S3 Revisited

Been thinking about Shrek as a trilogy since Sunday evening, which is interesting in itself, since I would have thought that Pirates offered more food for thought - or not. Ogres, after all, are like onions...

Just had to watch the original Shrek when I came home, partly because of the movie critic who stayed up late, then didn't much like what he saw. As I rewatched the first installment, I was forcibly reminded of just how awesome and inventive it was and still is. The original is a throwback to the early days of animation when all sorts of social and political commentary was slipped in for attentive adults, much like the original fairytales and folktales. Those were razor-edged tales, meant to give offense in return for offenses that had been taken by the writers. Such tales were later watered down and sanitized in order to please the masses and offend as few folk as possible, defanging them, if you will. (The same has been done to virtually all creative manifestations of rebellion, the most recent example of which is the co-opting of rap music.) But I digress, as usual...

The first Shrek was a classic love story coupled with commentary on self-esteem and self-confidence, even as it mocked the classic conventions. The second installment continued the development of the protagonist's self-image and extended the lesson to include trusting in the power of love. There were lovely riffs on in-law relations as the characters moved from the single life to wedded bliss. This third episode continues the original ideas of self-esteem and self-confidence, though this time the focus moves away from a fairytale character, albeit to one who has achieved animation stardom. It's a bit of a rehash, even as it reflects the passing of the baton from one generation to the next, arguably a new idea for this vehicle.

I've always liked all the allusions slipping in and out of the Shrek movies, but I have to agree that this third turn is only almost as delightful as its predecessors. Maybe I just don't like the whole high school scene, or maybe Charming just doesn't hold his own as a villain for me. I do like the idea of laughing him off as a good way to deal with him, but somehow that left him a little more than short of oomph.

Still, I like the idea that Lord Farquaard was short, Fiona's father was a frog prince, and Cousin Arthur was once a boy nicknamed "Wart", at least according to T.H. White. There's a certain symmetry to it all...

Still thinking...

Movie Madness

Ah, I do enjoy turning a doubleheader! This morning started out bright and early, or foggy but early, as the case may be. Be that as it may, though it started slowly, this has been a good weekend for watching movies.

First up was Pirates of the Caribbean 3: At World's End. Now, I'll be the first to confess that I lack the visual acuity of virtually everyone I know, including the blind dog down the street, but I do have an eye and ear for inside jokes and casual allusions, as well as an appreciation of character development and narrative geometry. My overall impression of PotC3, then, is that a relatively slow start eventually picked up speed and actually did a beautiful job of bringing many seemingly casual bits full circle through the trilogy. I particularly love the use of language and vocabulary as part of characterization and sly digs. Visually, there were some awe-inspiring moments and an amazing attention to detail. Some might suggest that the narrative detail provided was more than the pacing could handle, but I don't see the need for everything to be a headlong rush, except that that is what we as audience have been conditioned to expect from any Bruckheimer production.

Next on the docket was Shrek the Third. Offhand I'd guess that the target audience for ST3 is actually perhaps five years older than that of PotC3. The latter is, after all, still courtship, whereas the latter is post-marriage mentoring in preparation parenthood. In each film the older though still youthful mentor gives way for the next generation, sacrificing glory and the limelight for the greater good. In each case the honor is dubious: becoming the immortal captain of the Flying Dutchman vs. becoming the high profile ruler of the fairytale land of Far Far Away. The difference, of course, is that Jack Sparrow yields reluctantly whereas Shrek actively seeks to sidestep the honor. It's actually kind of fun to think of the parallels as Mike Myers vs. Johnny Depp and Justin Timberlake vs. Orlando Bloom. For the females, of course, Keira Knightley is the clear winner over Cameron Diaz in terms of significance to the plot and in screen time. As far as characters go, Fiona is delivered of three babies, a numerical triumph over Elizabeth's one child. Mathematically, Fiona produces in one round the most Elizabeth will be able to produce, ever, given that she only gets one swiving per decade. Kinda daunting, that thought... Still, both films were fun romps, each in their own way.

