Harmonium

Spring Essay Question

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Sat, 5 Apr 08 17:14:00 UT

So, let's say, hypothetically, that you've just finished a relaxing two-week vacation in southern California. Imagine that you plan your return flight out of LAX on a Wednesday morning, anticipating somewhat lower-than-usual travel volume.

Visualize instead, if you will, a departure terminal evacuated and locked down, surrounded by approximately 87.5% of the entire LAPD, patrolled by sneering, salivating bomb-sniffing German Shepherds, with hordes of irritated Southwest and US Airways passengers (who should totally be used to being treated like cattle) milling around, ignoring the admonishments of the 87.5% to STAY ON THE DAMN SIDEWALKS.

Now, picture the swarming behavior when the terminal is re-opened, all pretense of lines being replaced by the cattle transforming into mad cow disease-infected "downer" cows, stumbling over one another for the privilege of a ticket agent telling you that your bag weighs .005 ounces over 50 lbs, which will cost you $50, credit cards only please.

Further, envision the cows approaching the security lines, snaking, snaking, snaking inside and outside, around and around, down the block to the next terminal. Imagine the TSA agent yelling at you to TAKE OFF YOUR BRACELETS OR STEP ASIDE FOR A FULL BODY CAVITY SEARCH. Said bracelets will not budge over your heat-swollen wrists, but the inducement of avoiding additional screening provides just the lubrication necessary to remove the offending metal (at least it didn't require pliers).

Finally, suppose that you discover that the reason for the evacuation was the someone decided it was completely appropriate to bring toy hand grenades aboard the plane.

Discuss. Support conclusions with evidence, or at least the wild hyperbole that marks media election coverage.

1. Assume it was an adult who made this decision to attempt to carry insanely unsuitable weapons onto a plane. Possible punishments:
A. The Stocks - too gentle unless the spectators are themselves armed with hand grenades. Real ones.
B. One finger per grenade - an even trade as long as no anesthetic is used.
C. Sterilization - preventing further propagation of this individual's DNA would be a wonderful side dish.
D. Daily travel in a center rear seat of a US Airways flight. The ultimate punishment. Cruel, unusual, and so wonderfully warranted.

2. If, instead, it was a child whose parental and/or supervisory units were not aware of this carry-on item, the adults should simply be shot. They will not spawn any further, and the children learn a valuable lesson in cause and effect.

Q: How Did You Spend Your Labor Day?

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Wed, 12 Sep 07 21:53:00 UT

A: Donating blood.

Every 7 weeks the Red Cross calls me (and calls me and calls me until I answer the phone) to make another blood donation appointment. Since no one else in the household donates (husband is averse to needles, daughter is too young, son objects to the many rules), so this is one small contribution I can make that's easy (there's always a blood drive nearby, and the donation center is about 10 minutes away), easy to remember (they're very good about calling), painless (almost), quick (less than an hour), and they give you cookies and juice when you're done.

There is a lengthy list of questions they ask to try to weed out donors with suspect blood, but they don't change often so you can whiz through them after the 2nd or 3rd time. Although I still don't know what babeosis is, I would probably know if I had ever had it. And I have starting answering the question "Have you ever been to Africa?" no, since the two days I spent in Morocco in 1975 always causes a delay and never gets me booted out.

When I donated on Labor Day they had upgraded their snacks to Tastycakes and gave me a little card that told me my blood type horoscope [with a few editorial comments thrown in]:

TYPE B
RARE BLOOD DONOR
People with Type-B blood make up only 11% of the U.S. population. They are goal-oriented [that explains the lists] and strong-minded [some would say bitchy]. They will start a task and continue until it is completed (and completed well!) [unless it's weeding. goddamn do I hate weeding.] Members of Type B blood group are individualists who tend to find their own way in life [no stopping and asking for directions here]. Though they can be a little forgetful [again the lists], irresponsible [I meant to file those quarterly estimated taxes], and self-centered [it is, of course, all about me] at times, they are very creative, flexible, optimistic, carefree, cheerful and passionate [just not all at the same time]. B blood types tend to love animals [is that where the 3 dogs and 3 cats came from?] and may exhibit a strong talent for cooking [read: eating].

