Chasing Svelte

Chasing is the opposite of repoussé, which is a metalworking technique in which a malleable metal is shaped by hammering from the reverse side. The two are used in conjunction to create a finished piece. While repoussé is used to work on the reverse of the metal to form a raised design on the front, chasing is used to refine the design on the front of the work by sinking the metal. The term chasing is derived from the noun "chase", which refers to a groove, furrow, channel or indentation.

Svelte is an adjective denoting something which is judged to be attractively or gracefully slim by the viewer; slender in figure, or lithe.

But what does all this have to do with films you ask?

Following the premise: as a small part goes, so goes the whole (used to infer — maybe, correctly — that if American banks crumbled, so would our entire country) the current 'Climate of American Civilization And Society' can be measured by examining a microcosm within the CACAS. I am going to examine: film.

First, some back-story: hundreds of films are released every month. Most are 'direct to DVD' (this includes dozens of TV series, both old and new); a small few are wide-released (in thousands of theaters); some receive a limited-release (if they make money, they may later be wide-released). It is important to remember that all of these films employ hundreds-of-thousands (millions, world-wide) of people... from the lowly, ticket-taker at the single-screen, second-run, downtown, art-theater, to the mega-millionaire-family of Pitt-Jolie. Yes. We... who know films, and love them, and know the films-we-love, tend NOT to focus on business and only discuss the art, story, acting, and that ever-elusive quality, which makes good film different from bad movies.

The makers of movie-money are 'chasing svelte' by tooling the final product (in most cases: a ninety-minute one) until they have about a ninety-second slim, attractive, excerpt. This small preview, commonly referred to as a 'trailer' even though they have not followed the feature presentations for 50+ years, is more important than the film to money makers.

In many cases the DVD will make more money, for the producers, studios, and film-makers, than the theatrical release; where distributors, theater franchises, and concession-providers profit most. The trailer needs to fool people into buying tickets and also sell, or rent, the DVD (and let us not forget the video game).

Over the past 30 months I saw hundreds (thousands?) of trailers, and got sucked in by them, causing me to rent — as well as actually pay to sit in theaters and watch — many dozens of terrible movies. My 'good-trailer-terrible-movie' radar is only a 4.9 version and needs an upgrade.

But, thankfully, and most importantly, I saw some incredibly fantastic films. Here are my top twelve, in alphabetical order.

If you have not seen one or more of these, then, see them TODAY... or this weekend (and STOP watching the news . . . he'll either win or we will all die in an inferno of apocalyptic stupidity of a magnitude that will only be entertaining in a can't-turn-away manner; your incessant news watching won't alter the course of anything but your anger . . . only voting will do anyone any good now).

11:14 is a 'who/why dunnit?' suspense film that keeps you guessing and engaged. If you are one of those people who dislikes the gimmick of showing the same few minutes of real time over and over again, just realize this is not some shit like: 'Vantage Point' (one of the many 'good-trailer-bad-movies', I fell victim to).



Across the Universe may be the best musical ever put on film. One prerequisite: you need to be familiar with, and not-dislike, Beatle's songs (Note: not-disliking is different than liking, in this case). The songs weave into the plot, small snippits of Beatle-lyrics jump out of the dialogue, and the whole thing is capped off by some great cameos by Salma Hayek, Eddie Izzard, Bono, and Joe Cocker.



an inconvenient truth, a documentary by Al Gore, is the only documentary that made it to this list (and I watch quite a few). If you want to learn some of the specific reasons scientists know the earth is warming because of things we've done and are doing, watch. If you already know everything because FOX news tells you about all the things the bible leaves out, don't watch.



Brick is the most unusual mix of 'young love' meets 'Sam Spade'. Joseph Gordon-Levitt can almost do no wrong in my book (and his character, here, is no exception). The dialogue requires your complete attention; not a film to watch while anything else could distract you (a friend told me it helped when she watched it with subtitles because of the constant, fast-original, slang).



Cashback is about a sketch/painter-artist (so I may be biased to include it here). It also contains dry 'British' humor and pretty naked women (two other things, which may cause me to give it preferential treatment). It has a subplot that centers around a science-fictionesque ability of the main character . . . and an SF trailer can suck me in better than most. So — with all that aside — how can this be a great film? It just is.


Children of Men is Clive Owen at his absolute best. If there is a better representation of the 'ever-weary-reluctant hero' character I have not seen it. This strong futuristic-SF/road film should be at the top of your to-see list (or your to-see again list if you've watched all of these).




Hard Candy, a small-budget revenge-film that doesn't get off-message and delivers in a chilling, thrilling way, shows that Ellen Page (Juno) has always been able to pick a great role (and was always able to nail her performance).




No Country For Old Men is the best drama on the list. If you haven't already seen this film you must not be a film-watcher; maybe you don't watch films recommended by others, or shun films that have won awards. If so . . .there are some funny things over on U-Tube, whyn't you go check 'em out? Right now. Yea, now.



Old Boy will shock and enthrall those who don't mind subtitles (it's Korean). It was released in '05, but I didn't see it until '07. If you do any research on it, you'll have the plot-twist(s) spoiled and then it won't be a mystery, will it? Not for squeamish viewers. Strangely, this is the only subtitled film that made this list of must-see's. Since my taste runs heavily foreign (maybe as much as 30%) I'm surprised only one made my list.


Shortbus is the best quasi-porn-esque film I've ever seen. John Cameron Mitchell (Hedwig and the Angry Inch) wrote and directed this sex-story, included funny dialogue, a real plot, found good-to-OK actors and actresses, and actually got it distributed (limited release) in theaters. If you have always hated porn films (except the parts between the fast-forward's) this is for you. If you are homophobic this is not for you.


Southland Tales, one film I've, now, put on my see-again list. Mostly, because I'm certain I'd get more out of the second viewing. An SF-mystery-thriller that is confusing and a half-dark funny; it's the one you'll love or hate, understand or quit watching (with a "WTF did I just see?"). If you have to pee or if you are hungry when you watch this, you will lose the spider-silk-thread of plot. Requires 10 times more concentration than Children of Men.


Wristcutters, a love story contains a funny, one-of-a-kind plot about what the ever-after holds for suicides. This film was almost beat-out by 'Wall-E'; but because it made me laugh-out-loud, contained some sharp dialogue, and actually made me think... it stuck in my head more than the animated, cute, SF film.

