Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Pandora and Beckoning Worlds



As a child, I had a picture book with a particularly intriguing illustration. It showed a ring of fairies in the moonlight, each one with a different expression. Beneath a sky of brilliant violet and indigo, the ground looked coated with soft, green moss. There was something about it that looked so wonderful and magical that I was certain it was mysteriously real. Several times, I'd secretly stay awake until midnight. Suddenly opening the bookmarked page, I was convinced I'd catch at least one of the fairies moving or looking startled at my discovery of their world. I'm sure I won't ruin any suspense by saying that I was unsuccessful every time.

But that feeling, that hope of being able to experience another world felt very real when watching James Cameron's Avatar in 3D. I may be one of the few people who could have been satisfied if the film had eliminated the spectacular battle scenes in favor of a deeper exploration into the Na'Vi culture and a kind of travelogue across the planet. There were times when Pandora's color palette was so much like that old illustration that I had to smile. I loved that the Na'Vi shared the Native American tradition of offering a prayer of gratitude for the animal they'd just killed for their own sustenance. And there was a continued theme of connectivity of the people to the land, to the animals. This was literally played out when the Na'Vi would attach the end of their long braids to the end of an animal's tail and the two would move as one. So much begged further detail...the Tree of Life, the Hanging Islands, the many unnamed elements that kept my eyes on the screen at all times.

I realize that this sounds, especially to those who haven't seen the film, all very cliche in a kind of hippy-chic way. Honestly, I don't wear patchouli and I do shave my legs. I suppose since the film's setting is literally on a different planet, the ideas of harmony with nature and mutual respect seemed fresh and interesting. That in itself is an intruguing accomplishment.

If James Cameron's only goal had been to create a film that was a masterpiece of storytelling, I think he fell short. But, his goal of offering audiences an invitation to another planet that was unlike anything they'd experienced before, I have to applaud his success. And, thank the incredible artists who worked on the project, bringing me to the very edge of a new world.

Monday, December 7, 2009

NaNoWriMo aka Where I've Been Lately




During the last week of October, a friend of mine--whom I'll call "Donna", since that's her name---reminded me that on November 1st, the annual NaNoWriMo event would begin. She told me about it last year as well, when I handily brushed it off as insanity. This year, the challenge seemed intriguing.


What NaNoWriMo stands for is National Novel Writing Month. Since it's global, I'm not sure why it's not called International Novel Writing Month, but that's not up to me. Beginning at 12:00 a.m. on November 1st, registered participants may begin writing a novel. By 11:59 p.m. on November 30th, the (minimum) 50,000 word, 175 pages novel must be complete. How daunting is that? Of course, they try to reassure you that you need only produce the first draft and they encourage you to save all revisions and editing until after the first draft is finished. That makes the goal seem a tiny bit more reachable.


It seems the people behind NaNoWriMo, aka The Office of Letters and Light, know the Achilles' heel of most writers: procrastination. We all have fascinating plots, colorful characters, and witty dialogue in our minds. The problem is sitting down and writing it out. And that's a big problem if you want to get any traction as an author. So, NaNoWriMo, like an imagined stern headmaster, accepts no excuses. There are no deadline extensions available. The rules of the challenge are clear and few and even as I registered on their site, I wondered what in the world I'd gotten myself into.


Then, I upped the ante. Not only had I become an "Official Participant", but I actually went around telling people about it. I tweeted it on Twitter. I made updates about it on Facebook. I tried to make it as humiliating as possible for myself if I backed down from the challenge. Characteristically, I begin projects full of enthusiasm and productivity. And, at about the halfway point, I meander off in some vague other direction. This time, I gave myself daily goals that had to be met. The scenario that gave me cold sweats in the middle of the night was an image of myself at 11:30 p.m. on Nov. 30th with three chapters left to go. I promised myself, if nothing else, I would not play that role.


So, I kept at it. And friends and family, both in my physical world and my online world, encouraged me and cheered me on. My husband, always my staunchest supporter and advisor, became my writing coach. My son allowed me blocks of time to be alone with my laptop and never complained. My editor/cousin/soul sister in California insisted that I email her a new chapter every day. Most of my writing got done between 11:00 p.m. and 1:30 a.m., but I met each daily goal. No excuses. And, somewhere along the way, I realized I'd gone too far to turn back. I no longer had a choice in the matter.


And on Friday, November 27th, at just about 8:00 p.m., I wrote the last line of my novel, Blood Relations. I'd made the goal, met the challenge. And, as I suppose is the benefit of any project like NaNoWriMo, I learned something about myself. I can see a project through to completion. And that knowledge is a very valuable reward.


Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Twitter: Follow You, Follow Me



To begin, all Twitter users know the difficulty in converting others. We usually get interrupted by the inevitable question, "But, why would I want to do that?" Our response is often an ineffectual, "No, but it's fun." Not a ringing endorsement. What I mean to tell others is that it's not about what you had for breakfast (well, sometimes) or keeping to the 140 character limit. It's about developing a group of friends or connections who happen to--usually--share interests and opinions.

One trait I think most twitterers share is curiosity. Curiosity about the arts, the news, the world at large. Other cultures, other ways of thinking. Twitter is a natural magnet for those people. In the same way that those with a more parochial outlook may truly find the social network useless.

Sometimes, a friend will ask, "So, who's in your followers and following lists?" I'm never sure where to begin or where to end. I think I have the most eclectic and fascinating group of people in the twitter universe. But, I always hesitate before replying because I'm well aware that I could sound delusional. "Let's see, " I might begin, "along with friends I hang out with here--one very cool friend in particular, there's a really talented, crazy-busy film editor in New York City, a notably impressive photographer, a wonderful Apple expert, a Venezuelan rocker, a gourmet Libertarian, a composer who always makes me laugh, several solid filmmakers and writers (talk about crazy-busy!) --including one who's got a lovely French film project in the works, an encouraging fellow writer in Chicago, a whole TRIBE of terrific geek friends, an outstanding-in-many-ways artist at The Ranch, impressive English writers, two great people in Australia, a creative woman in Michigan who shares my insomnia and humor, ..." as they glaze over, I may add, "Oh, and an astronaut." It all sounds just a bit deranged.

The next question is even harder. "But, are they friends?" Hmm. On one hand, that would be dependent on the way each individual would answer the same question. Yet, we check in whenever we have the time, often throughout the day. We share joy, dismay, anger, humor, and elation. Often, when everyone else is fast asleep, we're at our keyboards, wondering why we're so sleep deprived. We encourage each other, we challenge each other.

I'm really not sure what else would be needed to define "friend".



Monday, August 24, 2009

District 9

The first thing I'd say about District 9 is that it is not a film solely for sci-fi fans. It is, however, a welcome return to intelligent sci-fi for those who have been waiting and waiting. It's about ideas and ethics and I don't seem to remember weighty issues going through my mind after Transformers 2.

Most people who did their homework know that this is Neil Blomkamp's directorial debut (after a film adaptation of the Halo franchise, partnered with Peter Jackson, fell through). It's frequently mentioned that Blomkamp was born in South Africa. The kind of horrific settlement actually used for South African racial segregation, prior to apartheid's 1994 end, was used as the set for District 9. It's sobering when you realize the indignation you feel about aliens being so cruelly housed was a human reality for so long. Blomkamp has said the comparisions are inevitable, but he didn't want to hit the audience over the head with it. It's still an unavoidable link.

The movie begins as a documentary and immediately introduces the main character, Wikus van de Merwe, a debut performance by Sharito Copley. For two decades, an alien mothership has stalled over Johannesburg, South Africa and over a million aliens have been rescued and settled in District 9. The small, filthy shacks, with piles of trash everywhere, make up their new homeland. But, humans have become tired of the aliens, who have become scapegoats for any number of problems. Wikus' high profile assignment is to relocate the aliens to a new settlement, District 10, which will be worse than their current environment.

The transformation, both literal and figurative, of Wikus is simply mesmerizing. By the end, we're left wondering if one needs to lose their human nature to become humane. And to wonder what "humane" really means. At the end of a summer so full of empty spectacles, District 9 is a film of weight and meaning. Go there.

Friday, August 14, 2009

It's What I Do


When I initially mention to someone that I homeschool my son, I always wait to watch for a visible reaction. I wonder if their thoughts are what mine were when I first heard about "homeschooling": horror. How can sane parents remove their children from the daily norm of all their peers? Why would they do such a thing? What about socialization?