A third film that has recently come my way is another Chow Yen Fat vehicle: The Curse of the Golden Flower, a historical drama set in the Tang dynasty that inspects and dissects the black corruption concealed beneath the opulent facades of the royal court. Gong Li is as gorgeous as the rest of the scenery. Chow Yen Fat, in contrast, is such a dark and villainous looking fellow beneath his makeup that it took me awhile to recognize him. Together they epitomize the point of the narrative. The narrative skein is as intricate and complex as the chrysanthemums woven by the royal ladies, and as multi-layered. You want corruption, this film has it: infidelity, incest, bribery, betrayals, polygamy, poisonings, plots within plots within plots. I only wish I could understand more of the Chinese being spoken, as that always adds yet another layer to the subtitled films I watch.

More, I want to see more.

Toast the Roast

What's the good of a fun title about which one has nothing to say? Hm...

This is, in fact, the converse of the old adage, "Out of the frying pan into the fire," for this is out of the fire and into the frying pan, as it were:

The pleasure of slow roasting a shoulder of pork butt in an outdoor smoker can be enhanced by adding the shredded pork to a pan of sake-simmered cabbage and grated ginger, thus making kalua and cabbage, an island favorite. The toasting part involves including the shredded pork in the frying pan for a quick round or two of stirring and simmering. When corn tortillas are toasted in the emptied pan, the flavor is stretched even further, leading to a gastronomic pleasure that must be experienced to be properly understood.

Of course, it was under the influence of this dish that I took my recent trip, but there is no cause and effect connection here, merely coincidence.


Because everything is connected, I cannot help but notice that the trips I have been taking home are very much along the order of toasting the roast. There is the long, slow heat that has been applied over the past several years; the smoke that is frequently thrown in various eyes, obscuring facts and perpetuating fictions,; and the fact that unless things get straightened out before it is too late, someone's going to be toast, possibly a couple of us. Auwe!

Ketchup

Trying to catch up, but I guess I'll just have to start over with the whole consecutive entries thing.

Yesterday was too smoking hot to think, so instead, I made a big stink, firing up the grill in order to do some smoking. Hm... so gas grills are now being advocated instead of charcoal because the latter are suspected of being carcinogenic, even though they are a more natural form of preparing food, yes? So subjecting oneself to charcoal-fueled smoke and charred food is perhaps not the wisest thing one might do.

Seriously, what in life doesn't eventually lead to death of one kind or another? I suppose I could lead as safe and clean and conscientious a life as possible, given the guidelines now available through various health agencies, but then I think I might die of boredom or anxiety over not being able to follow all the contradictory advice out there. There is, of course, the ongoing argument that anyone can get hit by a car on any given day, which makes all that precautionary living rather a waste of a good time and an otherwise good life. On the other hand, if one successfully avoids that dastardly car, as so many do, ignoring health and safety warnings can lead to a slow and painful demise, also a waste of an otherwise good time and good life.

I've got it: avoid thinking about consequences altogether and simply life as well as one can as life and opportunity unfold. No need to chase a grill, nor to duck it. No need to seek trouble, nor to go to inordinate lengths to dodge it. No reason to waste time worrying, nor any reason to take unnecessary risks when common knowledge provides prudent guidelines.

Have to muster the courage to live, not waste time trying to catch up. It's life, not dodge ball.

Confusion

So when Ryan Seacrest said that Simon Cowell had described one of the former contestants as a bush baby, I wondered if there was some resemblance to the current president's family. Shows you what I know. Of course, when the fellow appeared and then the image of an actual bush baby was shown, I was hard pressed not to understand Cowell's comment. Except for the eyes, there's actually a bit of a resemblance to the prex as well, especially around the cheeks...

Not a great observation, but there it is...

Big Brother Says Buckle Up

I'm torn.

On one hand, I'm all for safe travel and government officials being held to a higher standard of accountability and example. What's more, I love learning of GW's follies.

From another perspective, however, I resent anything that smacks of governmental attempts to control private actions and choices. There is, moreover, my nearly lifelong resentment against seat belt usage being legislated and mandated. I am, after all, just old enough to remember the pleasures of unfettered riding and the speed with which the novelty of wearing airplane-like seat belts wore off.

There is something sacred about the right to do what one will on one's own property, or there should be. The greatest violators of that right are not government officials but officious media representatives. If one cannot do wheelies and other foolhardy activities on one's own property, where can one risk life and limb for private pleasure? It can be argued that the very question answers itself in the negative. That may well be so, but the human existence is a bit poorer for the loss of such idiocy, I think. If all daring is denied, if all errors are prevented, how is one to learn? Is it not from our mistakes, even more than from our successes, that we learn and grow, both personally and as a society, even as a species?