The Calves Sing

I found this wonderfully warm puppy in the window of a consignment store. I haggled, bought, built a light-box with rope-lights & piano-hinge...and now have this 3' x 2' night-light above my bed.

Nightless Cave

The 'raise-the-alarm and spread-the-panic' machines have been consistent and loud enough, that I suspect most people have already heard that the US economy is a huge, smelly, loaf of a turd, and that it's — presently — circling the toilet-bowl (I'm paraphrasing).

The Question Of the Month, seems to be: "Who Flushed?" There are many fingers being pointed. I suspect two groups of individuals hope nobody bothers to look for fingerprints on the flusher handle: House-Flippers and House-Floppers.
You may be a flipper, you probably know one, you certainly watched a TV program (or six) that showed it being done. Amazingly, every show contains a false-stress/fabricated-time-line, constantly-shoddy craftsmanship, and a: "just get it good enough for the TV camera," mentality.

The flipper premise: Buy an old Piece-O-Shite house (Pour). Spend a little to make it attractive to buyers during their brief walk-thru (White-Wash). Sell it for tens of thousands over cost (Rinse). Repeat.

The House-Floppers bought (new, old, recently-flipped, and fixer-upper) homes, with the intention to 'flop' in them for a couple of years and then sell to make a profit. You may be a flopper stuck in a home you wanted to sell, you probably know a few, you certainly live near a dozen foreclosed houses or condos that were previously owned by twelve of 'em.

The flopper premise: Obtain an interest-only loan for a couple years at a low, variable, interest rate on a house that is...maybe-probably...double what you then-knew and now-know you could actually afford. Live in it (and maybe fix it up). Before 24-months lapse (when the loan jumps to its normal interest-plus-principle and the interest rate adjusts to a variable one), sell for more than you paid. Repeat.

The banks were to blame for making this type of loan an option (but I don't believe there were any big-bad loan officers coercing buyers; individual greed was sufficient).

When circumstances made re-selling for profit impossible — for flipper and flopper alike — hundreds of thousands of people were forced to bankrupt their 'Flipper LLC', and/or have their flop foreclosed out from under them. In every case, these homes now belong to banks. And will be re-sold, in the future, for much less than what they previously sold for. This is their 'NEW value'. Since the banks can't sell any of these homes for the previously jacked-up flippers' and floppers' price(s), they will take losses on all those mortgages, which could force them out of business (buying high and selling low is NEVER good business). The government — obviously — can't allow all our banks to fold. Thus, the bail-out.

Vet. single . . . cash

I (we) chose to move to Portland, Oregon, three months ago, on not much more than: gut-instincts, a hope that serendipitous events of yesteryear were precursors not coincidence, and the urgent desire to flee the southwest. This last reason was the strongest.

In '06, chance and circumstances caused us to set ourselves adrift from employment in: Payson, Arizona—where our personal belongings stagnated, along with my creativity. The mean age of the residents in this forested, mountain town were people who were eligible for social security (I'd use the term average age, but it fails to engender the words: vacuous and ill-tempered). This is not to imply that most northern-Arizona elderly are all... ...well, yes it is.

Because, if most Walmart shoes fit most people, and most people will shop at a Walmart if a store is close, then the statement most vacuous and ill-tempered people wear cheap shoes is indubitably correct. Or have I missed a step in my logic?

I suspect, somewhere in the back of my foolishness, that there is something catching in them-there Arizona hills. The only outward sign of being body-snatched was silver hair. As my temples began to turn, I cried, "We need to flee!"

Now, as a citizen of the pacific northwest, I find Portland mentally comfortable for the likes of me. I may have traded-in some sunshine for rain, but it was a small price to get my creativity back.

On the heels of that preamble...I read an article in a Portland newspaper, which surmised that the local homeless population were possibly all members of some collective organization (like in Fritz Lang's film: M). The author said he would be more willing to provide a donation of money if he knew the scruffy guy at the stop light was not part of an organization. This idiot surmised the existence of: vans, schedules, time-clocks, supervisors, and treasury clerks. He figured it was acceptable to give the "vet" (his quotes, meaning he doubted the claim; ...oh, it's such an effective ruse) a sandwich or a bottle of water, but money would certainly only be fueling some addiction. And, he heard there were instances where "beggars" lived in nice homes with families/automobiles (...and two cats in the yard...) and that they "could be making more than the rest of us poor working slobs".

According to the hack's article, the guy holding the cardboard sign at the underpass was either:

• a hobo-first-class cog, in the big Collective Union of Panhandlers (CUP).
• a deceitful addict.
• a wealthy scam artist.

I'm not going to claim anything the "journalist" wrote was untrue, just that everything he said drew no conclusions and made no important observations (nor am I addressing—or attempting to make light of—homelessness or poke fun at pan-handlers).

Someone who asks passers-by for handouts, bothers me because:

• Their temerity and lack of embarrassment, when asking for money, embarrasses me.
• They ask for money in exchange for nothing (I don't think kids should be given an 'allowance', but paying for routine household chores is OK in my book).
• They anger me just like: telemarketers, door to door salesmen, and public-cellphone-shouters do, by disregarding my personal space and intruding into my non-verbally communicated (but clearly understood by society) desire to not interact.

My solution:

• I proactively put a dollar in the hat, or the instrument case, of every street performer I walk past (or the equivalent in foreign currency, outside the US).
• If they take a break, talk to the fuck-tard next to them, or tune strings as I pass, I keep my money (no matter, I heard their music upon approach).
• The music must be performed or sung live, and if they beg (or have someone else) I give nothing.

I think if everyone paid a small amount to street-performers and none to beggars, then eventually the message would spread. Just like, obviously, the word has spread that all recognized CUP members in good standing utilize: corrugated cardboard, black-felt tip marker and poor grammar—no matter if they are a member of the 'honest, self-deprecating' chapter; the 'pity-me' chapter; or the 'most uniquely bizarre' chapter.

When I said I was not going to poke fun a pan-handlers I lied.

Scathing Elves

Am I the only person who prefers an 'American translation' when reading British authors? This is only a book-reading issue. I prefer foreign films in their native languages and have no problem with subtitles—even those of obvious British origin. I also don't have a complaint with any other creative medium or form of communication (e.g. music, theater, poetry, graphic novels, or television programs).