Well, in our case, it had never been the plan. Our son has always been very bright. Early on, it was clear he had some auditory focusing issues that made it extremely difficult to absorb information in a traditional classroom setting. We were told at Vanderbilt University, where--okay, I'm going to brag for a moment-- he became part of the Einstein Syndrome database, that the best recommendation would be to homeschool our son. And, if like most parents, you're determined to do what's best for your child, you step up to the plate. You just do it.

So, it had never been the plan, but it turned out to be a decision we've never regretted. Of course, there are moments that are less than thrilling, such as revisiting algebra and defining the differences between a noun in apposition vs. an objective complement or cognate object. Diagramming sentences. The words, "When will I ever have to use this?" have come back to haunt me.

Still, as any homeschooling parent knows, you suddenly have so much creativity in what you can add to your child's curriculum. Model of the Colosseum made with real stone? Check. Painting hieroglyphics to communicate messages? Check. Film a documentary about your neighborhood? Coming up. The discovery that travel is much cheaper when traditional schools are in session has allowed us to explore modern art at MoMA in NYC, science at Philadelphia's Franklin Institute and history at Independence Hall, collections at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C., the Children's Museum in Seattle, Old Town San Diego. The list goes on. It's a different kind of education, and a wonderful one. (To assure some readers, our son has taken TaeKwonDo lessons three times a week for over six years now and participates in a weekly Co-Op, along with other gatherings. He does actually have friends his age.)

So, for those who wondered, that's how I spend my days. Now that my son has more independent work, I'm starting to dip my toes into writing projects again. I did get published in The New Yorker a couple of years ago. It was a letter in defense of homeschooling. (Really, we don't all cut our own hair and use a Bible and dictionary as our curriculum.) More challenging projects are calling. I've learned that the days, months, and years go by more quickly than I'd like. But, for now, the priority has to be on my son's education with my writing being squeezed in where I can find space, a spare fifteen minutes here and there. And who knows? Maybe a clearer sense of cognate objects will help my final draft.



Tuesday, August 4, 2009

When Low Tech Knocks Out Writer's Block



Just over two years ago, family history--previously unknown due to my mother's adoption-- begin revealing itself in my life in a way that begs eventual book or screenplay treatment. I have a growing group of stacked files and notes. As new discoveries are uncovered, there are multiple twists and turns that have not yet ended. Some paths may be red herrings...maybe not. But, one thing is certain: it's complicated.

One of the complications is the fact that several people in the story are extremely well-known, even though dead now for decades. Of course, they also make parts of the plot especially fascinating. I've been advised that I can use them, the famous and infamous alike, as long as I call whatever I write fiction. Even if it's entirely true, the fiction label is mandatory to avoid potential lawsuits from descendants. Fine. But, more complex now.

So, for just over two years, I've been diligently researching, faithfully adding notes to my files, but just as diligently avoiding the first step towards actually writing it all out. I was completely overwhelmed trying to figure out the starting point, especially when the end has not yet been determined. Of course, if it's fiction, I can just make that part up. But I don't want to. You see the problem? I've looked at First Draft and other software programs, wondering which are truly useful and which may be so formulaic I wouldn't use them. And then, I happened to see a link on Twitter.

I can't even explain how it is that my twitter circle is so highly populated with people in the film industry, it just is. And, a few weeks ago, a Los Angeles filmmaker, Angelo Bell (thank you again, Angelo!), posted a link to the lowest tech method imaginable for outlining your screenplay: 50 index cards. The site explained exactly how to set up the cards, from plotline to the protagonist's inner and outer journey, all the way through to the final scene. Too easy? No. Not if you really approach it with creativity and thought. And, bonus for me, it's completely portable, so I can work on the cards anywhere, anytime.

So, after years of nail-biting and researching software, I'm carrying around a pack of 50 index cards, held together by a rubber band. I'm one-third of the way through already.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Knights in a Database



I've always found genealogy fascinating. Not for any type of bragging rights, but because of the massive jolt to the imagination that the stories of past ancestors bring to mind. Four hundred years ago, my ancestors could not have predicted the series of marriages and migrations that would come after them anymore than we can envision what our descendant, 400 years from now, will be like. Yet, with careful research and notes, I can piece together enough facts to have an idea of what life was like for the German woodsman, the English knight, the Russian-Jewish shoemaker, the Danish fisherman...a few of the hundreds in my family tree.
And, there has never been such a wealth of information for genealogists than there is now. Almost each week, new databases are added online--often for free--that fill in blanks that had been left unanswered for decades. DNA testing for genealogical purposes is thriving and previously unknown cousins find each other and share even more information.
Today, I read on twitter that a new, free database had just been uploaded of soldiers in late medieval England. In less than five minutes, I'd grabbed my file on medieval English ancestors, entered a few surnames, places and dates and actually found matches. The first one was Thomas Ferrers, who served as an archer under Thomas, Earl of Arundel, and fought in France in 1415 for King Henry V. Extraordinary! It seems his family, and another ancestor's family, were all archers. A small detail, lost for centuries. Yet, now found, it stirs up colorful images and makes me wonder...once again what these men were like.
Many see genealogy as a dusty, dreary pursuit. Yet, for every revealed name, there was a life full of details and dramas, passion and routines...much like our own. And, on some level, a degree of honor is given to each ancestor in the simple act of remembrance. That's what genealogy really is.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Dear Hollywood: Please Do Not Remake...


We know. We know that with so many ongoing technical advances in special effects that there's hardly anything that can be imagined that can't be put onscreen. However, that doesn't mean it should be. It doesn't mean that films with incredible special effects, but lacking a plot, a logical script, and decent acting should be an acceptable goal. And it especially does not mean that every film from the past can be improved upon by updating it to show off "what CGI can do now".



One film I worry about getting a remake, more than any other, is The Wizard of Oz. I know there have been adaptions, like The Wiz. But, my fear is that there would be a new version of the 1939 original. Given the current trends in Hollywood, I imagine it would be something like:



*Cast Megan Fox as Dorothy. Show cleavage.

*Cast Jim Carey as the Scarecrow. Make sure he overacts.

*Cast Jack Black as the Cowardly Lion. Give him an offensive catch-phrase.

*Cast Justin Timberlake as the Tin Man. Add ballads.



It's not just that. You know the amazing silk-stocking-tornado would be replaced with CGI. The deep creepiness of the Wicked Witch would become polished and perhaps become a motion-capture character. Munchkins? Make them virtual and you can have more of them. Emerald City would be nothing but a green screen project.



Yes, it may be possible to recreate The Wizard of Oz to be eye-poppingly fantastic. But, a hands-on creativity would be lost. The images that managed to be both somehow cozy, yet frightening would be gone. Sometimes, it's best to leave things with their dated charm, their echo of a past era, their familiar homeiness. It is true magic.





[Any other films you'd add to the "Please don't remake list? Add a comment!]

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Too Much Empathy?


I think genuine empathy may be something that is hardwired within us from birth. I'm sure it can be taught to some degree, but I confess to being a bit eccentric when it comes to "feeling sorry for" all things broken, unwanted, misunderstood, rejected, or treated unjustly. And it started young.

I had two beloved "collections" as a child. One was my Foreign Doll Collection. Always a sure hit for classroom Show and Tell. I had dolls from the Netherlands, Argentina, China, Lebanon, France...you get the idea. I'd study the country of my new acquisitions in the antique now known as an encyclopedia. Each name had to be authentic to their culture, so I had to educate myself.

My other collection, more secretive, was my Broken Doll Collection. Each one had a story. More often than not, they were spotted on the floor of the toy department...smudged, forgotten through no fault of their own. I was a fairly non-materialistic child, and rarely asked for toys. So when I spotted a victim-toy and asked for it, my mother would know I "felt sorry for it" and her follow-up question was usually, "Why? What's wrong with it?"

Of course, when I'd watch Rudolph and the story of the Island of Misfit Toys, I was always a bit worried that they may not get rescued. It was unthinkable. At least I'd rescued the bear with a loose arm, the doll with the odd hair, the stuffed dog with uneven eyes.

Honestly, until I was an adult, I'd had no idea this was an unusual manifestation of empathy. It must have been an ongoing cause of concern to family elders. After meeting my soon-to-be-husband, my astute grandmother told me she liked him very much. She then added, "I've always thought about the broken toys that you loved so much and was a bit afraid to find out who you'd marry. I'm very relieved."

