Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Won't You Be My Neighbor?


One of the most memorable comments I heard after moving to the South was, "Up North, you put all your crazy people in institutions. Here in the South, we put them on our front porches for everyone to enjoy." I wouldn't label my neighbors as "crazy", but they are sweetly eccentric.

During the early days of our move, when our environment was a chaos of boxes and furniture in the wrong rooms, an elderly neighbor knocked on the front door.

Her greeting was, "What's your favorite pie?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Well, I'd just love to make you your favorite pie, but I can't unless you tell me what it is. Now, no arguing, just tell me."

She was serious. "Okay, I guess...rhubarb?"

Crestfallen expression.

"I mean, apple."

She looked away and said nothing.

"Blueberry?"

She smiled broadly, "Why, don't you like chocolate cream pie? I think everyone does."

"Oh, chocolate cream pie sounds great!"

"See? I just wanted to make your favorite."

Curiously, no pie ever arrived.

One of my more fascinating neighbors has a thin mustache, slicked back hair, and the general demeanor of the old movie actor, Ronald Coleman. Except that he has a wonderfully slow, low drawl. A couple of years ago, I stopped to talk with him while I was walking our dog. He had a small rat terrier on a leash.

"What's your dog's name?" I asked.

"Roy." I can't explain how he made the word last for three syllables. "Roy is his name and thank you for asking."

The next year, I saw him out with his dog again.

"How's Roy doing?" I called breezily.

He shook his head. "No, ma'am, Roy died. This is Leroy." The new rat terrier looked very much like Roy. Anyone could have made the same mistake.

Then, six months later, I couldn't help but notice his rat terrier didn't look like Roy or Leroy.

"You have a new dog?"

"Yes, Leroy died," he drawled solemnly. "This is Elroy."

As I walked past my neighbor's driveway, I noticed the backseat of his car was loaded up with big bags of Ol' Roy dog food from Wal-Mart.

Sometimes, I'm not even sure what questions to ask.

Are You Experienced?



Yesterday, a friend mentioned that the new Sherlock Holmes movie poster reminded him of Jimi Hendrix. He's got a point. His comment also reminded me of my own Jimi Hendrix experience. Not like that! C'mon, how old do you think I am?

I was in Seattle shortly after the Experience Music Project opened. The Experience Music Project, a museum showcasing the roots and origins of primarily rock, gospel, blues, jazz, and soul music, is in an absurdly cool building designed by Frank Gehry.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/randite/229757417/

I seem to remember that our son was young enough and admission high enough that it didn't make sense for all three of us to visit the museum. Between my classical music professional husband, our six year old son, and rockgirl -at-heart wife/mom, it was clear who was going to stay and which two were going back to the hotel.

When I was there, the first floor was dominated by Elvis, The Beatles, and Bob Dylan. I've always been partial to Dylan. When my older sister and I were young, she'd force me to play the boardgame Mystery Date. The goal, she would impatiently explain to me, was to open the plastic door and see your date was going to be The Prom Date, a crewcut blonde in a white tuxedo. Possibly The Bowler, who looked like Buddy Holly. To her endless annoyance, I always squealed in hope that I'd get The Bum, who had a definate Bob Dylan vibe going on.

There was a special exhibit upstairs dedicated to Seattle's hometown star, Jimi Hendrix. I'm not a huge Jimi Hendrix fan. I know about 5 - 10 of his songs. I get what he represented and still represents. I know the aura of cool that seems to form just discussing him. So, I went upstairs at the Experience Music Project. Honestly, the building is an exhibit in itself.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kopanas/111166916/

I was kind of zoning in front of the massive sound and light show when I noticed people walking past me. There were two guys in front of a door who, for the time, looked fairly edgy. Multiple piercings, tattoos, creative hair. As one man neared, the guys pulled open double doors and he entered the area. Several other people walked by, though the "doormen" didn't move. More passed by, still no opening of doors. Wondering what was going on, I began walking towards them. One doorman looked at me, said something quickly to the other, and the doors were opened before me. I stepped inside and saw, initially, Jimi Hendrix' crushed velvet pants and wide-brimmed, feathered hat. So, this was where the exhibit was. I overheard the doormen.

"How do you know every time who's here for Hendrix?"

"I can just tell who gets him or not."

Yeah. As I walked past more hats, guitars, and posters, there was a slight strut to my walk. Yeah.

Monday, March 30, 2009

"Well, Watson, what do you make of it?"




I've been so excited about the upcoming Sherlock Holmes movie, starring Robert Downey Jr. In spite of the fact that Guy Ritchie directed it. Regardless of the casting of Jude Law as Watson. The latter is very hard to overlook. Still, it promises to be a fusion of a genuinely talented actor with one of the most memorable fictional characters ever written.

Today, when there was word the Latino Review had a picture of the Sherlock Holmes movie poster on its site, I couldn't click fast enough. This is what I saw:

http://www.latinoreview.com/news/first-look-new-showest-posters-of-sherlock-holmes-500-days-of-summer-the-hangover-easy-virtue-6468

Seriously.

One word immediately sprang to mind: no. The second word was: wrong.

What is going on? It looks like a poster to Godfather IV: The Prequel. I understand that there may be some interesting things that can be done by looking at the character from a new angle, but you can't completely recreate the person. Robert Downey Jr. looks dangerous and compelling and handsome---but, that's not Sherlock Holmes.