However, when I am engrossed in a book, my brain trips and stumbles every time it crosses a British term. It's not like I can't decipher the meanings. I know if the character is 'going on holiday' she is taking a vacation; that his 'trainers' are running shoes; and that if he is 'going to the loo (or WC)', he's going to the toilet (or restroom). But every time I read the British words, my brain stumbles and it slows down. Then, I recognize I'm reading. Effectively, I exit the story for a brief moment and become aware of the page, the paragraph, the sentence, and my eye moving over words. It may be only a second, sometimes less, but it's enough to ruin a pleasant read if it happens three times a page.

I asked a few people about this and learned not everyone has this problem. I suspect one reason is reading speed. I don't read graphic novels or poetry fast and, therefore, don't stumble on "translations". But, if I become absorbed in a story, I am unaware of my surroundings and lose track of the passage of time (until our hero takes a torch out of her pocket and shines it down into the empty lift-shaft, illuminating a clutch of elves glaring into the light).

Are any British writers re-edited for US Markets (you ask, scathingly)? Yes. The Harry Potter books. They went too far when they changed the title of the first book (from Philosopher's Stone, to Sorcerer's Stone) but that's on the author for allowing it.

The following example (of a jarring British text) is excerpted from pages 133-134 of Steven Hall's novel The Raw Shark Texts (my proposed US-version immediately follows):

I found him by following the flex. The flex from the standing lamp connected to an orange extension lead which connected to a white extension lead which connected to another orange extension lead...

I found him by following the electric cord. The cord from the floor lamp connected to an orange extension cord which connected to a white extension cord which connected to another orange extension cord...

On a slightly different, but similar, note. If a story has been transliterated from another roman (or latin)-based language (e.g. Spanish, German) why are proper nouns not translated? Each time this happens, the same 'hiccup' occurs: I'm jarred out of the story (because I'm being reminded, "Hey, this is a translation. This is not the language of the author.") For obvious reasons, this is never an issue with semantic/phonetic transcriptions of cyrillic or other non-roman-based alphabets.

Year one of my sabbatical

          In March of 06 my paramour Pam, and I, quit work and began a rambling shuffle of job-searching (for her) and camping journey (for us).

          A medium-good memory from that spring:  We were sitting in camp chairs, near the shore of Utah's Sevier River, just after waking (not much energy yet).  The fire was beginning to make warm water for our coffee.  We were facing each other.   Pam's back was to a scrub-bush and tree covered slope.  Movement caught my eye.  I looked up.   A red tailed hawk shot down over-through the brush and trees in a spitting-arc, toward us.

          It opened its wings WIDE in a braking motion.  As it's talons slowly (not slowly at all, this whole thing lasted three-four seconds) reached out from it's body to begin to land on the top of Pam's head....I began to react.  (Oh, how—now—I wish I'd the temerity to remain motionless.)  An intake of breath preceded my facial muscles beginning to squinch (the expression which usually precludes the word 'eww').  My shoulders began to hunch a little and I started to raise my hand (I think, maybe, I was going to point...?)  The hawk's eye-line shifted up from the top of Pam's head (isn't it shit-cream crazy how the incredible eyeball-brain-combo works? This movement of Mister Hawk's head lasted...well...maybe four-tenths of a second, and registered in my head as what it really was: the hawk's recognition of a mistake it was in the extremely rapid process of making.)

          It then saw me...moving.  It's force-trajectory had brought it three feet from Pam.  So close, the talons were no longer visible—blocked from my view by Pam's wonderfully pillow-tousled hair. Pam's sleep-addled brain correctly interpreted my movements as the beginning of a reaction to something I was seeing—and she started to turn.  The hawk's head snapped to the side, and (...exit stage left...) with a burst of wind from it's four-foot wingspan it darted away, out of sight.   My sight.  Pam never saw a feather.  The only proof she had/has, that I didn't make it all up, was/is: she heard the pop-burst of wind, which caused her to duck.

          Every time I retell the story she says, "You would have loved it if that hawk actually landed on me."  I can only reply, "True.  It is, currently, only a medium-good story.  For it to have become a great campfire story, the hawk and you would both have had to lose your collective shit."

          Fall of 06 we began an almost 12,000 mile looping-trek across the US; Arizona to Virgina, up to Maine, further up through Canada, and down through Glacier National Park, Yellowstone, and the Grand Tetons, back to Arizona.  This was also a combined job-hunt/once-in-a-lifetime chance to see-the-sights.  No job landed.  Many sights seen.

          One (of many) notable moments occurred after many weeks in a cramped car, guest rooms, cheap hotels, and camps:  We stopped for the night at Lake Saranac in upstate New York and rented a cottage for one evening (a splurge).  Our hopes were on easing the tensions of our proximity-overload.  We basked in front of a roaring fireplace; soaked in a highly-effective hot tub; ate in a kitchen where Pam made one of our favorite meals; and....received some cat love.  We were missing ours.   A cabin cat showed up, came in, and snuggled.  To top off the night—we took a canoe out and paddled into the moonlight with the shore lights gleaming off the water.

(to be continued?)

Return!

Hello? I am in the process of returning to the mix. This feels like the right time for me to try. Although only a small part of me is peeking out,

more of me will be coming back ... soon.

I, actually, continued to peruse my favorite bloggers over the last two and a half years. At one point Davecat called me on it, but I diligently remained a mute specter.

It has been 30+ months since I turned this canvas to the wall, and much has changed since the Spring of '06 (details should, soon, be a-trickling), but I have continued to follow and love:

Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper;
Safe-T-Inspector and Arthbard (nee: Safe T Inspector);
Little Black Duck (nee: The Diner at Penda's Relm);
The Seventh Notebook (nee: Laughing Sky);
and Shouting to Hear the Echoes.

Ciao

Difficult Index - pen/ink - 2001

I have--finally--come to terms with my non-writing and non-creativeness. Because my time, schedule, art, and mindset has red-shifted one step towards my past and skip-jumped over 'love to, want to do' into 'would like to accomplish this year' (combined with a sickness that has all but kept me in bed for almost a full month now) I have decided to turn this canvas to the wall.
I may return; I may not. My desire/urge to create constantly, mentally, crashes into my definite inability and causes significant stressors. Therefore, I close this creative outlet for an indefinite period.
Thanks to all who helped me through the previous sixteen months of blogging; I miss you all. Good-bye.