I wish she hadn't worried about it. It makes me feel sorry for her.


Friday, July 3, 2009

Public Enemies


Near the end of Public Enemies, surely no real spoiler, John Dillinger is watching the movie, Manhattan Melodrama in Chicago's Biograph Theater. In the 1934 film, Clark Gable plays a gangster, Edward "Blackie" Gallagher, and we briefly watch select scenes as Dillinger is watching them. I realized then how much Public Enemies is an example of a very traditional gangster movie with a stylish patina. I mean that in a good way.

When there's a solid story to tell, you don't want the film to be about the director, but about the narrative. Sweeney Todd suffered as a film when it kept ebbing into Tim Burton's Sweeney Todd, and away from the work of art it was of its own standing. The story of John Dillinger remains such a compelling one that Michael Mann smartly offers the tale audiences want to see without distraction. Yes, there's the handheld, HD camerawork that shows each of Johnny Depp's pores, but it also brings a sense of immediacy to the film that adds to the tension. A few of the music choices seem odd and out of place, but there are points gained for the plaintive folk music and Billie Holliday recordings that are spot on for the time and place.

Expectedly, Johnny Depp is a believable, human John Dillinger. The movie doesn't glorify him, though in reality, Dillinger was something of a folk hero to the Depression-era public. His flaws and narcissism are in plain view, but you do cheer his escapes, you do hope he can avoid his inevitable end. That's not to say Christian Bale's Melvin Purvis is the bad guy. He's noble and dedicated and not without compassion. The problem is that Christian Bale keeps playing unsmiling roles that involve, primarily, talking sternly. He makes a strong Purvis, but it feels like he's played the role before. Johnny Depp and Christian Bale were so evenly matched you wanted both their characters to succeed, but knew only one could do so.

Marion Cotillard is almost luminous as Dillinger's girlfriend, Billie Frenchette. There is one scene in which she's so brutalized that it shocks, in part because by that point, she's already won the audience over to her side.

Public Enemies is a very, very good film. Perhaps the one thing keeping it from being great is that there's not quite enough depth to the character development. Then again, if you've read a John Dillinger biography, you know he wasn't a complex man. He did, in fact, rob banks and like fast cars and pretty women. And, in Public Enemies, they capture that man perfectly.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Please, Sir, May I Have Some More?






My 13 year old son's eating habits are a curious combination. On one hand, he's a notoriously picky eater and finds many common foods, like pasta, repulsive. On the other hand, of the foods on his quite limited "acceptable foods" list, he can consume massive amounts without gaining a pound. Note the photo above. Yes, he did ask if he could have a brownie. No, I didn't define what size I meant by"one brownie". And, yes, it's time for a talk about portion control.


One of the worst food phases was when he liked ice cream cones. Literally, the cones only. No ice cream. When we'd go to an ice cream parlor and I'd order a plain cone with no ice cream for my son, more often than not, I'd get suspicious looks from the staff. I'm not sure if they thought I was being absurdly cheap or simply cruel. Now, of course, a quart of Breyer's Natural Vanilla lasts maybe a matter of hours with my son around.


On vacation, we went to a restaurant that served all-you-can-eat meats from their wood-fired grill. With steak being a big favorite of my son's, I suspected he'd have more than one. What I didn't expect was that he'd eat six steaks. After the 5th steak, he politely asked the waiter for another and the startled man glanced at me and asked, "Are you sure this is alright, ma'am?" I think he must have thought my son was stuffing the steaks in his pockets or something and wanted me to check.


To be honest, I can remember eating almost like that as a teen and remaining somewhat underweight. Lunch might have been a grilled reuben sandwich, french fries, and a 3-scoop ice cream sundae. Dinner, no less caloric. Fast-forward to the present and I seem to gain two pounds if I choose the wrong salad dressing. So, all in all, I simply have to look at my son and say, "Enjoy!"


Sunday, June 21, 2009

Father's Day 2009



When I talk about my father, most people expect me to talk about his work as a founder of NPR (National Public Radio) or how he created its flagship show, All Things Considered. More recently, the discussion is usually about his genuinely extraordinary work in helping community radio stations develop in emerging democracies. But, today is Father's Day and it's my turn to talk about him the way I see him.

Growing up in Buffalo, New York, Saturday was always the day of the week Dad and I spent together. My sister and mother would spend the day having lunch out and shopping. Dad and I would spend the morning at the Broadway Market, picking up special foods for the week, and then go to the Albright-Knox Art Gallery. We'd stop in front of different pieces in the collection, whether it was Andy Warhol or Matisse, and Dad would ask me questions about it that would encourage me to not just look at art, but to try to understand it as well. Invariably, other people would start gathering around, thinking he was a tour guide. He'd laugh , a little embarrassed, then we'd quietly walk on.

Later, we would move and our lives would change. But, constants were things like our walks in the woods and long conversations. Throughout the years, there are at least ten Important Things I've learned from those conversations:

1. You grow old when you stop taking interest in new things.

2. It's always more rewarding to do things for others than for yourself.

3. The saddest people are those with no curiosity.

4. There are always new chapters in life.

5. It's important to continue expanding your horizons.

6. Do not let fear decide things for you.

7. Don't dwell on the past.

8. Keep moving forward.

9. Take pride in a job well done.

10. It's important to wash your hands well.

For all of the above, and for much more, Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Transformers: My Minority Report



Sometimes, it seems curious to me that the personification of Michael Bay's target audience lives in my house. My thirteen year old son has been anticipating Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen (and I know better than to refer to it as anything other than it's complete title) since---Transformers 1.


In 2007, I knew there was little I could do to protest seeing Transformers on opening night. Then, as now, my son's conversation had been focused on Michael Bay, Optimus Prime, Megatron, Starscream, etc. Our family arrived at the theater about 45 minutes early. (We'd already bought our tickets the day before.) As we entered the actual theater, I could hear a rumble of voices from behind the wall that blocks the seating from the entry hall. As we turned towards the seats, I actually laughed. The nearly filled room was occupied primarily by 20-something males wearing either Decepticon or Autobot t-shirts. Anticipation was almost tangible. Here and there, I noticed a few wives and girlfriends who had clearly been dragged there against their better judgement. Payback day for all the Hugh Grant movies.


Yes, there was arm waving and cheering from the crowd when each Transformer made his screen debut. Yes, there were explosions and fights and explosions and fights. But, to be honest, the movie was fun. It really was. It didn't take itself too seriously--how could it? It delivered what you usually want from a good summer popcorn movie: action, vague plot, impressive CGI, and some humor.


I suspect the audience on opening night of Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen will be very similar to the first one. Actually, I suspect the movie itself will be very much like the first one. And today, when it's a humid 94 degrees and my brain feels like it's functioning at 80%, the idea of just relaxing with a big bucket of popcorn and going along for a raucous ride of a movie, even when Michael Bay is the driver, has its appeal.

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

My Cat Is Smarter Than Your Cat



Initially, I was going to write about something Important. Something to do with the Iranian election crisis. As a long time twitterer, it's been fascinating to watch as Twitter unfolded the story of the protests in Iran so much more effectively than any major news network. It seems like a revolution for democracy in Iran as well as a revolution in how many people--especially those who are non-tech types--are beginning to realize the vast potential of social networking sites.

But, then I realized the iraniantwitterevolution is the focus of almost every news site. Bloggers who are much more talented have offered detailed analysis on the story. My vaguely formed commentary had already been clarified and posted by others. I sat and looked at my almost-16 year old cat, Kate. She convinced me to write about her instead.

Kate initially belonged to our neighbors in Philadelphia. But, she seemed to prefer our house to that of her owner's. First sign of intelligence. I say that because, shortly before we adopted her, the owner's child had excitedly told us about her father having tried to hold Kate under water in their "bathtub over and over again, but she kept escaping". Kate soon had kittens and unsurprisingly, the owners were pleased when we said we were going to take both the cat and a kitten.

From the start, Kate seemed unusual. She has such a wide range of vocal commands that one suspects she's speaking in some kind of language. She's always been a bit vain, looking very pleased when catching sight of herself in a mirror. And when she would see her former owner walking by, she'd start gagging.

Soon, Kate became almost...spooky. She'd always been primarily attached to my husband. My husband has always been prone to migraines and when they were bad enough for him to have to leave work, Kate would regularly be under the covers on his side of the bed, making the area warm an hour before he'd lie down.