Things That Scare Me

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Tue, 11 Sep 07 20:09:00 UT

My hair. Specifically, allowing my real hair color to reappear after more than ten years of being hidden behind a chemical mask. Anne Kreamer has written a book called Going Gray: What I Learned about Beauty, Sex, Work, Motherhood, Authenticity, and Everything Else That Really Matters in which she chronicles the 18 months it took for her to go from having hair that was, as she describes it, âdyed inappropriately darkâ, to her natural shades of gray. Long before her book was published Iâd been contemplating this. Itâs not the end result that frightens me â Iâm not concerned about looking older (or old) â but rather itâs the process of getting from here to there. A wormhole would be ideal â just fold up the space/time continuum in so that I could avoid all that in-betweenness of letting my highlights grow out, of having roots of intermingled gray and brown, of feeling awkward and getting to the point of saying âEnough!â and running whimpering back to the salon. Perhaps, like a diet, the new year would be a better time to start this adventure. Maybe by then the need to shed the monthly chains to a hair colorist will overshadow the inevitable ugly-hair period.

Fred Thompson. When Reagan was running for his first term, my aunt expressed outrage that he would ruin the country and that she would want to move abroad if he was elected. (Although she did not actually move to Canada, her opinions were prescient.) At the time I was just out of college and immersed in my job, applications for grad school, and getting rid of the roaches in my apartment. The presidency seemed remote, with not even the barest sliver of a connection to my life. Now, faced with a candidate who embodies many of those same values, who apparently would invest the executive branch with even more imperial traits than Reagan, Bush I and Bush II have done, who would want to control my life and impose his own warped sense of moral rectitude on the country as a whole, I am frightened that there is even the slightest possibility that he would become president. I understand my auntâs voice quaking with rage â and fear â as she talked about Reagan.

The many Americans who believe that General Petraeus did not in any way share, vet, or otherwise review his Congressional comments with any branch of the government before delivering them. There is probably a high degree of correlation between this group and the ones who could imagine themselves voting for Fred Thompson.

Excessive use of quotation marks will make you blind

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Wed, 5 Sep 07 21:45:00 UT

The past few months have swept by in a non-journaling blur. At least a non-writing-down blur â there were many entries composed by brain cells that are now being spent on far more valuable ideas, such as, âWas Nicole Ritchieâs baby fathered by Elvis or an alien?â

There is the still somewhat new but no longer shiny job.

House renovations are now complete (mentally knocking on a Volkswagen-sized piece of wood in the event that something like, oh, say, the roof is about to fall off). This took our retirement home savings with it, but maybe the stucco contractor really did need a new boat more than I needed a place to retire.

Our son has started college. This warrants a whole series of entries.

After reflecting on writing and not writing and the reasons for both, Iâve come to the conclusion that I write for two primary purposes:
1. As a creative outlet
2. To vent

My creative endeavors have been channeled into paper crafts â scrapbooks for the family, collages, and a number of cards that cannot be shared with small children. (Or many adults from red states.)

As far as the venting goes, although there have been minor annoyances in daily life, e.g.:

â¢ The need for all-adult cars on the train in the mornings to prevent the tinking sounds of Playstation games and the associated juvenile curse-equivalents âdarn it!â, âarrrrrrggghhh!!â (I wanted to lean forward and tell him to just yell âSHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTT!!â instead, seeing if I could get a rise out of his paperback-engrossed mother, but thought that might void my monthly pass)

â¢ The car that ran a red light RIGHT in front of me at 13th and Market that I felt the need to reach out and touch (ok, the touch was more of a slap and my ring only left a tiny scratch, but good Christ on a bike, these Philadelphia drivers are in competition with the Massholes in Boston for most hazardous to pedestrians)

â¢ The negative articles in the two major city newspapers about the project Iâm working on

â¢ The resultant Fox âNewsâ crew that shot an interview with my bossâs boss and then managed to twist, edit and spin the âstoryâ into an unrecognizable spew of vitriol (they are, after all, Fair and Fucking Balanced)

â¢ The call from my son â on the same day as all the media attention â that he had caused some contact between the side of the car and the garage, damaging about 107 different pieces of car down to bare metal and gouging the freshly painted garage down to bare wood
None of these has been significant to warrant the therapizing benefits that a journal entry offers. Even after reading about the Tyco CFOâs impending 8-25 years incarceration, and learning of the its-about-time-to-wake-up-and-smell-the-consequences-of-perjury-coffee-while-reading-the-federal-indictment-on-the-wall of the soon-to-make-a-multimillion-dollar-book-deal-and-land-a-no-teaching-or-research-required-professorship-at-a-prestigious-university attorney general, there wasnât reason enough to write that all down. And gloating is so unseemly.