Okay, so our feckless president doesn't wear a seat belt when he drives; he only drives on private property. After all, that's what all his chauffeurs are for, isn't it? And seriously, what can he possibly damage? Surely we don't fear brain damage, do we?

Daytimers

This column about people who seem to have unfettered time during the day caught my attention because, well, they seem to share something of my situation. Why are there so many people out of offices in the middle of the day? Who are they and what are they doing? How are they surviving?

I have been wanting to go to a theater, any theater, for several weeks now. Checking theater schedules online, I learned that quite a few theaters have their first showings starting in the 11 o'clock hour, though no one beats the Metreon's 10 o'clock starting times. Only Emeryville, home of Pixar, waits till afternoon to begin airing movies. Why is that? Granted, summer vacation has begun for a number of students, but clearly other segments of the population are being targeted as well.

So who else is available for leisure time activities during workdays? As this is a part of the Silicon Valley, I guess there are a fair number of remarkably youthful retirees. There are, of course, the trust fund babies, but how many of those can there be? As a region rich in literary traditions, there are a fair few writers here as well. The density of restaurants, both fine dining and fast food, suggest that a goodly portion of the workforce functions at night, leaving them free to meander about during daylight hours. I would guess that there are stay-at-home mothers, but this area is not conducive to single-income families, though it does contain a number of telecommuters and self-employed workers who might appear to have an inordinate amount of flexibility during daylight hours.

All in all, there are quite a few people with flexible schedules and quite a few reasons for all that flexibility. It's good to know that ours is not so rigid a society as mainstream doctrine would have us believe.

Cool Pic

A surprising viewing pleasure played out again on commercial cable television last night: Behind Enemy Lines. This is a film based on an actual incident that made it into the news some years back, changing American foreign policy when the story finally managed to surface. I do like when these kinds of films come my way, and this seems to be that part of the cycle in my life right now.

Owen Wilson and Gene Hackman head up a predominantly male cast in what was sold as a typical action yarn. Now, whenever I see a Wilson brother in the cast, I expect humorous moments, and Owen does not disappoint, though he is surprisingly straight in this film, and effective in being so. Gene Hackman has done such diverse work that it's harder to know what to expect, though when he's playing a cigar-chomping military officer, humor is not expected. When it appears, the lack of expectation makes it all the more effective.

I don't mean to suggest that this film is a comedy - far from it. This is, like Blood Diamond, intended as an expose' of unspeakable atrocities. There is rape, there is slaughter, there is callous betrayal and attempted coverup by deadly force, and there is failure on the parts of multiple governments to step up and take necessary action. As is generally the case in such tales, it is the heroism of individual mavericks willing to buck the system to do what is right that paves the way for others in higher profile positions to make grand gestures after all the dirty work is done. As is also too often the case, those who take the risks and make the sacrifices pay the price for their altruism and heroism, whether with their lives or with the careers that have defined them and been their life.

I would write in more specific terms if I had not fallen asleep during the viewing late last night. When I have reviewed my copy of the dvd, I will write at greater length - I hope.

Another Intriguing Movie

Had the privilege of finally seeing Blood Diamond last evening. I couldn't stop thinking about it this morning, so I ran a few searches on it to see what others think of it and was pleased to see that there were only a few thoughts running along the same lines mine are, so here goes:

There's a scene near the end of the movie that put me forcibly in mind of Frodo and Sam attempting to scale Mount Doom. (Granted, the force came from my viewing companion.) This morning I got to thinking that Blood Diamond fits very much into the pattern of Beowulf and The Lord of the Rings, which actually makes sense, since Tolkien based The Hobbit on Beowulf. But I digress.

What I mean to say is that Danny Archer, the protagonist of BD, is an orphan who has been mentored by a powerful warlord, grows up to be a pretty impressive warrior himself, but turns from his mentor's goals to adventuring. He ends up dying as a result of a wound acquired in conflict with an antagonist who is not even the worst villain in the piece. Granted, the villain was once his mentor, which is not the case for either Beowulf or Frodo, but it's not a perfect parallel, nor do I think it is intended as such. His mentor is, after all, a former father figure, as Grendel's mother was . . . a mother figure - in loco parentis, as it were. Like Beowulf and Frodo, he dies childless, his sacrifice intended to leave the world he has loved a better place for his having passed this way. At least, that is the hope, though not a guarantee.