A week after I became pregnant, I couldn't sit down without her crawling under my top, pressing against my stomach, and purring loudly. Nine months later, when I went into labor, I went into the dark bathroom and saw Kate seated calmly on the edge of the sink as if she'd been expecting me. Given her previous near-drowning incident, the bathroom was the only room she had consistently avoided at all costs. And when we brought our infant son home, Kate went into immediate nanny mode with him, never letting him out of her sight. When he started crawling, in spite of a protective gate, Kate would throw herself across the top of the stairs to prevent a fall.

There're actually too many stories about her to fit in one blog post. I was once listing her uncanny behaviors to a friend who is a priest. At his increasing surprise, I laughingly said, "I know, in medieval times, she probably would have been burned as a witch."

"No," he joked, "You would have been the one burned for owning her."

She didn't like the exchange at all.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Why Not The Who?




Last week, I watched Amazing Journey: The Story of The Who and it made me start wondering about one specific issue. As a young child in the '60's, I'd listen to the radio in my older sister's room as every rock station seemed to have a weekly call-in contest called Battle of the Bands: The Beatles vs. The Rolling Stones. In case you were wondering, The Beatles always won. After watching Amazing Journey, my nagging question was: Why not The Who? Why did The Rolling Stones trump The Who for the second-place position?
As much as I really do love The Rolling Stones, they're primarily a fantastic dance band. When Brian Jones founded the group, they had a distinctive blues sound. Then, Brian Jones began discovering world music and indigenous musical instruments. The rumor was that Jones could pick up an instrument from anywhere in the world and have it figured out within an hour. He kept trying to push the band into experimentation with music from other cultures.
Listening to Paint It Black, you get an idea of the potential, of the direction Jones was headed. Instead, he became one of the earlier victims of drug and alcohol abuse. As tragic as his sudden and untimely death was, there was a moment before that which seems almost equally tragic. Brian Jones showed up for a recording session, completely stoned. He could barely stand, but looked at the directions for the songlist and noticed he had no role. Jones pulled his head up and asked Mick Jagger,"What instrument can I play?" Reportedly, Jagger stared at him coldly and asked, "I don't know, Brian. What instrument can you play?" Very shortly after that incident, Brian Jones was fired by the band he'd created and was soon dead. If you look at The Rolling Stones' discography after Jones' death, you can see the change. They had hit after hit, mainly dance songs that felt slightly dangerous for the era, but I think Jones' vision of incorporating world music had vanished.
The earliest songs by The Who, such as The Kids Are Alright and I Can't Explain, sound like near-perfect examples of the British Invasion sound. But, also on their first album was My Generation, which was something else altogether. It was rebellious, angry, and distinctive. I Can See For Miles and Magic Bus followed. But then, Pete Townshend's genius took hold and he worked towards something more than just another hit.
He decided to write a rock opera, a concept no one else had thought of and almost no one could imagine. Townshend has often said that he's always seen himself as an artist whose medium happens to be music. For decades, critics have used the word "pretentious" in conjunction with Pete Townshend, but surely at this point, his claims of being an artist have been validated. When Tommy came out, it was a watershed moment in rock history. Its hard to think of anything else more original and ambitious from that time. The only problem was that it became so famous in its own right, that it made The Who seem like the Tommy-band. But, the band kept working, kept evolving, kept producing excellent, original music. The Who was never stagnant.
Shortly after watching Amazing Journey, I saw a video online of The Who performing Baba O'Riley. As I was reminded again about how great the band is/was, my eyes caught sight of a comment under the video:
"Hey! The band is playing the song from House!"
It was like that stale joke about a child not knowing Paul McCartney had been in a band before Wings. Only somehow worse. How could The Who be reduced to "the band" who plays a song recognized now from a television series? After all, they were arguably the second-greatest rock band...ever.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Home Improvements = Active Boredom



There's one particular subject that I loathe reading about: writer's block. I find it a lazy, self-indulgent, narcissisic topic and resent someone expecting me to read about their slothfulness. Reading about someone else's boredom is not a treat. I have promised myself to never be that inconsiderate of my readers. So, today I'm going to write about watching paint dry. Literally.


A neighbor in Philadelphia once gave me this advice: Every couple of years, pretend you're moving and get your house looking just as you want it to. Her husband had been transferred and, within two months, they'd repainted, redecorated, and refreshed their home and it looked fabulous. When they were done, she told me she'd never felt more depressed. The house looked fantastic and they had less than a couple of weeks to live in it. Hence the advice.


Well, it's been more than a couple of years since we moved into our lovely 1920's bungalow. Okay, it's been ten years. And it's really time to roll up our sleeves and get to work. Home improvement #1 is to repaint the living room, dining room, hallway, kitchen, and den. Which wouldn't be so horribly time-consuming and overwhelming if it weren't for the trimwork, high and low, that also needs attention. Fortunately, this is my husband's role in the project. I tend to paint walls like Jackson Pollock...just get the paint on there already! Get the color on the wall! I have no patience or talent for the detail work. Even though I admit I have the better end of the bargain, I still get impatient waiting for the trim work to get done and for the paint to dry so I can move on to the next wall, my next canvas.


The one thing I'm dreading--really, my brain can't absorb the idea, is organizing the den. I have an absurdly large desk with shelves and nooks and file drawers and cupboards and have been told that we're going to streamline things to simply have the computer sit on a table. What!?!?! My carefully arranged stacks of clutter cannot possibly fit on a corner of a table. Where will I put the cds I mean to listen to, but don't? My illogically arranged genealogy files and notes and post-its? My dusty: Important! Do Now! stacks? It makes no sense at all to me.


In the meantime, I'll have to figure it out while I'm watching paint dry.

Monday, June 8, 2009

Guy Ritchie's Anti-Sherlock Holmes Movie...I Complain Again



I know. One of my first blog posts was my disbelief at the poster for Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes film. Robert Downey Jr. stared out from it like some kind of weird Jimi Hendrix wannabee rather than the globally recognized Holmes. Since then, I've seen the trailer and have discovered that perhaps for the first time, I share something with Madonna: a nagging loathing for Guy Ritchie.

http://http//www.youtube.com/watch?v=X29IK0auNnw


If Guy Ritchie had decided he wanted to make a film about a charming Victorian rogue who happened to be a detective, it might actually have been a compelling movie. Instead, he chose to take one of the best known fictional characters in history and simply dismiss his most distinctive qualities. Holmes was never charming. Holmes was certainly not interested in romance. He was immaculate in his habits. So, Guy Ritchie presents us with a "Sherlock Holmes" who is enchanting, impassioned, and slovenly. Thanks.


What bothers me the most is the arrogance it reveals. Certainly, legendary characters can be revisited and refreshed, as J.J. Abrams did recently with Star Trek. Using new actors and plot devices, he brought a vigorous reboot of the franchise to the screen. He didn't sloppily decide to make Vulcans comic-relief characters or Kirk cowardly. Yet, so far, it appears that Guy Ritchie couldn't be bothered with the specific qualities that make Sherlock Holmes a masterful character. It almost seems as if he took an idea and thought, "Let's just retitle the character Sherlock Holmes because that will give it name recognition."


In all honestly, the film looks like it could be a lot of fun. It just needs a different name for the lead character.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

The Magician's Closet



The hot, humid evenings lately have reminded me of a somewhat magical summer night many years ago. My grandfather had died and, not too long after that, my father and I visited my grandmother for a few days. Dad stayed in the guest room and, for the first time ever, I was to stay in what had been my grandfather's bedroom. Yes, my grandfather and grandmother didn't just sleep in different rooms, but on different floors of the house. As a child, you don't really ask questions.

When it was time for bed, I carried my suitcase to the second floor and opened the creaky door with some trepidation. It wasn't a fear of ghosts that was frightening me, but an overwhelming feeling that I was trespassing. I must have spent hours looking through my grandfather's untouched, crowded bookshelves. Everyone else was asleep by the time I found his memoirs, typed and bound in a coral folder. I began reading. It began with his earliest memories as a child of German immigrants, the young death of his mother, and the harshness of Minnesota winters. It went through his childhood, telling of experiences completely unfamiliar to those I'd known. And it moved on to his young enlistment in World War I. Unbelievable. (I should mention that there seems to be a time-honored tradition on my father's side of advanced paternal age. My great-grandfather was 45 when my grandfather was born; my grandfather was 45 when my father was born; though he was a younger parent to me, my father was 45 when my younger sister was born. When she was in high school and had to write an essay about a veteran, she chose her grandfather, a veteran of World War I, while her classmates' grandfathers had been in Vietnam or Korea.)