So hereâs a rant I would have written a few months ago, if the spirit had moved me sufficiently.

So Paul Wolfowitz wants some of the slime created by his actions regarding his girlfriendâs promotion and pay increase to slide onto others. The charges against him are âunfairâ and he was only acting in âgood faithâ. W is sad that the situation âhas come to thisâ. These are wonderfully all-purpose lines that can be recycled for use in many uncomfortable situations.

âBut officer, I was only speeding in the good faith belief that my need to drive fast outweighs the law.â

âItâs just unconscionable and unfair, not to mention unpatriotic, that the fees and penalties on my late taxes have come to this.â

âInfidelity is such an unfair accusation. I was merely exploring relationship options in the good faith belief that your sister would be discreet.â

Feel free to use these next time youâre faced with a juicy conflict of interest situation and are unsure as to the âcloudinessâ of the advice youâve been given by your employer.

Sadly, itâs doubtful that you will walk away from the aftermath of the chaos youâve created with quite the package that Mr. W. will be awarded. But then life is just so unfair, isnât it?

(Now fast forward to the current circumstances with which Senator Craig is troubled. You could replace his name in the above paragraphs and have it ring true. Well, except for the âpackageâ reference. Heh heh. Sometimes adolescent humor just cracks me up.

Actually, I donât give a shit if the guy has a âwide stanceâ, was soliciting consensual sex between flights, or just likes rubbing shoe leather with his stall neighbor, but I do care about both his âIf I close my eyes and hold my breath this will all just go awayâ attitude that reeks of lying by omission, and, even more significantly, with the apparent conflict between his actions and the Family (read: white, Christian, heterosexual) Values that have been the basis of his holier-than-thou positions forever.)

Enough. There will be more to vent about tomorrow. There always is.

40 Questions

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Sat, 10 Mar 07 08:14:00 UT

Although I don't usually fill these things out, because my sister sent me this list I gave it a go.

1. What is your occupation? Consultant/Technology Manager
2. What color are your socks right now? Black, worn on top of black tights and inside black boots
3. What are you listening to right now? The light chatter coming from the rest of the office
4. What was the last thing that you ate? Chicken Caesar salad (saved from yesterday, it was a little soggy)
5. Can you drive a stick shift? Sadly, no
6. If you were a crayon, what color would you be? Periwinkle
7. Last person you spoke to on the phone? Some woman who was irate that she had been shuffled from one city extension to another. She was calling because she had found a brochure about the cityâs emergency management practices and wanted to talk to someone about the fact that the city had no clue about how theyâd get the word out if Sunoco had a hazmat issue. Among many others, she was calling the woman who was previously at this phone extension. The city phone book has not yet been updated, so I continue to get her calls and donât know where to reach her. Additionally, her last name contains only consonants, is about 20 letters long and I canât even spell it to send her an email.
8. Do you like the person who sent this to you? Yes
9. How old are you today? Less than a half century. Barely.
10. Favorite drink: English breakfast tea with cream and sugar.
11. What is your favorite sport to watch? National politics
12. Have you ever dyed your hair? â Even my hair doesnât know what its natural color is
13. Pets? 3 dogs, 3 cats, 2 teenagers
14. Favorite Food? Anything that is fried and/or contains chocolate
15. Last movie you watched? Zodiac
16. Favorite Month of the year? May
17. What do you do to vent anger? Curse loudly
18. What was your favorite toy as a child? Art supplies
19. What is your favorite, fall or spring? Spring
20. Hugs or kisses? Both
21. Cherry or Blueberry? Blueberry pie, cherry everything else
22. Do you want your friends to email you back? Yes
23. Who is most likely to respond? Those without small children
24. Who is least likely to respond? Those who will be celebrating St. Patrickâs Day a week early
25. Living arrangements? Chaotic
26. When was the last time you cried? The day after Election Day 2004
27. What is on the floor of your closet? Unused gym bag, dirty laundry, cat hair
28. Who is the friend you have had the longest to whom you are sending this? One of my college roommates
29. What did you do last night? Watched a CSI repeat, read A Spot of Bother, was asleep by 10:30
30. Favorite smell? Fresh lilacs
31. What inspires you? Other peopleâs art
32. What are you afraid of? That on the day after Election Day 2008 Iâll wake up and it will be the day after Election Day 2000 and Iâll have to live through the same 8 years of the-moron-who-would-be-president over and over again
33. Plain, cheese or spicy hamburgers? Cheese
34. Favorite car? Audi A8
35. Favorite dog breed? Chowchow and mixed breeds
36. Number of keys on your key ring? Donât know â donât drive during the week so I donât carry any keys with me
37. How many years at your current job? .25
38. Favorite day of the week? Saturday
39. How many states have you lived in? Two
40. Favorite holiday? National Bring-A-Bratwurst-To-Lunch day

