Country Boy in LA

Cultural Differences

2011-03-22T22:05:00.000-07:00

Some clever dialogue from last week's episode of Justified, one of my new favorite shows:

Marshall: Do you know where I'm from, asshole?

Bank robber: No.

Marshall: Harlan County.

Bank Robber: So?

Marshall: Down there we know the difference between dynamite and road flares.

The marshall then punches the bank robber.

The Big Show? The Big Sleep

2011-03-01T18:37:00.000-08:00

I have been watching the annual Oscar telecast since at least the mid 1970s. (Before then, I was too young and would fall asleep before the show began in Mississippi. Damn those different time zones!) I think I've seen enough of them by now to have a sense when one is incredibly bland and predictable and, well, beige (to use a term from an episode of Will & Grace). I know it's been two days already since we found out this year's winners, but I do have a few random thoughts I wanted to share.

First, when did the Academy members decide to stop picking the winners for these awards for themselves and just slavishly follow whatever choices the various guilds (Screen Actors, Writers, Producers, Directors, etc.) have already made? There was a time in the past when you could expect a surprise or two before the evening was through. No longer. I can't recall the last time the Oscar voters picked someone who hadn't already been "vetted" by the guilds and by the hundreds of awards shows that have sprung up over the years. Every one of those other, usually lesser shows claims to be an accurate predictor of Oscar winners, but really, by the time the Academy Awards roll around, the winners have been so consistent that there is little chance of an "upset" despite all prognostications to the contrary. Boring.

I'm not necessarily complaining about any of the choices. The King's Speech, Colin Firth, Natalie Portman, Christian Bale, Melissa Leo--all were fine selections, really. It's just that all five of them have been given numerous awards in the past couple of months. Surely, there was room for Annette Bening or Amy Adams or even Geoffrey Rush to pick up an award or two here and there so that we could have more suspense coming into the (hopefully) final ceremony of the awards season.

I am not going to spend a great deal of time complaining about this year's co-hosts, James Franco and Anne Hathaway. Frankly, I thought Hathaway was a game participant, and I would love to see her cast in a musical and soon. She is charming and beautiful, and she can wear almost anything and make it look stunning, and she can sing and dance too. She had, though, no help from the script this year. It was all pretty lame. And Franco just seemed completely out of sorts. Maybe live television just isn't his forte, but he just didn't seem to be all that interested in punching up his line readings. I liked some of the opening stuff, where the two of them were "inserted" into different movies from the past year, but otherwise, I could have done without either of them.

In fact, I don't really know why we have a host for a show like this anyway. They don't introduce all of the segments or all of the presenters. They really just seem to eat up time that could be better spent, you know, handing out awards and letting people thank whomever they want without the orchestra drowning them out. I have never liked that musical "playing them off." Whoever invented it needs to be punished. Maybe we can have an orchestra play them off early when it's time for them to die so they can see how it feels. The show isn't really about the hosts. It's about who wins, and why can't the winners have a little more time to say whatever they want to say rather than have us cut back to two hosts chatting about someone in the audience?

Or, worse yet, why do we have to drag out a popular host from the past, Billy Crystal, to make things worse. He got a couple of minutes on Sunday to do some shtick, but Aaron Sorkin has to leave after his few allotted seconds are done. Cue music. Someone's priorities are horribly misplaced. Then, to add insult to injury, Crystal introduces a segment about another popular host, Bob Hope, so that the ceremony can grind to a halt while we listen to a tape from the 1950s. What was the point again? Even a dead host seems to get more time than the winner of Best Live Action Short, and that guy, whose hair deserves an award of its own somehow, needed and should have received more time. And a coupon for a haircut. I'm sure his mother would approve now that she's already helped his career by serving as the craft services person on his short film.

I know that Franco and Hathaway were allegedly chosen because they would appeal to a younger demographic. The two of them even joked about it at the start of the ceremony. But the powers-that-be should realize at some point that young people don't really care about the Oscars. They don't tend to go see movies like Winter's Bone or The King's Speech--at least until after the awards have been handed out and they're curious as to what they've missed. It's middle-aged and older people (and some of the younger ones in the industry) who pay attention to these awards shows. Oh, sure, eventually they'll get around to renting or downloading (or "whatever") a copy of 127 Hours, but given the low box office for many of the nominees, the youth aren't flocking to the theaters to see films of reputed high quality.