There was no air conditioning in the bedroom and it was so hot it felt impossible to sleep. I wandered around my grandfather's bedroom a bit more. I was thirteen when he'd died and my memories of him were jumbled. He'd loved teasing me, usually with a heavy German accent. In fact, it wasn't until I was nearly ten that I discovered he wasn't actually from Germany. I was shocked. He'd give me pieces of strong black licorice as a secret treat and even stronger German cheeses to sample. Sometimes, the two of us would sit together and watch a little television. I remember him becoming enraged if Frank Sinatra was ever on---something about cowardly draft-dodging during World War II. Though he had begun his career as a stage actor, the bulk of my grandfather's life had been dedicated to helping veterans.

As a stared around the room, I saw a door I hadn't noticed before. Carefully, I opened it and fumbled for a light. Nothing on the wall, but I could see a string dangling and pulled it. A dim light filled a closet almost as big as a small room---but it was different from what we now think of as a walk-in closet. There were bookcases in rows, filled with---I had no idea. There were many shapes beneath scarves and cloths. I slowly lifted one and saw a silky, black magician's hat. I think I may have literally gasped. As I investigated more, I found a cape, a wand, something wooden that looked like an egg cup, but had a trick lid, and all kinds of vintage bits that belonged in a magician's trunk. What on earth had I discovered?

I'm not sure if I even slept that night. In the morning, I hurriedly told Dad about the fantastical closet I'd found.

"Oh, right! He used to always put on magic shows for the neighborhood children."

What?!?! I'd had no idea. I sat quietly, thinking about my grandfather. And as I think about it all now, I don't think I'd say that summer night in his empty room was "somewhat magical". It was perfectly magical.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

The Beatles: Rock Band...Yeah, Yeah, YEAH!


I have a new definition for my generation. We are the ones who were too old to have grown up with video games, but are too young to rule them out entirely. We just need the right motivation. And, as I patiently explain to my son, playing war games is not an appealing use of my time. Besides, my attempts at Battlefront have been laughable. I enjoyed Fable, but don't seem to find the time to get anywhere in it. Then, Rock Band entered our home. Video games became much more interesting, but I still wanted something...more.

At the E3 (Electronic Entertainment Expo) in Los Angeles Monday, Microsoft unveiled greatly anticipated news for gamers at their press conference...a new Halo game, a new Knights of the Old Republic Game and--- I can't recall any more of them or many details because my brain is completely fixated on their new version of one of their best games: The Beatles: Rock Band. At last. Really, at last.

Giles Martin, son the The Beatles' famed record producer, Sir George Martin, was on hand at the presentation to add some reassurance that he's worked on the project and is quite proud of it. Yoko Ono and Olivia Harrison made brief walk-ons, apparently to indicate the game has their blessings. And just as I was wondering if maybe, possibly...there they were. The two remaining Beatles, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr. (Making me suddenly remember I was always a John Lennon, then George Harrison girl when it came to the endless, "Who's your favorite Beatle?" question.) It was very clear that they are of the generation that most likely will never play video games, but I'm sure they're both quite aware of the massive financial potential for them from the game release. Even though it seems, fortunately, that their music will never go away, The Beatles: Rock Band will present it in a fresh, active way they couldn't have imagined.

When I think of The Beatles, I have revolving images, usually accompanied by era-specific songs: the Cavern Club, Shea Stadium, The Ed Sullivan Show, Sgt. Peppers, the London rooftop, Abbey Road studio,...and on. From the trailer, I was excited to see it looks like the game will encompass the whole journey:

It's okay, you can watch it more than once. Or twice. So, Rock Band players are going to get a chance to try their hand at John Lennon's Rickenbacker 325 guitar or Paul's Hofner bass. And I can only guess at the 45 numbers on the songlist. It's a given that, regardless of the specific songs, the music is going to be fantastic. I've never in my life heard someone say, "The Beatles are so derivative!" or, "The Beatles are so overrated." It just doesn't happen. So one of the variables would have to be graphics. I was relieved to see how detailed they are, from Paul's somewhat alarming eyebrows, to George's suppressed smirks.

So, I'm warning my son now about a phrase he'll hear frequently once The Beatles: Rock Band is in the house: It's my turn on the Rickenbacker.

Monday, June 1, 2009

Meet the Berkowitzes




Strange how journeys can have small arcs that sometimes make full circles. Since initial contact with my mother's natural sister and niece, we knew our grandmother had been Jewish. Typical of her lack of maternal responsibility to her known children, they had never been raised in the Jewish faith and some never realized their heritage had been Jewish until they were Christian adults. On my quest for yet more facts about the family, I came across someone else doing online genealogy research. We were both researching the same family of Russian Jews who had immigrated from Lithuania to Christiania (Oslo), Norway to New York City at the beginning of the 20th century. We were both following Abraham and Pauline Berkowitz and their twelve children.

We'd had plans to revisit my aunt and cousin earlier this year and, as it happened, Dr. and Mrs. Berkowitz--the latter my fellow researcher--lived just two hours away from them. Dr. Berkowitz' grandparents are our common relatives. Age ranges among their twelve children make the details complicated, but family is family.

It's one thing to intellectually know that your newly-discovered heritage is Jewish. It's another thing to meet family members who actually speak Yiddish and know their religion. This would be the Berkowitzes. They greeted me warmly and, as I've learned happens in adoption situations, Dr. Berkowitz and I studied each other's faces.

"I can see Berkowitz in your eyes," he noted.

This struck me as another of those curious cases of puzzle pieces coming together. My aunt, upon meeting me, had said that from my cheeks down, I looked just like her sister, but she didn't know who's eyes I had. Well, clearly, Berkowitz eyes. (I need to say that I'm very proud of the mannerisms and traits I share with my understanding father...I just--oddly--don't share any facial features with that side of the family.)

We were invited into the Berkowitzes' home and a strange thing happened. We didn't stop talking for five hours. Straight. The Berkowitzes treated us to dinner at--where else?--a fabulous deli and we then went back to their home to talk for another 3-4 hours. The Berkowitzs are great conversationalists---thoughtful, highly intelligent, and sharply funny. And I don't believe any of us ever felt like strangers.

Among the many delightful things they did was a small, whimsical gesture. They'd spelled my name out in small stones on the potting table in their garden. Later, I thought of my very first action acknowledging my heritage after learning about my mother's birth family. According to Jewish tradition, I'd placed small stones on my great-grandfather's tombstone in a distant city as a symbol of remembrance. And, now, the first truly Jewish family members I'd met had arranged garden stones as a sign of welcome to their faraway relative. A small, full circle on the continuing journey.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

My Computer Guy's Curious Story





No one ever counts their blessings often enough. It's usually thought of in the worst possible situations: the doctor gives an unwanted diagnosis, a friend or relative is in a desperate predicament, or--as in my case recently--your "back-up" laptop gets a nasty virus shortly after your preferred one has a bad case of malware. It was then that I realized how thankful I am to have a reliable, efficient computer person to call.


A certain scenario always plays out. I call my computer guy, he says when he'll get here, then I'm overwhelmed by a wave of both relief and panic. Relief that I'll be able to soon use my laptop again and panic at the state of disorder in our den. If a messy desk is a sign of genius, I am off-the-charts brilliant. Of course, I know where everything is. I have my numerous piles of genealogy data, vacation budget sheets, correspondence that needs to be answered, colorful "reminder" post-its accenting the above described stacks. I do my best, but by the time my computer guy, who I'll call CG, arrives, I still laugh nervously as I apologize for the mess.


Kindly, he always assures me, "Oh, don't worry. I've seen much worse." Once, he shared a story about a particularly disturbing job. He knew from the start it was going to be odd. As he pulled up to the new client's home, he saw two men--brothers--wave to him from their front porch. They raced towards him, running alongside his car as he tried to park. When he stepped out of the car, they linked arms with him on either side as they lead him to their front door. CG quickly unlinked himself and wondered what awaited him.


The interior of the home was atrocious and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a racoon run by.


"Don't worry," they told him, "We're just working on training him"


It was then that CG noticed a cage next to the faulty computer tower, complete with racoon feces all over both items. He told them that they'd have to clean up the computer before he'd be willing to work on it. They agreed and said they'd call him as soon as it was all clean.