Shirtblog

They claim to send a meta crawler into your entire site, select words from your blog that you use, and will print it on a shirt of your choosing.

This is the preview for snapperhead:

Not A Post

This non-post, is merely to whisper that 'rumors of my death are exaggerated' and affirm that I still have a blogging pulse. I still read all your stuff (even the not so funny stuff about 27"; the wonderful news about BOUND and being published in it; the great news about the 1st film audition; or the right-on post about 'introverted and not being a loser') but I'm rarely commenting to save time since...as some of you may know...to attempt to post at all when using a hand-cranking dial-up modem that is so slow it can take minutes to build one page, well, that's just not gonna happen much. Improvements are on the horizon. New computer with Wi-Fi and all the cable modem/router that I can eat.

Until then. Know that I read (and really believe SafeT is a deranged hairball just waiting to be vurped back down to the planet Urfmaqlia)... that I miss the writing and DigRends as I had it a couple months ago,...and plan to have it back. Eventually/soon/notsoonenough.

Arrrrgh!

I've still not connected. Feck (to borrow a phraze from davecat) I hate not having a computer set-up. I suspect it will still be weeks until the boxes are unpacked and I am settled and the internet is up. THIS SABBATICAL IS TOO LONG AND I MISS BLOGGING (but I certainly can't write and create with the pub lick peeping over my shoulder).

Until I get settled, know that I miss you all.

Flux

Although my respite is over, I am now without proper internet access. I find that I'm not one who easily creates digital renderings or writes in an internet cafe setting. Also, I don't usually write diary entries, because explaining my cat's cuteness or complaining about my absolutely fucked new haircut, just doesn't seem to be my cuppa (which--of course--doesn't mean I don't want the chuckle reading about you and yours).

So. Here I sit with my back to the public, writing a "what I did over winter solstice" piece.

Between the last day I wrote (15 Dec) and today (4 Jan) I accomplished the following:
- rented a 20' x 8' x 8.5' POD-type container.
- emptied a 1600sqft house (with help from my paramour with the 2-person lift shit).
- loaded POD from floor to roof, wall-to-door. Solid. Should have gotten the 24'. I asked for the 24' but the salesman said a 20' would be more than enough for the small house we have. That fuck should have taken my extra 45$ and shut up.
- cleaned said house, painted a couple walls, manicured lawn and garden and pool (this sentence makes it all sound so quick and easy...it should be 4 pages long...it should contain many words like back-breaking and heavy, and difficult, and fraught-with-complications which were unforseen [which is redundant because are any complications forseen, ever?] and so forth until the sheer weight of the words makes the reader tired).
- loaded, compacted, and prepped for transport my 5th wheel RV.
- had same towed out of the Sonoran Desert and into the forest. It had 40# of pressure in all six tires; should have had 80#. So I convinced the dude (who looked like Dennis Hopper) to pull into a truck stop to get air. At 50 cents for 3 minutes of air--over $1 per tire, a total of $7.50, and 40 minutes later--with the skin pulled away from under two finger nails, I got all 6 tires full. The only way it could have been harder, is if I pumped the tires with a hand-pump.
- began work as 'handyman veach' (10$/hr) at a quaint motel in the forested mountains, where my paramour is now the manager.
- set-up the 5th wheel and prepped for winter use.

All our shit is still in the front yard, in that POD. The apartment is still being rennovated, painted, recarpeted and re-everythinged. My bike is buried in the pile so I can't ride. My back and legs are sore. My fingers are dry and chapped. And I couldn't be happier. I go to sleep every night with a smile on my face and in my heart. I am no longer going to have 115 degree summer heat. I might get to hike in the snow this month or next. I will golf in the forest soon.

I wish to thank all who wrote or sent e-cards over the solstice season. I had hoped to jump back into posting with a vengence, but that will have to wait until I can get unpacked and seated at my own keyboard. Nonetheless. I am back.