Shout-Out to Chris Matthews

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Tue, 6 Mar 07 18:50:00 UT

Which is sadder - that Scooter is going to do time in the Big House, or that a grown man still goes by the name Scooter? Will his first jailhouse tats read:
"F U C K" "D I C K" across his knuckles? Does he have the complete boxed set of HBO's Oz on his Amazon wish list? Are conjugal visits from Ann Coulter going to be his payment for not ratting out his boss? Is he going to be sentenced to serve his time in Building 18 at Walter Reed?

Hey Chris - if you were REALLY playing hardball, these are the questions you'd be asking.

There is so much more than just the universe to see

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Fri, 2 Mar 07 15:25:00 UT

A few weeks ago I had a dreamy-dream, one in which everything was very vivid and I had a distinct floating sensation, as if I was levitating. I sat at a table and had a meal with someone while we were encapsulated in a bubble that was drifting among the stars.

At one point I was floating on my back a few feet above the ground and felt like I was being wheeled on a hospital gurney. I looked up at the creature who was pushing me along, his eyes all buggy and luminously green, and he said, âThere is so much more than just the universe to see.â As can happen in dreams â or other altered states of consciousness â this seemed tremendously profound, the answer to everything, the meaning of life.

Even now, several weeks later, the phrase keeps tickling the edges of my brain, inserting its New Age-y, crystal-wearing, drum-circle-participating self into my thoughts. Maybe it would make a good book title, although I canât quite imagine it tripping off of Oprahâs tongue.

Perhaps it should be otherwise immortalized. My daughter is turning 16 this summer and toward the end of the year I will turn 50. She suggested that we commemorate these two important birthdays with a bonding event. In the form of joint tattoos. I wonder what size font Iâd have to select in order to have these words inked in a very tiny, very inconspicuous location.

Heart of the Day

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Wed, 14 Feb 07 12:49:00 UT

When love is not madness, it is not love.
~Pedro Calderon de la Barca~
Where is the Consumer Reports for rehab centers? Who publishes the Zagat ratings for ârecovery homesâ? How does one in need know where to go for spa cuisine and which ones are best for multiple addictions? Who maintains the amazon.com-like âOther patients who liked TwiningTrees Twelve-Steps also spent time at Denton De-Toxâ?

Despite my month-long self-imposed exile from writing journal entries, I am not, to my knowledge, in need in the services of a rehab establishment. The thought came to mind, instead, while reading Norman Greenâs novel Shooting Dr. Jack. Iâve already read the follow-up called Dead Cat Bounce and am now working my way back in time to a point where Stoney, the protagonist, has not yet hit bottom with his drinking. The novels are tight and elegant and dark, more like what youâd find at this place than what I usually read.

The last month has gone something like this: o Rise at 6:00 AM, fully 6 hours before my body tells me itâs time to get out of bed o Stumble up the big steps onto the 7:13 âGreat Valley Flyerâ train o Arrive at Suburban Station in Philadelphia at about 7:51, stand in a long line at Dunkin Donuts that moves with blinding speed and buy a large coffee, extra light, extra sweet o Get to my desk by 8:00 (to put this in perspective: I was so de-motivated at my prior job that I could barely get up by this time, much less be *at* work) o Work, work, work (in a good way) until taking the 5:08 train home o Arrive home at about 6:00, take a shower, grab something that is vaguely food-like for âdinnerâ, and collapse into bed, heating pad against my back, barely able to raise the energy to change the TV channel until I fall asleep usually before 9:00 o Weekends are a blur of groceriesdrugstorelibrarypetfoodstoredoctorforBeccawhomighthavestrepvetforthedogwhomighthavewormsbanktosetupnewaccountforconsultingbusiness

And so we come to today, where I am homebound by a storm that continues to offer us snow-sleet-freezing-rain-biting-winds. Watching the birds at the feeder who are scrapping over the last few bits of seed has become much more interesting than writing a technical approach document. Which is why itâs very good that I have an office to go to that is four stories above the city streets, otherwise Iâd spent my day watching the pigeons and those who feed them.