A couple days later, CG returned. As he'd requested, the brothers had left the computer on the porch. He brought it to his office to work on it. When he opened the tower, he noticed some hardened chunks of blue powder. CG called them.


"You ran the computer through the dishwasher, didn't you?"


"We did. We wanted to make sure it was a clean as possible."


So, today, I'm especially grateful for two things in particular: 1. Having a great computer guy I can rely on and 2. Knowing there really are people with messier dens than mine.


Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Abbey Arrives (Because I Promised)



After our family dog died of lymphoma, I couldn't believe how quiet the house had become. Always having been a cat person, I now stared at our two senior cats and wondered, "Why don't you make any noise? Why so much stealth?" I began obsessively looking at petfinder.com and came across a photo of a small dog, Abbey. I read her description, but there was just something about her picture that seemed...odd. She was staring straight at the camera, one ear up, one folded, had bi-colored eyes, and a somewhat blank look. No.


A couple of weeks later, my dear friend, Sherry, asked if I'd go with her to look at a boxer at our shelter. Looking back, I'm sure it was a ruse on her part. As we got out of her car, I saw Abbey out of the corner of my eye. A shelter worker had her on a leash and was walking her...straight towards us.


"Look at the long legs on that rat terrier!" Sherry said a bit too enthusiastically, "She's precious!"


"No, I know who that is. I saw her on petfinder, but she's not the right dog for me."


Of course, this was taken as encouragement and the next thing I knew, Abbey was sitting on a bench between Sherry and myself. She raised her chin and looked at me with warm chocolate eyes---well, warm chocolate eye. The other one was more like an ice blue marble. But, I had to admit, there was something achingly sweet in her face. She seemed perfectly calm and well-behaved.


Upping the ante, Sherry coaxed me into making a second trip to visit Abbey, this time with my son. Again, Abbey was very serene and sweet. I still couldn't quite decide what I thought. Was it too soon after our beloved dog's death? Or was Abbey just not a good fit?


That weekend, my husband joined our son and myself for yet another Abbey visit. When we arrived, we were told that she was the longest resident small breed dog they'd had. She'd been moved over to the larger section that housed bigger dogs to make room for newly arrived puppies. Okay, that tugged at my sympathies. It was decided she was a rat terrier, border collie, whippet mix. Three high energy breeds. Great. We sat in a small room and, again, Abbey behaved exceptionally well. My husband, who had left the house with the firm statement, "We are NOT coming back home with a dog!!!" suddenly announced:


"Okay, we can take her."


Then, a surprising thing happened. As soon as the words were uttered, Abbey took off on a wild tear around and around the room. She leaped up in my lap just long enough to scratch my face, then continued running and wagging her tail. Of course, my husband and son thought she was hilarious.


When we brought her home, she raced to our sofa and sat stiffly with her back pressed against the couch. She looked one way, then the other, with a look of total terror on her face. As I began to look through her pile of paperwork, I noticed comments like "frequent accidents" and "can jump high fences". Horribly, I also learned that her previous owner had kept her in a crate for about 22 hours a day. She kept looking at each if us in turn, wondering what was expected of her. Nothing, really.


It took Abbey some time to seem to trust us and accept affection. In return, she is our devoted and loving pup. She still has some flaws: she has tremendous fear aggression towards other dogs and is way too possessive of us, her pack. But, she's a happy, loyal little dog which is really all we ever wanted.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

The First Face to Face




It was probably the most surreal trip I've ever taken. I'd never been to California before, never seen a desert, and had never met my newly-discovered aunt and cousin. As if the itinerary needed more curiosities, it was also the first time I ever attended Comic-Con, but that's for another post.


As we drove for a couple of hours through the desert, I thought alternately of both nothing and everything. I stared out the window, occasionally trying to put my journey into logical steps. A question I'd posed on a genealogy site years ago had been answered. Contact, after twenty years of searching for my mother's birth family, had been made by a cousin I never knew existed. And, she had graciously offered to let us stay at her home to meet both her and her mother, my mother's half-sister. My mother, who had died twenty-five years earlier, would have found the whole thing staggering as well as incredibly wonderful. As did I.


When we were minutes away from our destination, my heart began pounding. What was it going to be like? What would we say to each other after initial pleasantries had been exchanged? As we slowed to look at street numbers, I saw them. A woman close to my age with her mother, both waving happily at us. I couldn't wait for the car to stop so I could see them more clearly and to hug them, possibly to make sure this was all real.

When I did get out of the car and ran over to them, I saw my smiling aunt stare at me with wide eyes.

"You look just like my sister!" She exclaimed, "I can't get over how much you look like her."

It took me half a second to know she didn't mean my mother, whom she'd never met, but the older sister she'd grown up with. I was a little surprised. We'd exchanged photos earlier and I thought the person I'd most looked like was my grandmother. Apparently, that wasn't the case. I did feel a little intimidated by my cousin's looks, then reminded myself that there aren't too many former beauty pageant winners out there. And she was clearly her mother's daughter.

All this happened in a flash. My ever-patient husband and son followed us into the house, where we all sat down, smiled, and stared at each other again. Photos are one thing, being with someone face to face is another. And there was an unexplainable quality to my aunt that brought my mother immediately to mind. It may have been the turn of the head, the fleeting gesture, the gait of her walk. Whatever it was, there was absolutely no doubt that I had found family. My lovely cousin and I seemed to have the same laugh...we certainly had the same sense of humor and way of looking at things. And, perhaps surprisingly, we were all so relaxed in each others' company.


Of course, we spent hours comparing puzzle pieces to the mystery of my mother's adoption and her mother's life. My grandmother, whom I'd been told had died in childbirth. My grandmother whom I'd always imagined as a kindly, poverty-stricken immigrant. My grandmother, who in fact had lived very well in Miami Beach, Key West, and Jamaica while neglecting the four children in her care. Why? We kept asking the same question. There were rumors about her acquaintances, both famous and infamous, and we tried to determine which were likely and which ones unlikely. They are among the questions we're still asking each other today.

Yet, the most amazing result of the experience was the bond of family. My sister and I never gave up our search and our cousin willingly opened the door to us. I'd read recently on a genealogy site: A tree without roots will fall over. I wasn't aware of feeling that earlier, but I now believe it to be true. Since finding my mother's family, my step is a bit surer, the circle of heritage almost complete. And I hope we will all someday know our grandmother's real story.

Monday, May 18, 2009

"The Way to Crush the Bourgeoisie..."



I don't mean to brag, but I have a very cool dad. Most people know him as being the person who wrote the Mission Statement for NPR (National Public Radio), who was NPR's first Program Director, and who created the flagship show, All Things Considered. Not too long ago, someone asked me how I would describe my father in one sentence.

I thought for about half a minute, then answered, "He's spent most of his life trying to improve the lives of as many people as possible."

I still stand by my reply. Since leaving public radio, my father has travelled literally around the world, helping to create community radio stations in newly developed democracies. He's spent an enormous amount of time particularly in Mongolia, South Africa, and Eastern Europe. He works tirelessly for funding for DRP, Developing Radio Partners.

During our recent trip to Philadelphia, Dad and I sat on his sofa, going through stacks of photos from our respective travels. Mine not so exotic as his. As he glanced sideways at a picture in my hand and he nodded his head.

"Lenin."

"What?"

"The statue of Lenin. In front of St. Basil's Cathedral."

I stared at the photo. It was my son, Thomas, in front of the statue of Walt Disney (and Mickey Mouse) in front of Sleeping Beauty's castle in Disneyland. I couldn't help bursting out with laughter. I mean, the concept of confusing Walt Disney, visionary and successful capitalist, with Vladmir Lenin, revolutionary leader of the former communist USSR, seemed hysterical to me.

"Look," Dad protested, "Really, if you're just looking at it from this angle..."

OK, I could kind of see his point. Though I still can't figure out who he thought Lenin's short sidekick could have been. It's a small world after all.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Becoming LOST




In May 2005, I was having lunch at our local, ever-charming McDonald's with my dear, slightly madcap friend, Fredericka aka Fred. She has a sister named Georgeanna aka George. They are the daughters of my husband's Aunt Teddy. Anyway, we were watching our children play in the PlayPlace when Fred suddenly blurted out, "Have you watched any of that new show, Lost?"


