing at the Special Olympics.  But it was bad.  And ugly.

Towelhead: Just watched this last night on DVD, and we could only get through about twenty minutes.  We are Alan Ball fans -- at least we were -- but this movie is way too cartoony and full of less-than-believable characters for its highly challenging subject matter.  It's just uncomfortable to watch.  Two towels down.

Special Section: Movies I liked that critics didn't

The Happening: I thought it was really suspenseful.  If nature's trying to kill you, how do you get away?

Igor: Admittedly, directed by a former co-worker.  But I am merciless and wouldn't say I liked it if I didn't.  And I did.  Clever and funny and great-looking on a shoestring.  MUCH better looking than Space Chimps at half the cost.  Better than Bolt.

That's all folks.  Let me know yours!

Tune in next year for more rapture and rant about the movies!