November's 21 thru 30

back-forward to this story's previous 1000 words

back-forward to this story's beginning

	After three seconds it stops. Just like on the pier: I have no sense of touch. Need to leave! Watching each of my movements with care, I board an empty elevator. All feeling returns as I cross the lobby. Finally! Other than a man in a blue smock approaching, there is no hubbub. He says, “Mijnheer...?” I stop. “Umm, Lorber.” He hands me a paperback-sized screen and says, “de vorm seven-aught-eight-four-two-four, double-three.” I read, declare myself a non-compensated suicide facilitator, and sign with a stylus. I hand the computer back and walk out the front doors. One-sleeve’s husk is gone.
	Guess I should think of him as Fred Lindquist; his name, on the form. I watch two men in protective clothing with tanks on their backs rinse the pavement. I use the V-Sat, wait, and get in when the car arrives. Circling the block, I remove the pistol from under the front seat and zip it into an inside jacket pocket. The biohazard-men are gone when I pick up Holly. “Did you hear the alarm earlier?” she asks. “Yes.” “The briefer told us it’s to warn pedestrians that someone is jumping off the roof. They get a couple a day.”
	I say, “tell me about it,” and watch her beautiful profile as she talks. Mission is, now, almost fleshed-out. …web-word spreads about ‘new-best’ everything: woman-in-red to visit, methods, places for a last meal... How to best utilize a question? …compensation for lost revenue if an establishment temporarily becomes a ‘lemming cliff’… Ohura interrupts: construction – 32-kilometer detour – or select manual.. “Manual,” I reply. “What?” Ish’s last expression (of ‘unbranded carrier’ fear)—crosses Holly’s face. “You ever control a sled?” “Yes. Dan Ryan during Chicago rush hour.” I say as the accelerator presses my foot and steering responds to my fingertips.
	“Oh,” she says, relaxing and turning her attention to the in-dash screen. “I forget you’re American.” Maneuvering irregular roadway sections bordering a site containing several building-top cranes, I indicate with my chin, “unfamiliar with this.” “The epicenter, I think,” she replies. “I’ve got our kiosk results, but don’t read until you’re off manual.” Once available, I return to handicap automatic. Glancing toward the screen, Holly’s body posture grabs my attention. She kisses me; soft lips with a flick of tongue. I kiss back. Honeysuckle fills my nose and a left eye as green as a four-leaf clover fills my vision.
	After reading our negative results—which reflects Joe has not been tested since arriving two years ago, all but confirming his virginity—the car stops and we escape the drizzle under an awning. “Never been to this part of town, where are we headed?” she asks. “A few blocks east of the Internationaal Instituut…ahh, over there.” I point across the street at a pedestrian walkway. We hold hands. In the afternoon, with no reflected blaze of artificial lights, the massive mirror-and-chrome block looks less imposing. Holly chooses the pizza and beer joint—Best of Both Worlds—with no coaching.
	While selecting a table, an intoxicated, mustachioed-man—shorter than me by a few inches, lighter by a few kilos, and younger by several hundred years—bolts from the back and almost knocks us down. To prevent the collision, I hip-check him into an empty table, spilling most of my beer. As he climbs upright, I estimate the placement of a nonfatal windpipe-crushing blow. In gutter-French he stammers, “Feckin bitch-all-worthless highn’-mighty, dre-serve to die. Filth-cunt!” Spittle froths in the corners of his mouth. Silently, two waiters manhandle him away while a third apologetically brings me a fresh drink. Holly pales.
	“Just a drunk and he is gone,” I say. With strong shock behind her eyes and over-filling her voice, she says, “we dated. Martin-something. Haven’t seen him in years. Never did anything ‘cause he always refused a joint test and, instead, showed me dodgy private print-outs.” Her coincidence not mine. Nonetheless, I nudge the pistol. After four beers and a pizza, Holly appears relaxed. We dance a few songs. During Neunundneunzig Luftballoons the lights grow blurry streamers. Maybe just the beer? Colors fade away. No such luck. Vision closes in; disappears to gray. I pull her close and slow dance.
	I savor soft kisses through two more songs. Did I overlook a signal? A waiter or busboy? Slipping Holly my wallet, I tell her to pay and meet me out front. By memory, I work my way to the WC. Empty. I piss and wash without interruption. Through a side service door, I sidle in the direction of crowd noises. At the corner, near knee height, I hear the squeak of someone twist-molding a balloon and muttering in French: ‘fuck-cunt-fuck-cunt’. I smell honeysuckle. With the barrel in contact with a sweaty mustachioed skull, the retort is muffled to door-slam proportions.
	My vision snaps into focus on a crimson splash of hair-brains on the silver building. I pick up my wallet and help Holly to her feet. Choking, she stumbles over Martin-something’s torso. I lead us through the crowd. Lösch’s guidance about Gendarmerie abilities causes me to cross the street and, after two blocks, wait for a bus-train where Holly vomits in a trash receptacle. After fifteen minutes, we get off and she gasps through tears, “you saved me, Joe.” I shush, hold her, and stroke her hair while waiting in a turnout for the car. It begins to rain. Hard.
	After instructing Ohura I say, “if you can, I would like to know more.” I hug her and stare through the windshield. She whispers, “he was waiting. Flying one-ought-five or something, not just drunk. I said he confused me with someone else. Then I ran. He grabbed me. I could see the shadows of people passing; none helped.” “Was he a carrier?” One down. “Wrong skin and he’d be dead already; maybe, hiding his identity? I mistakenly heard, ‘mighty oak’s never confused,’ but it was really: ‘Marty Oak’. Before—he was Ballard. I remember now.” Oak, in Spanish, is Roble.

To Be Continued (maybe, someday)

Film Reviews (Late Fall 2005)