I shook my head. "No, I heard about it, but never seemed to catch an episode."


"Well," her eyes widened,"They just had the season finale and it was incredible."


"What's Lost about, anyway?"


Those four words have became legendary. As soon as I said them, Fred began to download the entire season to me, without stopping, for about a full hour. As confusing as the storyline is, it was made worse by the fact that she couldn't remember the names of any of the characters.


"So, the Korean girl may or may not like the New York artist, whose son is kind of estranged from him. And the Iraqi torturer doesn't trust the Southern con man--neither does the spinal surgeon--and I think they're right. It seems like the fugitive girl is becoming friends with the pregnant Australian and helped her deliver her baby in the jungle...remember how the washed-up British singer kind of likes the Australian? But, it's not his baby, the father is an Australian artist who left her. And it's so weird that the bald guy was paralyzed, but the plane accident made him walk again and..."


I remember being able to interject, "Wait, all these characters are on the same show?"


She nodded before continuing her detailed, rambling synopsis, ending with, "...and the father yelled for his son, but we thought they were coming for the baby with the crazy French chick. And then they sailed away with the child."


Okay, with an introduction like that, I was exhausted, but intrigued. I netflixed Season 1 of Lost, disc by disc, and became obsessed. One episode would end at 2:15 in the morning and I'd ludicrously tell myself, "Oh, good! There's time for one more episode!"


I'm not sure exactly what is so compelling about the show to so many diehard fans. My guess is that it comes down to two words: mystery and intelligence. Now that Season 5 just ended this week---and the final season will begin in early 2010, there are still as many unanswered questions as there were at the end of the first season. But the ride is actually great fun for those who are patient. The writers never, ever underestimate the intelligence of the viewer. I've checked out numerous message boards online after most episodes. Since the show is popular internationally, someone is always able to supply language translations--don't expect the show to subtitle the Portuguese or Latin--, backgrounds on philosophers whose names are frequently given to characters, and expanded scientific theories. And, still, no one anywhere has been able to put the puzzle pieces together.


I'm still thinking about this season's finale. If the unnamed man talking with Jacob, making his first appearance in the series, is able to inhabit John Locke's dead body--let's just call him Unlocke--did he also inhabit the bodies of the fallen leader's daughter? The spinal surgeon's alcoholic father? What about the smoke monster? And was the nuclear explosion "the incident" referred to in the future, or was it the exposure of the magnetic anomoly? Did the bomb reset everything forward thirty years to the moment before anyone boarded the fated plane or just after the plane crashed, forcing them to relive an endless loop of sorts?


I think I'll need until 2010 to work on my theories. Right now, I'm still lost.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Suite Dreams





A few friends noticed the photographs of the amazing, wrap-around hotel suite we stayed in on our recent trip to New York City. I haven't had the opportunity to explain the bad luck/good luck combination that brought us to those lavish-for-us accommodations.


I will not--will not!--pay New York City hotel prices. Instead, I save up member reward points with a couple of international hotel chains until I have enough for a night in Manhattan. This year followed the routine and I booked a double room at a very well-located hotel. (Since the hotel was actually fabulous, I'm not going to mention it by name. You'll soon know why.) After arriving from D.C., we checked in and went straight to our assigned room. We dropped the luggage on the floor and sank into chairs while my husband walked around to inspect the room, as is his obsessive habit.


"Karla!" He called from the bathroom," There is diarrhea on the toilet!"


I literally sprang to my feet, "Oh, come on! Not really?"


I walked into the bathroom area gingerly, truly not wanting to be a witness at this point.


I looked around, "Where?"


"There!" My husband pointed to the area, crevice really, between the toilet seat and the back of the toilet.


"Okay," I walked to the phone, "I'm calling the front desk. They'll hopefully change our room."


So, I called and politely explained the situation. The reaction was as if I'd told them the room was splattered with blood. They asked us to come to the front desk and, as I'd expected, be given keys to a different room.


As the elevator doors opened into the lobby, a man who looked uncannily like Nathan Lane was pacing and stopped as we stepped out.


"Excuse me, but are you the Bryants?


"Yes."


He actually was in a sweat. "I'm Mr.__________, the Housekeeping Manager, and I cannot express our complete regret for what you've just gone through. There is absolutely no excuse for such a thing to have happened and I will do everything that is within my power to make things right for you."


I really felt quite sorry for him.


"We will give you a suite on the 37th floor for your stay. I think you'll like it. Let me personally bring you to the suite."


Which he insisted on doing. Yeah, the suite was beautiful with views of the Hudson River, Times Square, and Central Park. Magnificent. We thanked him and he went back to the lobby with us.


"Now," he said, turning to us,"I would also like to pay for lunch for you and your family in appreciation of your being so understanding about this awful situation."


I hesitated, glanced at my husband, then turned back to the Housekeeping Manager. "No, really, it wasn't that much diarrhea. We certainly appreciate the suite, but lunch would just be too much."


He looked genuinely startled, but a little pleased at the same time. "Really, I want to make sure..."


"No, it's really okay." I smiled. "We're good."


When we came back that night and entered the suite, we just stared at the brilliant evening views of the city. It was a perfect example of how a little bad luck can turn into great good fortune. Still, not sure we need an exact repeat.


Tuesday, May 12, 2009

All Is Vanity




I was at the gym last night, which is still a very odd thing for me to hear myself say. In February, I joined a gym for the first time in my life. But, you reach that point when you actually care about cholesterol and rapid at-rest heart rates and losing the weight you can no longer deny you've gained. So, "typical" gym members are still novel to me. In my class last night, I saw a woman who was at least ten years older than me. And, shockingly to me, she had her bleached hair in a Chrissy-from-Three's Company side ponytail, wore a rhinestone hairband, and her outfit had a pattern that looked like--surely not?--My Pretty Pony. I wanted to grab her shoulders, force her to look in the wall mirror, and tell her, "Honestly, it's not a good look for you!"



Not too long ago, I ran into a local man I'd met before. It had been about two years since I'd last seen him and now I was in a checkout line behind him. At least, I thought it was him. It was weird. The person in front of me, based on his profile, both looked like and unlike the person I thought he was. Then, he turned around and smiled at me, "Hi, Karla! How have you been?" Well, I know I had to have been wide-eyed for a moment. He looked like he'd gone to a plastic surgeon with a 1990's photograph of Jon Bon Jovi and told the doctor, "Here. Make me look like him." Again, someone older than me now had Jon Bon Jovi's lips, nose, and highlighted Jovi-esque hair...he even wore Jovi-colored contacts. But, none of the individual parts seemed to fit the shape of his face. It was so very strange and there was nothing on his face I could comfortably look at while talking with him. (And, yes, in case you're wondering, I believe it's highly unlikely either of these people would read this blog.)



What is going on? Throughout history, people have always tried to improve their looks and maintain a somewhat youthful appearance. But, I'm beginning to feel like there's a whole generation of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? look-alikes out there, thinking they look great. I suppose the primary question is: What is the goal of injections of toxins and potentially dangerous surgeries? To fool other people into thinking you're twenty years younger than you are? Okay, but to what end?



The usual answer lies in a deep fear of mortality. The longer you can keep old age at bay, the longer you'll live. There could be a kind of delusional hopefulness that if you look young, you really are young. You can pretend death is not inevitable. Sadly, I suspect it may be more shallow than that. I think there are people who have seen their looks as their main asset for so long, they may not have developed many other gifts or talents. If their looks fade, so do they. And that, admittedly, would be a terrifying prospect.



I look back on what I looked like when I was in my late teens and early twenties and I think I looked a little...vapid. Part of me would love to be 115 lbs. again and have a completely smooth face.I also look back on who I was then. I was never pretty enough to have been truly conceited, but there were times when I was smart enough that I became, regrettably, a little arrogant. Even though I'd paid the price for that over and over again and have fully learned that lesson, it saddens me a little. I'm grateful that I now have real humility, genuine compassion for others, and wisdom resulting from years of experience. Those are three traits I'm sure my 115 lb. self would not have thought about too much.



So, do I want to be younger? Would I like to be my reckless, headstrong, prone-to-bad-decisions self again? No, not really. I'd rather look at people and the world through eyes that have learned important things through the years, even if those eyes bear a few well-earned lines.