One summer, I stayed at my grandparents' home in northern Wisconsin. They'd moved there in retirement from Chicago and had a lovely home in the middle of acres of forest. It was very quiet. On their bookshelf was a large yellow and black bound book, A Treasury of Sherlock Holmes. Full-immersion reader that I was and am, I very much felt that I'd spent weeks in the company of Holmes. I couldn't stop reading. I couldn't stop turning the pages. As I stared over and over at the drawings in The Adventure of the Dancing Men, I imagined Holmes beside me, always smelling of wet wool and tobacco. "Well," he might ask sharply, "What do you see?" Of course, just like Watson, I could never figure it out on my own. Sherlock Holmes, to me, was unsmiling, lacking in empathy, and breath-takingly brilliant. His intelligence was almost alien.

Holmes was oblivious to his appearance. He was not dapper or stylish. He did not wear shaded John Lennon glasses. He lived in his mind more than the outside world. If someone just saw the movie poster with no knowledge of the film it's associated with, who would guess Sherlock Holmes?

I'm beginning to wonder if Moriarty isn't somehow involved.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Stan Lee


Last July, we attended the San Diego Comic-Con for the first time. For the uninitiated, Comic-Con is a mecca for fans of the "popular arts": film, tv, video games, and comics. There are guest panels, screenings, previews, and other events to entertain the 125,000+ attendees. Yes, over 125,000 fanboys and fangirls wandering through a not-so-huge convention center. Many in costume.

As first-time attendees, we made many mistakes. But, one decision we got right was to stay at the hotel adjoining the convention center. Pricey, but worth it. After a long flight and a drive through an unfamiliar city, we arrived at the hotel. My husband dropped our son and me off at the lobby to check-in while he parked the rental car. I pulled one rolling suitcase behind me while our son was in charge of the remaining two. As soon as we entered the open, attractive lobby, my son pulled on my arm.

"I think Stan Lee just walked past us."

Again, for the uninitiated, Stan Lee is for many The Man at Comic-Con. Comic writer and former president and chairman (primarily founder) of Marvel Comics, his creations of Spiderman, Hulk, Ironman, and many others were there at the origins of Comic-Con when it really was all about comics. With the comic crowd, he's bigger than any other celebrity.

"Umm, no, I doubt you saw Stan Lee." I glanced and saw the back of a man who honestly did look like Stan Lee, but was distracted by the absence of suitcases behind my son. "Where are the suitcases?"

"The what?"

"The suitcases Dad left on the sidewalk for you to bring in."

"I don't know."

Three small panic-inducing words. Just as it was my turn to check-in, my husband appeared.

"Thomas doesn't know where the suitcases are."

"What!"

In a second, the boys were out the door. About ten minutes later, they reappeared with the suitcases. And huge grins. The missing luggage had been where my husband had left it, on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. And Stan Lee had been standing right next to it. I love the photo of my son with Stan Lee. Especially their expressions. Stan Lee looks as if he's about to laugh and Thomas is trying to smile, which is hard to do when your eyes are double their normal size. Try it.

By the next day, no one got near Stan Lee. Once Comic-Con officially started, he was surrounded by handlers and possibly bodyguards. Seats to attend his panels were quickly filled to capacity. People were disappointed they never got a glimpse of him in person.

Stan the Man. Creator of numerous world-famous superheroes. Protector of unattended suitcases.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

A Rachel Shout-Out





The weird thing to me about Rachel is that her mother was one of my sister-in-law's closest friends throughout school. Her mother. My sister-in-law.

We'd only had one conversation before I was assigned to assist in her history class at our Co-Op. That's when we talked about our writing aspirations, critiqued religions, and discussed performing arts before students began asking if we could keep our voices down so they could concentrate and complete their worksheets. We gave them bowls of popcorn to subdue them and returned to a conversation that had, curiously, morphed into fangirl whispering over the odd allure of Lost's John Locke.

What struck me in all our conversations, though, was Rachel's discipline as a writer. She has a blog. She writes everyday. She gets up early to write. She has three young children compared to my one, just-turned-teen. My excuses were vanishing as we spoke. I realized that one of the most futile things I could do was to continue to keep so many of my ideas in my mind and away from paper or flash drives. I had to stop living in my head so much and begin showing external proof of the writer inside.

So, Rachel, one word for you: Thanks.

Friday, March 27, 2009

I don't remember the auditions.





I'm not quite sure how several people in my life actually entered it.

Of course, there's family which has always been there and will always be there, no matter what you say or do or how much you protest. There're friends you met in school decades ago and new friends made with each move to a different city. This is normal.

But, where did the rest of the cast in my life come from? How did it begin that I have regular visits with my Ronald Coleman-esque neighbor? Why was it that my tiny, elderly "paperboy", who rode his bike everywhere with his pantlegs strapped with bungie cords, left a note explaining to me that his pastor advised him not to join a "hard rock band" as their drummer?

I've given up trying to explain to anyone over 50 how you can be friends with someone online (in a non-creepy way) whom you've never and may never meet face to face. When I try and rewind back to initial contact to explain, it's usually something like, "Well, there was a discussion on a podcast message board about sci-fi inventions that have become realities..." or, even more awkwardly, "I was following their tweets once they were following mine...". The more I explain, the more their expressions of blankness start clouding with concern. "Maybe less time on the computer," they'll suggest.

The thing is, it's often the people who seem to have slipped initially unnoticed into my life who stand out.