Within the tale there are all sorts of intriguing parallels and connections. The protagonist's name is Danny Archer. Daniel of the Old Testament is renowned for having survived the lions' den, seen by some as proof of a charmed life. Danny is likewise seen as one who ventures regularly into deadly enemy territory, consistently returning unscathed.

The protagonist's surname is Archer. This may be seen as a reference to one who fights from a safe distance or as indicating that the character himself is an arrow. This latter connection works particularly well in light of the female lead's name: Maddy Bowen. She is, after all, the bow that cocks this bent arrow and redirects him back into a straighter path than he has been following since the traumatic appropriation of his life when he witnessed his parents' humiliation and destruction. He can also be seen as the arrow shot from Paris' bow that found Achilles' heel in the Trojan War. He doesn't personally take down the colossus, but his choices and actions do set in motion the ultimate downfall of the seemingly all-powerful and untouchable.

Maddy Bowen is another interesting name. Whether she is mad, as one fellow journalist suggests, pursuing stories at great personal risk yet surviving and triumphing unscathed, or whether she is like a madeleine, an irresistible cookie with a come hither aftertaste that simply does not allow just one nibble, she is the bow, the leader, the catalyst that redirects the protagonist into avenues he has no intention of pursuing when he first begins his quest. She serves as his unattainable desire, very much in the chivalric romantic tradition. She serves as the lens by which the protagonist, the viewers, and the world are invited to see truth among disparate facts, rumors, and lies.

The object of interest is a character named Solomon Vandy. Solomon is a name that easily conjures so many things. While the Biblical Solomon was not by any means a great father figure, he was arguably the greatest king in the history of Israel. It was under his leadership that the Israelites expanded their boundaries the most, under his leadership that Israel reached its greatest height of cultural development, economic wealth, and political power. The fabled diamond mines of literature are known as King Solomon's mines.

More important, Solomon was known for his wisdom, and that is Solomon Vandy's greatest strength. He makes shrewd choices under duress, knows to protect his family when the village is suddenly attacked, manages to conceal (nearly) a find of epic proportions, knows what steps to take in his search long before bored officials tell him what to do, has contingency plans for those he knows will try to cheat him, knows who to trust, how to trust, and how to regain trust, knows ultimately how to regain his family and protect his own, knows that their safety and companionship are the most important things in his life but that material considerations are necessary to protect and collect them.

The character is a faithful father who works tirelessly to recover every member of his family, never losing faith, never losing hope. His is the boldness of necessity, though we see in more than one instance his very human fear of pain and death. His is the true kind of courage that acts despite fear rather than because of any lack of it. He has a generosity of heart and spirit that enables him not only to reclaim his own son from the ruthless rebels, but to reclaim and redeem the heart and spirit of the little lost and abandoned white boy lurking within the body of the threatening white man he believes intends only to rob him, possibly to murder him. It is this greatness of heart and spirit that helps him to rescue his family from the refugee camp in Guinea where they have fled and are being held. When he is offered blood money for the blood diamond, he says that $2 million is not enough, that he must and will have his family back. If the dealer had not been so small of spirit himself, he could have saved himself the money and simply offered the family. Such insight into Solomon's character would also have saved the diamond dealer from the journalistic expose' that followed.

Solomon's son, Dia, deserves some mention as well. An online reviewer noted that the boy's name is the first three letters of the word, diamond. In the native tongue, it refers to the value of the boy, though in the English tongue, it prefaces a more material, less worthwhile consideration. Solomon is not deceived. He knows that his son is, at heart, a good boy, not just a material consideration.

Solomon ultimately serves as Danny's lost father as well. When Solomon refuses to tell the rebel leader where the hidden blood diamond is located, he is told that his wife will be found and raped before his very eyes, and his daughters will be taken to serve as objects by the rebel leader. This serves as a disturbing parallel for, as we learn in a different scene, Archer watched his own mother raped and murdered and his father decapitated and hung on a hook in the barn when Archer himself was but a boy of nine. Danny comes to see himself in Dia, and in Solomon he sees the father and the second chance he himself never had. That becomes a sacrifice worth making, much as Denzel Washington chooses in De ja Vu, much as Frodo tries to give Smeagol in LotR.