Monday, May 11, 2009

GeeksOn



It may have come to some readers' attention that I tend to be a bit...geeky about things. By geeky, I don't necessarily mean simply being a sci-fi or rpg (role playing game) fan. Actually, I'm not an rpg fan. I mean having interests that are researched until a deeper-than-usual knowledge is gained on particular topics. Almost to the point of making less obsessive people a bit uncomfortable.


If my husband is a classical music geek (I've learned the answer to most of his questions is either Ralph Vaughan Williams or Handel), I've always been a history geek. When I was about 12, I became fascinated by the end of the Tsarist era in Russia. It probably was triggered by the movie Nicholas and Alexandra, though I have no idea why it grabbed hold of my imagination so strongly. It was unspeakably beautiful and horrible all at the same time. I read every book the library had on the last of the Romanovs and had acquired a huge collection of interesting facts about the people, places, and events of that period. I would have been an excellent conversationalist on the subject, but never managed to find anyone remotely curious about the topic. And that lack of an audience is unfortunately a frequent hallmark of geekiness. People politely express interest in your subject, but make it clear they have their limits.


My friend, Susan, and I always tend to delve deeply into a variety of movies or television shows that interest us. I mean, way beyond the, "Who stars in it?" kind of casualness. We've not yet been able to out-geek each other. And, as I'd written before, she frequently encouraged me to listen to a podcast called GeeksOn. My podcast backlog always seemed too long as it was, but I finally gave it a listen. And I haven't stopped.


What struck me was that I was listening to people like Susan and myself (not to mention my more typically geeky son), people who find out everything they possibly can about subjects that are of interest to them. They had astonishing amounts of detail about film, video games, television shows, technology, comic books, rpgs, and more. And, wonderfully, they had an audience to listen to them. An audience of people like them...people like us, who do not set limits as to how much detail we'll listen to about a topic. Based in LA, one of the hosts is a graphic artist, one a video game professional, one a screenwriter and director, and another, an actor. So, they're often able to find even more background on topics than the rest of us. It also helps tremendously that the hosts are entertaining, engaging individuals in their own right.


There's a basic format to the show: The hosts first discuss their Geek Week, followed by Geek News, then on to the geek topic of that particular episode. The latter is the heart of the podcast, when lively, often impassioned discussions erupt over any number of subjects: civil rights in sci-fi worlds, robots and AI, non-traditional comics, interviews with guests like Joss Whedon and George R. R. Martin, reports on events like Comic-Con and the Electronic Entertainment Expo, and, of course, episodes focused on specific films or television shows.Some of the topics are things I know little about, others are right on target to my interests.



I listened for some time before actually going to their website, http://www.geekson.com/, and joining the forums. I was reluctant since my experience with other forums or message boards had been that they became a little bland after a while. One post would look like another. Geekson has been very different. The members are usually intelligent, creative individuals with strong opinions. That alone prevents things from getting dull. But, I love the uniqueness of each member. I believe someone could show me a post with no name or avatar attached to it and I could guess with some accuracy who wrote it. I'm not sure I could do that successfully with many people from my daily life.


Ultimately, GeeksOn is all about community. A community of people who feel passionately about their interests and have, at long last, found their audience.



Friday, May 8, 2009

Star Trek: Full of Praise, Full of Spoilers





I didn't bother to even try to write a new blog post yesterday. It seemed the only thing people were talking about, the one thing people were thinking about, was the new Star Trek movie. I include myself in the collective. Now that I've just seen the film, it's the single thing I want to write about.


I am exhilarated and I can't quite remember the last time I left a movie theater feeling that way. I mean, I went into this with absurdly high expectations, particuarly for a non-Trekkie. While I was in line, I began to worry that this alone would set me up for disappointment. But there was no disappointment. None. J.J. Abrams has made a Star Trek movie that soars on every level.


The first thing that comes to mind is that this is a visual feast of a film. The pallette is brilliant and, at times, almost jewel-like. The spaceships are incredibly detailed and sharply stylized. Everytime one was under attack, along with expected pity for loss of life, I kept thinking, "Wait! Don't destroy it yet... I want them to walk around more so I can see more of the ship!" I couldn't get enough of the ships' interiors --or exteriors. The special effects were amazing, even in this jaded era of nearly miraculous CGI. The action scenes delivered every time. For the most part, it felt like a film too big for any screen.


An annoying issue with action movies is when humor is simply tacked on to keep it from being "too heavy". The problem is the humor used is usually generic and banal. In Star Trek, the levity worked everytime. It made sense to the situation, to the characters, and that's what made it genuinely funny. There was more real laughter at those times than I've heard during a comedy for a very long time. The script got it just right.


I'd been eager to see what fresh interpretations new actors would bring to the familiar roles and was thrilled. Chris Pine surprised me. Based on the trailers, I thought he could be an acceptable James T. Kirk. And, that's kind of how it started out. But, as the movie progressed, he created a Kirk who was actually interesting and more complex than one would expect. The entire supporting cast was magnificent. It was a perfect example of what ensemble acting should look like when it works. McCoy, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, Scotty (!)...all of them were spot-on, none were there to simply fill in the chair of a character. But, as it perhaps should be, the big standout was Zachary Quinto as Spock. Time after time, I was unexpectedly and deeply moved by the character. After relinquishing the position of Captain to Kirk, I was absolutely riveted watching Spock walk down a corridor in silence. I don't know how Quinto did it, but it seemed like I could feel all his conflicts, his shame, his sorrow, his confusion, at once. Leonard Nimoy's presence, instead of feeling like a wink or cheap trick, was also notably moving and felt completely right. Nimoy added just the necessary amount of gravitas to give the movie some grounding to its roots.


I feel absolutely thrilled. Star Trek was a soaring, vigorous, unpredictable and, ultimately, completely satisfying ride that I'd love to go on again and again.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Non-Trekkie Catches Star Trek Fever



I'm really surprised and a little unnerved at how excited I am to see the new Star Trek movie. Mainly because I've never been a Star Trek fan, always more of a Star Wars geek. In my mind,
there're specific differences between the two. There's the image of the old school Trekkies as somber devotees of a camp 1960's television show. They are obsessed with the minutia of specific tv episodes ala Galaxy Quest. Star Wars fans, on the other hand, have farther-reaching interests in filmmaking, science, and mythology. At least that's how I prefer to describe the side I'm on.

As I'd written/confessed earlier, a few years ago, we'd attended a Star Wars convention. One of the first things we saw when we arrived was someone costumed as Jar Jar Binks, wearing a sign reading, "Stop the hate!" I can't describe how relieved I was to be able to think, "Oh, good! They have a sense of humor." And, honestly, throughout the convention, there were conversations about filmmaking, science, and mythology.

This week, as everyone with access to media knows, the new Star Trek movie by J.J. Abrams is going to premiere. And I can't wait. Cannot. Wait. Primarily for five particular reasons:


1. New CGI capabilities. I'd like to see what Star Trek looks like with the technology the storyline deserves. Think of the potential if the special effects actually look convincing. Imagine if they're dazzling.


2. Directed by J.J. Abrams. I know people tend to admire or criticize him, but no one can deny that the man is smart and creative. He himself is no Star Trek fan and has promised to make a relatively unhampered film that's an exciting sci-fi story with plenty of action. And I believe him. (Of course, I also have faith that Lost, the series he co-created, will satisfy fans at the end of its final season next year. Call me an Abrams optimist. In spite of Fringe.)


3. Completely new cast. It's refreshing and bold to have new, young actors playing roles that have been around for four decades now. Zachary Quinto looks especially compelling as Spock and I imagine that may have been the hardest role to cast. New actors will allow for some unique interpretations and keep things from being too predictable. I hope.


4. The trailer. When I saw the first trailer, honestly, it reminded me a little too much of some scenes from Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones. But, then, a newer trailer appeared that looked so impressive that I immediately replayed it several times. So much potential to be a great action, sci-fi movie,...everything onscreen looked amazing. Definately not a wait-for-it-on-dvd film.


5. My very specific, personal treat: Simon Pegg as Scotty. I love Simon Pegg. Loved him in Spaced, in Shaun of the Dead, in Hot Fuzz, in Run, Fatboy, Run. I can't quite wrap my brain around him as Scotty, but it will be so much fun to see. As long as I can eventually believe him as Scotty and not just Simon Pegg playing the role.


If the film pulls it off by living up to most of the hype and proves to be the movie everyone's wanted to see, it certainly will breathe new life in the franchise. In that case, it will deserve to live long and prosper.