Wallace and Grommit.. (2005) directed by Steve Box (Chicken Run, 2000); starring the voices of Helena Bonham Carter and Ralph Fiennes: Snaprating=WFD, MILIEU theme (Problem sub-theme). Stop-motion claymation fans, especially those who know and love the three previous W&G short films, will enjoy the antics and not be bothered by the predictably childish plotline.
Domino (2005) directed by Tony Scott (Man on Fire, 2004); starring Keira Knightley and Mickey Rourke: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (Character sub-theme). Fans of Scott's colorful, quick-cut, intense information overload films, will love this edgy, hard-pounding blur. Of special note are the numerous, wonderful, minor-characters and quirky-odd sub-plots.
2046 (2004) directed by Kar Wai Wong (director of many films released outside the US); starring Tony Leung Chiu Wai and Takuya Kimura: Fans-who-don't-hate-operatic-cinema-Snaprating=Cheaper, Opera-haters Snaprating=WFT, CHARACTER theme. Disregard the trailer, this is not an SF Film! It feels like Barton Fink melded - confusingly - with a slow-paced, 50's gumshoe-story (but set in late-60's Asia) AND because it's a need-to-concentrate, think-film, don't leave for three minutes or you'll lose the thread.
In Her Shoes (2005) directed by Curtis Hanson (Wonder Boys, 2000); starring Toni Collette and Cameron Diaz: Snaprating=Cheaper, RE-ORDER theme (Character secondary theme). This funny-touching film will be enjoyed by mothers and daughters everywhere. A mix of Return to Me, Playing by Heart, and - maybe - (with sisters and grandmothers instead of sons and mothers) Igby Goes Down .
Touch the Sound (2004) directed by Thomas Riedelsheimer (Rivers and Tides, 2001); starring deaf percussionist Evelyn Glennie: Artist and lovers-of-art Snaprating=Cheaper, Non-Artist Snaprating=WFT, MILIEU theme. This intense documentary about hearing with one's body will soon be available on IFC and The Sundance Channel.
Good Night and Good Luck (2005) directed by George Clooney (Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, 2002); starring David Strathairn and George Clooney: PPBOATS* Fans Snaprating=Cheaper, All others Snaprating=WFC, MILIEU theme. This near-historically-accurate film is quasi-documentary (but not too quasi, like an Oliver Stone film). Fans of The Downfall: Hitler and the End of the Third Reich will enjoy this glimpse of 1950's McCarthyism.
The Weather Man (2005) directed by Gore Verbinski (The Ring, 2002); starring Nicolas Cage and Michael Caine: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme. This poignant, slightly unsettling, well-acted, story (with the humor of: Me, You, and Everyone Else We Know) is similar to About Schmidt only the focus is on a self-absorbed, angsty, middle-aged man, instead of a retired one.
Capote (2005) directed by Bennett Miller (big-screen directorial debut); starring Philip Seymour Hoffman and Catherine Keener: Snaprating=Cheaper, CHARACTER theme. Hoffman is incredable in this BPBOATS*, which is plotted like Girl With a Pearl Earring, since it's more about the 3 years he wrote In Cold blood, than his entire life.
MirrorMask (2005) directed by Dave McKean (big-screen directorial debut); starring Stephanie Leonidas and Gina McKee: Snaprating=WFC, MILIEU theme (Problem sub-theme). Although the simple, non-musical, plot may be compared to The Wizard of Oz (even thought it's more of an after-school special) this wonderfully drawn, poorly-scripted, and terribly-acted construct fails to make audiences care about it's characters or outcome.
Elizabethtown (2005) directed by Cameron Crowe (Almost Famous, 2000); starring Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst: Snaprating=WFD, CHARACTER theme (Problem and Milieu sub-themes). This Lost in Translation set in middle-America, maybe had potential for greatness during pre-production (great script and director) but over-reached with: poor casting, esoteric music, and tacked-on subplots, which all fail in this patchwork-quilt-of-quirkyness.
Jarhead (2005), directed by Sam Mendes (American Beauty, 1999); starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Jamie Foxx: Snaprating=Keeper, CHARACTER theme (Milieu secondary theme). The Vietnam war has Full Metal Jacket, WWII has Saving Private Ryan, now Desert-Shield and -Storm have this humorous-yet-poignant, exceptionally acted, directed, and edited masterpiece.
Memory of a Killer (Zaak Alzheimer, De) (2003) directed by Erik Van Looy (Shades, 1999); starring Jan Decleir and Koen De Bouw: FFF* Snaprating=Cheaper, All Others=WFC, PROBLEM theme (Character secondary theme). Fans of the Korean film Tell Me Something will enjoy this pro-antagonist 'hit-man with a heart' (who's losing his memory).
Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang (2005) directed by Shane Black (directorial debut, screenwriter); starring Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (Character sub-theme). Downey is wonderful in this enthralling and hilarious 'unwitting-PI, murder-mystery-gone-awry', which has the look and feel of The Pink Panther meets Jackie Brown with an Elmore Leonardesque smell and taste.
Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (2005) directed by Mike Newell (Four Weddings and a Funeral, 1994); starring Daniel Radcliffe and Rupert Grint: Snaprating=WFD, PROBLEM theme (Milieu sub-theme). If cramming a book (twice as thick as the first ones) into 2 hours: A - Cut a lot out. B - Uniquely tie together fifty slices of information and action. or C - Use a massive amount of CGI and hope the shitload of poorly fitting, choppy scenes will be overlooked. Newell failed at A, never tried B, and accomplished C.
Unleashed (Danny the Dog) (2005) directed by Louis Leterrier (The Transporter, 2002); starring Jet Li and Bob Hoskins: Snaprating=Cheaper, Problem theme. This 'marial arts film with a heart' will be mostly enjoyed by Jet Li fans.
The Girl in the Cafe (2005) directed by David Yates (Big Screen Directorial Debut); starring Bill Nighy and Kelly Macdonald: Snaprating=WFD, Character theme. This made-for-TV film blends two interesting character studies, and humor, packaged into a strong geo-political guilt-trip-heavy message.
Imaginary Heroes (2004) directed by Dan Harris (Big Screen Directorial Debut); starring Sigourney Weaver and Emile Hirsch: Snaprating=WFC, RE-ORDER theme. This Ordinary People-Chumscrubber mixture is interesting because of plot twists, but we never grow to care about the shallow characters and when the twists become resolved, we end up with a handful of whogivesafuck.
*PPBOATS = Period Piece Based On A True Story *BPBOATS = Biographical Picture Based On A True Story *FFF = Foreign Film Fan