There are a number of critics who found this film less than satisfactory because it attempts to address an actual injustice. There are those who argue that this film that is so critical of the exploitation of Africans is itself exploiting the situation for the sake of commercial considerations. There are some, notably women, who object to the perceived attack on the diamond industry per se. I suppose those who believe film should only be escapist can reasonably object to the suggestion that there is a real life connection to the narrative. Clearly, a film is made to make money, so there is something to be said there. For those who fear they might be cut off from their shiny treasures, much as fur has taken a hit, there is no defense or explanation. For those who argue that this is a tale that has been told in broad strokes many times, there is the thought that it is not whether or not the tale has been told, (they all have,) but how well the telling has been executed. There are, moreover, the details. Africa still has much beauty amidst the ugliness brought by warfare. There is a real need to disseminate information about atrocities that are being committed outside of history books and fairy tales. Finally, this film is showcase for one of the finest, most underused actors of our time, Djimon Honshu, who is one of the most beautiful and amazing of his or any generation.

Under the Cat's Paw

I used to think this was such a strange turn of phrase, but I've come to understand it in a very literal way. There is no place I'd rather be than under my cat's paw. That makes me wonder why anyone would want to use the phrase as a derogatory description. That's like impugning the power of a female dog, especially a mother defending her young. When my cat puts me under his paw(s), it's all about sharing the love, and he puts himself under my chin, which seems fair. I guess some folks just don't appreciate proper lovings.

I grew up without pets, evidently because my parents didn't particularly appreciate the animals with which they shared time and attention in their own respective childhoods. My parents are, in fact, proof that the benefits of growing up with pets do, in fact, elude some people. Still, my folks did grow up responsible and quite capable of attending to basic survival needs. They never flinched from cleaning up messes not of their own making, though it would be unfair to say that doing so gave them any great pleasure. Unfortunately, they also failed to garner any pleasure from the wet slobberings that so often accompany those proper lovings to which I referred above. Life is full of tradeoffs, so I've been told.

One might argue that I have always lived under one cat's paw or another, whether two-legged or four-footed. (Now who's using the term in a less than glowing light?) Perhaps that is what makes me so amenable to my Max's firm paws. At least I can believe that he seeks the give and take of shared affection, not just domination. On the other hand, who among those who know me would actually believe my claim that I have ever lived under any cat's paw?

Good thing almost no one reads these posts...

A King Is Dead

Yolanda King, firstborn of the late Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and his wife, Coretta, passed away yesterday at the age of 51, just fifteen months after her mother's death. According to the article linked above, neither she nor any of her three siblings ever married or had offspring. Yolanda herself looked to the many who have joined in the sharing of her father's dream as partners in the perpetuation of that legacy. She was not as concerned about the lack of blood heirs as are some who are so obsessed with the sort of thinking that too often has led to the kinds of problems against which the good doctor fought for much of his adult life. Think about it.

The obsession with lineage is a manifestation of the notion that blood counts, and by extension that blood purity somehow conveys some mystical superiority or, conversely, inferiority. Is this not the fundamental basis for caste and race as measuring sticks by which people are included and excluded, without consideration of utilitarian or aesthetic merit?

One of Britain's generals has decided that young Prince Harry will not be going to the war zone in Iraq after all. If one only glances at the headlines, this tidbit of information suggests the sort of privileged preservation that stems from just such nonsensical elevation as notions of blood might warrant. Upon closer inspection, however, the suggestion is that specific death and kidnapping threats against the young royal actually put his entire team risk. Publishing the news that Harry will not, in fact, be accompanying his peers is clearly an attempt to defuse a potentially hazardous situation for (relatively) innocent bystanders who are only going to war, not to serve as specific bullseyes or collateral damage for a known attack. Blame Harry's vulnerability and potential danger on the tabloids, who simply cannot get enough of the tortured young man's images. Perhaps he can find some more nondescript incognito by which to slip into the danger zone and make himself useful instead of a danger to those he would lead and aid.

One King or another, dire danger surrounds those with the potential for leadership, but so does the potential for great achievement, in death as much as in life.