Boy Oh Boy

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Sat, 20 Jan 07 16:31:00 UT

The American people are tired of liars and people who pretend to be something they're not
~ Hillary Clinton ~
So Hillary announces her impending âconversation with Americaâ (forgive my cynicism, but the conversation goes something like this: âYouâre going to vote for me, right? You really like me, right? You donât think I was an idiot to stay with Bill, right? You think I was treated unfairly about Whitewater/health care/Vince Foster, right? You loved my book, right?) and Pat Buchananâs comments include the following:

She looked so feminine.

She looked soft and talked about soft issues.

She was calm.

She looked great.
To be fair to Pat, which just makes me gag, he did call her announcement a brilliant political move in terms of the Saturday timing, the production values of the video, and that she took great advantage of her hand being forced by Obama.

Of course, the best part was Alex Witt continuously referring to Buchanan and the other male political commentator as âthe boysâ. You could just hear the boysâ smiles creak as they locked into place.

What is the color of vice?

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Fri, 19 Jan 07 21:36:00 UT

Blushing is the color of virtue.
~ Diogenes ~
âIâll always remember the time I found my motherâs vibrator. Right next to my brotherâs bong. I stole the bong and gave it back to my brother â siblings have to stick together. What was my mother going to do? Ask about it?â

That is merely a sample of the conversation at this eveningâs womenâs dinner. The poor waiter, who was all of maybe 17, had to put up with this and much more. He appeared to blush a few times. But we tipped well so my guilt over exposing him to such trash talk didnât last long.

I Am Woman, Hear Me Make Snarky Comments

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Thu, 18 Jan 07 19:43:00 UT

I've yet to be on a campus where most women weren't worrying about some aspect of combining marriage, children, and a career. I've yet to find one where many men were worrying about the same thing.
~ Gloria Steinem ~
Tomorrow evening, assuming I survive my third 12-hour day in a row, I am having dinner with a group of women that I get together with every other month or so. This started as a going-away dinner for me when my previous job so abruptly ended and has morphed into a regular outing. There are about a dozen of us in this group and weâve struggled to come up with a name that accurately represents our diversity. Because we are all attempting, in one way or another, to find some balance in our lives, we became Women Balancing Balls (Women With Balls just seemed too harsh). Iâve totally lost my train of thought and have no idea where this was headed.

Anyway, in the spirit of female solidarity Iâve been trying to tune in to Katie Couric to see just how sheâs doing and to break the stranglehold that MSNBC has on my news-watching consciousness. But, whatâs with her hair? Itâs all flat and stringy and stuck down with hair spray. And who is picking her hideous clothing â a cheesy purple sweater vest over a shirt that was all bunched and then a wrinkled, white blouse that was all a-kilter. And her voice? It sounds like a question is haunting the end of every statement? Is she waiting for approval or someone to nod in agreement? Other than that, sheâs doing just swell. (And yes, I would comment on the male anchorsâ hair, clothing and speech. Brian Williams has a grating nasal voice and I donât even know whoâs on the other network. Back to MSNBC for me.)

Feets don’t fail me now

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Wed, 17 Jan 07 21:45:00 UT

We have not wings we cannot soar; but, we have feet to scale and climb, by slow degrees, by more and more, the cloudy summits of our time.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ~
It all started with a shoe. A womanâs stiletto-heeled pump, camel-colored leather with a bronzy leather lining, sharp-toed with some sort of intricate weaving across the top. It looked little-worn â the heel was perfect, what I could see of the sole looked unscuffed, and the toe was not marred with use. It sat, a single in a world of pairs, in the window of the train station. Who lost it? Was it wrenched off her foot by one of the gaps between the old boards that make up the platform? Did she â against all good sense and WARNINGS IN REALLY BIG LETTERS â try to cross the tracks rather than walking under the train tracks down a rickety set of steps, passing within inches of speeding cards, and back up another set of improbably steep stairs? To be continuedâ¦

It ended with sore feet (two of them, mine). I spent my first day of almost-employment (more on that another day) walking the streets of Philadelphia from one end of center city to other. On a day when the wind chills dipped into the single digits, although the sky was winter-clear and we werenât suffering from the burden of an ice coating that Oklahoma has experienced. I had lunch at the Union League, bastion of Old Philadelphia (at least they admit women and people whose skin is a shade other than blue-tinged white these days). Itâs hard to understand how I can feel behind when I havenât even really completely officially started this job.

Time to go soak my barking dogs. Ruff ruff.