November's 11 thru 20

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	Turning to look me in the eye, Robert-not-Bob says, “Oh, annnnd…Wash Cabinet is de rigueur, but I understand Water Closet is still acceptable…” I smile at him and pick up the peppershaker to examine my warped reflection; how did I get that scar? He continues, “…told me about the SDU last month; you slick-frick! Playing stupid so she gains a faux mental edge means… Finally gonna ask her, aren’t ya?” I shrug. Grin. Memories of past conversations sidle into place—as if they just got caught out of their seats without permission. I envision Holly spread across the pallet.
	Interrupted—as she shoots a bowl of frothy beverage at me with a, “figured you could use this; I’ll be back with your special…” and then gives the international waitperson ‘I’ve-got-other-customers’ gesture. “You heard it. She thinks ‘you’re special’. I’d love to sit and dis-encourage you, but I’m headed over to Barbara’s…and don’t give me that eye-thing you do when you think about me getting so much when you get so little. Can you cover the check today?” I nod, waive at his departure, and fake laugh, which grabs hold of my caffeinated lack-of-sleep and becomes a giggle.
	“Laughing with—or at yourself?” Holly slides a plate of yellow, beige, and brown food in front of me with a garnish of red and a glass of orange; then takes a knee where Robert-not-Bob sat. Finger-clearing at the slaphappy tears I say, “I would like to go out with you.” Standing up and straightening her apron she replies, “I visit my uncle after the lunch crowd, today. He lives out by the airport in branded-housing. How about after? Tonight?” “I could take you to visit him in my loaner-car and we could go from there.” “You’ve got a sled?”
	“The use of one.” I nod. “Boring for you, while I hand-hold Uncle Deeter.” “I can keep occupied. Besides, this new civil-soc construct is interesting. Never been inside the new housing project.” “Ohhhh, I forgot your Social Engineering minor. Well sure then. Pick me up here at fifteen?” For the next four hours I eat and drink. Pay and over-tip. Confirm and smile-waive. Ride and zone out. Undress and Nap. Wake, shower, return (in my loaner-sled) and wait in front of Ray’s as bully-clouds threaten to suffocate the sun overhead. Holly exits. Momentarily shocked by the waitress-to-supermodel transformation, I stare.
	“I was less than honest, Joe,” she says, taking my arm as we walk. “I actually have to get a briefing at the Peste D'Hôpital. I felt funny explaining when customers might overhear. See, they’re predicting a trend: several suicides a day—and not only in the WC’s; some kind of ‘last meal’ thing.” Holly’s sandy hair frames her face. “You look wonderful,” I say. “Thank you,” she smiles. Tugging me to a stop, “how about this kiosk?” she asks, leading us into a metal, empty, bus-stop-sized sidewalk-booth. Touching an indent, she looks at me and down at the console.
	I’m expected to do something! I scan buttons and read multi-language instructions. She takes my left hand, guides my finger toward the console’s other indent, pushes buttons and retrieves a receipt. We walk. “Robert said you were inexperienced,” she says as I use the V-Sat. I roll my eyes. As the car enters traffic, Holly replies to Ohura. All the windows become dark-translucent, music thumps, sandalwood fills the air. “It’s a turn-on. Are you a virgin?” She asks. How to answer? Joe is, but not me? I shrug and look out the moonroof. “That’s cool.” She smiles and holds my hand.
	“Do you have a handy?” I nod. She holds out her palm. Giving her Lösch’s phone earns me a: “No-wonder, s’not-even-on. Men,” sigh. After a few seconds of fussing she hands it back, “Not sure how long, but I’ll call when it’s over.” The car stops. We get out. I say, “Hope you learn how to prevent people from killing themselves after eating your food.” Which earns me an explosion of full-on laughter. While laughing, Holly is stunning. I enter the elevator with a man wearing a hospital gown without one sleeve—displaying his star-shaped burn. Proud of his brand?
	Pressing the 12 – Park button, I glance at one-sleeve. His skin looks rough and flabby. Ish’s brand must have been under a red patch of felt! Ouch! “You ‘nterested ‘n halloween candy?” One sleeve’s English is extremely nasal. I turn. He cradles a handful of black and orange capsules and says, “You know this ’s the straight One-Oh-Five.” I squeeze off the elevator, hold it for three shuffling on, and step into a grassy, roof-park with bushes, flowerbeds, and trellises. He follows. “My family’s ‘n need. Twenty-five each?” On a bench, I take out piggyback dad’s notebook and write: Explain.
	“You can ‘nderstand, just can’t talk?” This is easier. I shrug and make the keep-going finger motion. As I learn about the Belgian assisted suicide program, I nod once in a while. Everyone is prescribed a 105 pill. Although one-sleeve steals unattended pills, the majority are purchased from in- or out-patients who do not intend to suicide by overdose. Recently he decided to sell and send his profits to his sister in Milwaukee. One-sleeve takes me to where he wants to eventually jump. We look down at the turnout. I tap the notebook. “Goin’ out messy’s the only plan left.”
	I tap. “Wanna go ou’ big. Was gonna spike somethin' with the 105’s, like tha' Tylenol guy back in the 70’s,” 1982, “in Seattle-someplace.” Chicago. I lose my balance and sit. Tap. “Couldn’t find anything tha' wasn’t tamper-resistant seven ways from fuck-me-Fred.” Nerve endings in the inner ear go first; I keep my eyes on the horizon for balance as my fingertips and feet fall asleep. “Ya gonna buy my stash?” I stand in a rush, bracing forward; arms thrust, legs pump. One-sleeve has enough time to register a shocked grimace before he disappears over the rail. A claxon blares.

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Book Recommendation: Life Expectancy

Koontz at his best. This one rivals Odd Thomas with it's wonderful combination of: story/plot, interesting protagonist(s) and antagonist(s), building and maintaining suspense, humor, and overall je ne sais quoi. I always enjoy his down-to-earth-yet-bizarre villains who coincidentally happenstance upon unique-unsung-heroes much more than any of his far-fetched supernatural-aliens, and this one cements my favoritism in place.

This one is worth purchasing in hardback and keeping for your grandkids to enjoy in the 2020's.

Keeper Alert: Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang (2005) directed by Shane Black (directorial debut, screenwriter); starring Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer: Snaprating=Keeper, PROBLEM theme (Character sub-theme). Downey is wonderful in this enthralling and hilarious 'unwitting-PI, murder-mystery-gone-awry', which has the look and feel of The Pink Panther meets Jackie Brown with an Elmore Leonardesque smell and taste.

Book Recommendation: Melancholy Baby

In this newest of the Sunny Randall series, the female Boston PI is further defined as rough and tough (and at-the-same-time emotionally-fragile). This quick-read develops the character while uniting her with Susan Silverman (from the Spencer series). Read Parker not for plots or characters but for fast, smooth, movement of action using mostly dialogue. Available in paperback for Parker fans, and at your library for all others.