Another Turn

Life's a neverending cycle, and we seem to be turning another revolution. Common wisdom tells us to wage war on childhood obesity, but have we forgotten that only yesterday we waged war on eating disorders in young girls? Now we can face another such epidemic, this time without gender discrimination.

Sure, the party line preaches increased activity, but every young person will tell you that the shortest route to weight control is eating abstinence and purging, not sweat-inducing activity, and who doesn't like short cuts? Experience will teach otherwise, to those who survive. They'll be the ones sending around the next round of e-jokes about how they survived despite all the hullabaloo. How is it that the survival of the fittest so often coincides with the survival of the most obtuse? Thick skin, thick . . . other parts?

Saw a skanky, scrawny blonde thing at the supermarket today. She was wearing those rollerskating shoes that allow little ones who are squirmy enough on two feet to go zipping about, dodging carts and ducking under arms and things. This one was climbing the freezer section railing to reach a pint box (her size) of liquid. Between her skates and her climbing, she somehow managed to cut in front of me. Only superior home training (mine) kept her from being swept off her precarious perch by an oh so casual backhand (or forehand). The fact that she zipped in front of me (not ahead, mind you,) several more times before her mother and I reached the checkout stands at the same time merely exacerbated my fraught nerves. Social coward that I am, I merely thought evil thoughts at her.

She was, of course, the stimulous for this train of thought, though she certainly seems active enough for now. That's probably why I saw her as a viable candidate for anorexia nervosa in a few short years. There is clearly a familial emphasis on slimness for approval. One can only hope that competitiveness puts some meat and muscles on those bony limbs soon.

Moderation, ah the elusiveness of it all.

Aw Shucks

There is war and there are rumors of war, but like the Romans of old, I am distracted by the gladiatorial bouts in the Colisseum, ostensibly staged for the entertainment of the populace, but effectively directing our admittedly deficient attentions away from the machinations of our less than upright and altruistic government officials.

The Golden State Warriors lost last night, looking tired and frustrated against a much more balanced and steady Utah Jazz team. Carlos Boozer was scoring, Derek Fisher was directing traffic and cutting the heart out of his former team with deadly accuracy, and the Warriors just looked tuckered out. It wasn't pretty at the end, though it was pretty close all along the way. Well, they just need to regroup and steal one back in Utah, is all... Kinda how like American activists just need to regroup and get more creative in their thinking and approaches in attempting to effect positive change.

We must not settle for the knowledge that there is always next season; the time is now - always now.

Street Fair Fare

In days of yore before flea markets and craft fairs became such specialized shark pools, local vendors would bring their goods and wares to town and line one or more of a town's main street(s) with booths. The air was filled with tantalizing odors, the eyes with bright colors, the ears with the sounds of live music (and animals). This weekend my town is holding such a street fair.

As in days gone by, vendors get up long before the sun, travel sometimes long distances, and set up their wares for perusal and, hopefully, for purchase. I am generally cynical about modern day vendors, having encountered the same people and products at sundry local fairs about the Bay Area, but perhaps I have been hasty. Just because they travel in gas-powered vehicles to many markets does not make them so very different from sellers of old, does it? Well, maybe...

I asked one lady about her wares, only to learn that they had been manufactured overseas. That was a bit of a bubble pricker for me. I would have been better pleased to have learned that the exorbitant prices being asked were the result of U.S. labor and living expenses.

There was, however, a leather worker, originally from New York, who proudly claimed his own designs and workmanship. There was a definite air of protective possessiveness as he continually straightened his goods in the wake of passing paws. Make no mistake: those were paws and claws rifling his goods.

Then there is the food. How can one pass up freshly made food and drink, especially when there are tables set up invitingly in front of stages on which live musicians are demonstrating their latest recordings, for sale just over there? Is not one of the primary goals of attending a street fair the fare available for consumption? Is not the nose the most demanding organ to control initial choices at a fair, especially for those who take their children in tow?

One delightful sight was that of children dancing uninhibitedly in the street before the musicians. I have clear memories of dire threats made in my childhood, were I to have been so foolish as to whirl and twirl in public that way. It is wonderful to see that children of many races are being provided with such opportunities today.