Dream On

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Tue, 16 Jan 07 13:25:00 UT

The best way to enhance freedom in other lands is to demonstrate here that our democratic system is worthy of emulation.
~ Jimmy Carter ~
My nighttime excursions to dreamland are always vivid and intricate and unexpected, but no more so than over the last couple of months. Each dream is like a David Lynch short film and I never know when carnival freakishness will come out from behind the read velvet curtain.

Recent adventures have included a meet-up with Jimmy Carter, sans Rosalynn and any Secret Service agents. He and I were staying at the same hotel, although he had access to the VIP areas that were not overrun with hordes of tourists as were the hallways and patios that I could visit. He wore a pale camel-colored sweater and was no taller than me (I think he might actually be a tad over my 5â2.5â). He gripped my arm above the elbow in a firm grasp and pulled me close to him to talk earnestly, though I donât recall the conversation. Probably something about his most recent book that seems to have pulled a bunch of peopleâs knickers into a twist. We walked all over the hotel and one point he went through some gilded doors to one of the off-limits areas and reappeared a few minutes later on a lower level. There was Indian food cooking somewhere; the scent was quiet pervasive.

The one other dream I can ever recall having about a President involved Bill Clinton in his underwear. And that was before Monica became a single-word name said only with a smirk. Who knows what will befall poor Jimmy now that Iâve dreamt of him.

Saving Face

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Mon, 15 Jan 07 19:33:00 UT

Look at the money I've saved by not saving. If I'd had some, I might have bought other stocks. I'm ahead of the game.
~ David O. Selznick ~
We spent the morning meeting with a financial planner for the first time. He looks to be about 12 and I believe his first name is âDoogieâ, but several friends attest to his abilities. Our hodgepodge of investments that make up a patchwork portfolio is probably no worse than many others, but his mouth did get a smiley twitch when we explained that weâd like to be able to retire before our mid-60s. *And* put the kids through college without forcing enormous amounts of debt down their baby-bird gullets. *And* maybe buy a second house soon that could be a vacation home for now and a retirement place for then. That caused a strangled chortle which we chose to ignore. Oh, and donât forget the whomping big expense we may have to tear off the outside of our current house and replace it with a new, one-can-only-pray better exterior.

He asked if, other than the 401ks weâve been contributing to for years, we are spenders or savers. It was my turn to laugh when he suggested we may want to think about saving a bit more aggressively. Surely that excludes the Tom-Tom for my car (so that I donât get lost and waste precious gas), the Aeron chair for my study (to prevent expensive and debilitating back problems), the XM radio also for my car (my husband has one in his, so this is to forestall marriage counseling), the Photoshop software and class for me (feed the spirit and such), the new iPod to replace my aging one (I canât even imagine a way that this saves money), or the plasma TV to replace the ancient one in our bedroom all 200 lbs of which someone managed to drop on the floor, cracking the case, and causing all the colors to merge into a bluish-gold palette (reducing the need for extravagant Lasik surgery)?

We should hear back from him in a week or so with the framework of a plan. Iâd just better see that plasma TV on the list of investments or itâs lights out for Doogie.

Awake in the Dark

revelator1209@hotmail.com — Sun, 14 Jan 07 21:03:00 UT

Every great film should feel new every time you see it.
~ Roger Ebert ~
My first attempt at watching something more than 30 minutes long was the movie Thank You for Smoking. I had read the book the movie was based on a few years ago and found its hard-edged witty cynicism very entertaining. The movie, however, well, bleh. It was bland and didnât really end, just sort of stopped. Aaron Eckhardt seemed a good choice for the lead, but turned out to be way too soft and forgiving for the role. Rob Loweâs cameo as a kimono-wearing super-agent was terrific, but his few minutes on-screen did not make suffering through this film worthwhile.

Yesterday I ventured out the theater to see Children of Men with Clive Owen, Julianne Moore (briefly), and Michael Caine (perfectly cast as an ancient hippy). The apocalypse has come in the form of humanity being unable to reproduce any longer, with the youngest human now 18 years old. London is squalid and filthy and teeming with illegal aliens confined to streetside cages before being deported to what is, presumably, a far worse environment. This is not the shiny future of The Minority Report, but rather a far darker, dirtier Blade Runner. Clive Owen stumbles into the role of shepherding a young woman to safety who is inexplicably pregnant. There will be the inevitable comparisons to the Christ story, but this version allows you to construct the ending for yourself.