November's 1 thru 10

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	Within meters of a turn out—empty at this hour—the V-Sat vibrates. It’s screen reads: Confirm ETA 225. I press the center button. The screen becomes yellow and begins counting backward. In exchange for my gray, I could experience all of Joe’s life. Definitely worth it, if measured in decades. Not so much, if I become just another Radimer. A tan, four-door, Mercedes TS1220 quietly enters the turnout. Electric power? Vibrating and flashing, the V-Sat reads: ETD 10, and counts backward. I press. It turns green and reads: Load. The driver’s door slides open. I get in. Oh. Wow.
	Before I have a chance to contemplate the smell of comfort—the door closes, harnesses envelop, the car begins to leave the turn out, and Lieutenant Ohura’s voice says: destination. Without thinking, I reply, “coffee.” WOooonderfully tired! Ohura says: select, and an in-dash screen—autumn trees blowing in the wind—becomes a moving photo-map with a list of coffee shops and café’s. I say, “the nearest.” Acceleration presses me gently into soft leather as the screen returns to red-orange trees...reminiscent of Busse Woods. Wonder what the dragon-master gained from my last mission? Chicago, 1982? “Search, Chicago, Nineteen-Eighty-Two,” I say.
	‘Everybody needs a little time away… I heard her say…’ “Stop.” The music cuts off. Joe is computer savvy, therefore, I am. All I need to do is refine the… Although still traveling, Ohura interrupts: fast-poured available. I read the menu (and, apparently, there are more screens if this list of thirty-six premiere coffees is insufficient). “Twelve, extra-large.” Seventeen-fifty - credit - confirm? “Twenty, with tip. Yes.” Thanks for the expensive Java, Lösch. Where was I? Thinking about music? The car slows, window lowers, a man gives me a cup and a thank-you-sir; as window and speed rise, the car re-enters traffic.
	As I clarify my new destination with Ohura, because Joe’s flat is equidistant from two turnouts, I drink my Vanilla Latte-chino. From among the horde of bicyclists, an amazing ass stands out—forcing me to look out the rear window as I pass, to see if her ventral is as pleasant as her dorsal view. drive setting: automatic - full-manual - or - combination manual-auto available - occupying driver-seat required by… “Handicap automatic,” cuts Ohura off. Must have shifted in my seat too much, or bumped the wheel; Lösch said to direct the override-setting each time I got in, but I forgot. Sooo tired.
	Standing in the hall outside Joe’s flat, I concentrate on the door-combination: 31-11-20-29. His own goddamn birthday? Who’s savvy? The pocket-door rolls open. A half-glance right as I u-turn into the bathroom completes a recon: pallet in the far corner, clothes on a broken rack, and a desk (actually two doors propped across four sawhorses). I sit. My pent-up-urine-burst is nearly orgasmic; defecation brings chills up my back and across my scalp. The pleasure of evacuation: another reason to consider Lösch's offer. Crumpled over the drainpipe for the sink, a crusty rag reminds me of something else I forgot: masturbation!
	On the pallet, holding an unfamiliar, flaccid penis in my right hand, I attempt envisioning Zuella. Why is first intimacy always difficult? Squinting at the skylights, I recognize that—besides a window over the tub the size of a cribbage board—these are this flat’s sole natural-light openings. Four-meter ceilings. Emergency-egress prohibitive. When Grimy Go-between and Piggyback Dad team-up to take back the Surinam’s Ish purchased… …climb metal scaffolding… …wiggle onto roof… …attain foothold on cloud-bulletin-board… …fall. I wake-up. If I decide to keep Joe’s life, I should keep my breakfast appointment. I have an hour and a good hard-on.
	I exercise my cow-milking muscles. On the pier, Zuella walks towards me completely naked. The rub of fingers over my ventral ridge creates a familiar tingle-tickle sensation. She smiles like Zuella used to. My pace increases. Her nipples are erect. I enter. focus. on. one. Nipple. In. My. Mouth. ON. MY. TONGUE. I continue pawing for many long seconds beyond ejaculation. Once the spasms subside, I get up and take a shower. Stupid to return where piggyback dad discovered it is not a small world—but if I want Joe’s life, I need to keep his friends and his routines.
	Shaving, I notice a tiny scar on the top edge of my lip. How did I get that? Yesterday, I asked a question without thinking—did I set myself up for a deception? Robert-not-Bob said, ‘breakfast tomorrow? Ten-thirtyish?’ I think my reply was, ‘Ten-thirty’—open to interpretation and non-committal. My memory is unclear. If I said, ‘see you then’—with no intention of returning at that time—I could be back on the pier at 1031. I hurry. Wearing dark slacks and a silky, teal-and-ivory, pull-over sweater-jacket with zippered inside pockets, I approach the, now busy, turnout. V-Sat time: 1008.
	Once inside the car, I ask Ohura to play some smooth music. Immediately, incredible ambient overlapping melodies ease into me. I smile, even though the day is becoming cloudy. I notice a MasterPark sign and say, “Query. Vehicle parking. Locations and ordinances.” A map of the city—with dozens of blue ‘P’ indicators and a list of topics—fills the screen. In minutes, I learn about EU-mandated, underground, park-fuel structures in metropolitan areas. From the turnout, I walk a half-block. The restaurant is nearly empty. Sliding into the booth, I smile at Holly who is listening to Robert-not-Bob talk football.
	Speaking into his orange juice glass—just like Lösch did last night—Robert-not-Bob says, “Did you hear, JoLo? Another one.” Holly finishes while he gulps, “This makes three, and still no sight of SDU. Guess this one wasn’t messy. Ray says not to touch the WC until they get here.” I shake my head, “Acronyms.” Holly shrugs, “Suicide… something-with-a-D …Unit? Anyway. Want the special? Still got some left.” I nod. She walk-skips away. We watch. “Maybe a system-glitch,” Robert-not-Bob says. “But probably, Souillé Déplacement Unité’s directive is: Wait, someone else will clean it; if not, displace multiple soiled’s and triple-bill.”

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Book Recommendation: The Best Science and Nature Writing, 2005

Mr Folger: This year the cover of your book contains the word best, and - after reading it - I'm certain it is as intentionally-erroneous as the US administration's weapons-of-mass-destruction. The editor you hired this year is not only what his namesake implies, but an incompetent dumbfuck too.

Several hundred magazine articles were published last year, your editor obviously chose to publish his friends and, then, only about topics he was interested in: religion, politics, drugs, psychiatry, and combinations on those themes.

Five articles - 20% of the book- are about drugs and food supplements that stupid Americans can't stop taking, and four articles - 16% of the book- is about psychiatry: Two, written by the same person: one about PTSD and how it has changed in the last half-century and another about personality tests and how they have changed over the last half-centry. Two others are about Rorschach’s ink blots—and amazingly PTSD, again.

Two articles, 8% of the book is about religion—yes, that’s right: My God Problem – And Theirs and Keeping the Faith in My Doubt. I had to keep looking at the cover to remind myself what book I was reading.

NASA and space exploration get three articles…all three are very similarly toned: ‘Bad, stupid, politicians should never have cut NASA’s budget’, which is compounded by another article about just bad, stupid, politicians (and the voters that put them in office).

I found three interesting articles: The Curious History of the First Pocket Calculator, about the first hand-held fully-mechanical calculator, which could add, subtract, multiply, and divide up to 15 digits made in the 1940’s; To Hell and Back, about a scuba explorer who cave dives for weeks at time, thousands of feet underground; and Who’s Life Would You Save?, a philosophical piece about morals and fairness.

Just hang out in the bookstore and read those 30 pages in the isle.

Keeper Alert: Jarhead

Jarhead (2005), directed by Sam Mendes (American Beauty, 1999); starring Jake Gyllenhaal and Jamie Foxx: Snaprating=Keeper, CHARACTER theme (Milieu secondary theme). The Vietnam war has Full Metal Jacket, WWII has Saving Private Ryan, now Desert-Shield and -Storm have this humorous-yet-poignant, exceptionally acted, directed, and edited masterpiece.