Equally pleasing was the sight of a petting zoo, limited though it was. One of the classic images of a street fair had to have been the animals brought to market. At this fair, however, the animals were approximately at the same stage of development as those invited to pet them. They were not there as potential food. Still, their presence was particularly pleasing in light of the decreasing opportunities for urban and even suburban children to experience mammalian life forms other than human.

Somewhat more disturbing was the sight of a portable spa van pulled up next to the petting zoo. The line to sign up for service was equally disturbing, especially seeing as how there are a number of local businesses just around the corner that offer precisely such services. How did that van get permission to participate in a street fair in a town straight out of the Stepford playbook? I wonder...

All in all, the fair made for a fun day. Such folk as the leather worker are the kind I once expected to dominate street and craft fairs. They are the ones I still patronize, when their goods and my tastes and wallet can come to terms. They are the ones who seem to me to embody the original spirit of such venues, not the mass marketing leeches trying to squeeze out individual entrepreneurs.

Of course, when I need household supplies, I do head for places such as Wal-Mart, Costco, Walgreen's, and Long's. After all, idealism can be expensive without necessarily paying the bills.

Warriors Won!

Yes, yes, this is not that kind of blog, but how can one not be excited tonight? It's not just the fact that the Golden State Warriors are in the playoffs for the first time in a dozen years, nor is it merely the fact that they have finally won a game in the second round; it's the manner in which they won tonight. After being so close in the closing minutes of both games in Utah, after letting those two games slip through their sweaty fingers, tonight before a home crowd too long denied, the Warriors blew their opponents out of the building. The scene was distinctly reminiscent of Sacramento's vaunted home court advantage until very recently.

Better yet, it looked really outstanding on the oversized television in my living room that cost roughly the same amount as scalpers' tickets on the Internet this morning, but I get to keep on enjoying my tv long after the last echo of tonight's game has died away. Now all I need is that silly little gizmo that Apple is now selling to blow those miniscule i-Tune downloads back up onto my bigass screen...

What was I thinking those many years ago in my tweener youth, squinting delightedly at my first 15" rabbit eared tube?

Sense-Less

Can't see clearly, can't hear much, trying not to breathe deeply enough to smell the nearby litterbox, don't notice bumped objects that I can't hear falling, can't explain welts and bruises on sundry limbs, but if I just eat enough, maybe I can taste a little still...

Ah, evidently not thinking too clearly either... hence the rambling...

Has it been more than a day since last I blogged?

There are wildfires raging down south, tornadoes ripping through the midwest, torrents pelting the east coast, and hurricanes building off the southern states again, as ads sponsored by Southern states begin to proliferate on cable television channels in an attempt to revive the devastated tourist industries down there.


It's shaping up to be a summer of sequels, from meteorological events to political and cinematic ones. Bush and the Democrats are once again at loggerheads over funding the Mideast wars. Meanwhile, comic book heroes, theme park characters, and animated creatures are poised to vie for early summer box office receipts, to say nothing of the midsummer sequels waiting in the wings.


And more pet food recalls are underway.

I know life is supposed to be cyclical, but seriously...

Debriefing

Having spent the last two weeks in shorts and t-shirts, I was a bit startled this morning to find chicken skin all up and down my bare legs. Then it dawned on me: 52 degrees out of the shade - duh! So... a little less briefs and a little more leggings, I guess, at least for now. Ah, I do love bayside and seaside weather!

Still want to know what the MacArthur Maze looks like in the wake of this weekend's accident, but that'll have to wait for another day. There's nothing quite like coming home from a trip during which you've left someone behind in a once nice, clean house. Mind you, I'm not complaining - at least, not loudly enough to be heard...

What's really cool is coming home to an oversized television after having been held essentially incommunicado: sans television, sans radio, sans Internet. There's perspective, and then there's that gnawing sense of deprivation followed by abrupt restoration. What's really cool is that I had a chance to watch this past week's Numbers episode, in which Larry returns from his 4.5 month sojourn in outer space and exhibits a much more severe case of shock from reimmersion in society. It was a particularly well-done episode, which allowed me to get a better handle on my own experience. That was - yeah, that was cool.

There are lots more important things about which to ponder, but as Larry kept his thoughts in his macrame, so I must do a little more belly fluff contemplating for myself before I try to put thoughts into words. It was, after all, a working trip, not a vacation. So it goes.