By the way, where were last year's winners for Best Supporting Actor...excuse me, Best Actor in a Supporting Role and Best Actress in a Supporting Role, Christoph Waltz and Mo'Nique? Instead we get Kirk Douglas and Reese Witherspoon. Douglas' appearance was just depressing to me. It went on for too long and just made me miss the vital, powerful actor he was in his prime. And, as nice as it was to see Witherspoon again, I would have much preferred keeping the format from the last couple of years when five previous winners announced the nominees in the acting categories. I enjoyed seeing some of the great names from the past, but I guess we wanted to streamline the process so that there would be more time for clips of movies that had won the Oscar dozens of years ago (or even longer).

Speaking of which, I never really quite figured out why we had those moments from Gone with the Wind and Titantic and the others. I know the Academy was paying some sort of tribute to its past, but the link was pretty flimsy each time, and those moments just detracted from the award that was being handed out at the time. If you want to talk about film technique, why not use the nominees in the category instead? I also never quite understood why some of the awards were paired up. Cinematography and Art Direction, for example, or Music and the various sound awards? (True confession: I still don't think I know the difference between sound mixing and sound editing, but I'm happy that a few more people have that gold statuette on the mantel now.) It just seems odd to me. Was it a matter of having fewer presenters or did the producers think that the connections between the awards would be more apparent?

Since I've already wondered, in a way, what the producers were thinking, I have to talk about the montage of this year's ten nominees for Best Picture. Whose idea was it to use dialogue from The King's Speech throughout? The other films had dialogue as well. They even had scripts and words and actors to speak them. Instead, even before the winner was announced, the audience was given the impression that The King's Speech was the only one worthy of having its words delivered on air--and by a stuttering man as well. I found it tacky and disrespectful to the other nominees and all of the people who had worked on them.

I did enjoy listening to the nominees for Best Song being sung, for the most part, by those who originally performed the songs in the movies. How else would I know that Zachary Levi actually has a lovely singing voice? Or that Florence of Florence and the Machine is a very intriguing substitute for Dido? I didn't particularly care for any of the songs, but it was at least respectful to allow the original artists to sing this year rather than have someone younger and allegedly hotter (in most senses of that word) to take over instead.

Finally, I'd like to talk about the children from P.S. 22 who arrived on stage at the end of the awards to sing "Over the Rainbow" (with images of the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz behind them, no less). As charming and adorable and talented as these kids are, the show's over. No one needs to have another five minutes of a show that's already gone on way past the time that it has been allotted. After Best Picture has been announced--by Steven Spielberg yet again, yawn--we just want to change channels to find something else to watch.

I'm not one of those people who claim they'll never watch the show again. Harumph. No, I'll be back next year and the year after that too. I still find the Oscars a fascinating spectacle, and I still wonder each year who will win. I don't really know how to "fix" the awards show, to be honest, and I'm sure that plenty of other people have given all of the advice and suggestions in the past two days that the producers needed but probably didn't want to hear. I'm just disappointed, yes, again, with the fact that Hollywood, the so-called "dream factory," cannot do a better job with its own annual ceremony.

Taking Stock: 2010

2011-01-14T13:18:00.000-08:00

I'm always surprised when I look back on a year and see how much or how little I've done. This past year was rather heavy on movie-going, perhaps as a result of living with someone who loves purchasing discount movie tickets. I saw 58 full-length movies in the theaters last year and another 22 short films. Additionally, I watched 25 more movies on DVD, again thanks primarily to The Boyfriend and his "deals" with Netflix and Blockbuster. That's a lot of movies, and that number could account for why I only read 33 books this past year. Granted, some of those books, like Bowling Alone, were very long and took a while to get through, but still, that's a low number for someone with degrees in English. Even worse? I only saw four plays and four musicals in theaters this year. That's very low, and I hope to do better in 2011.

Favorite Movie: Fantastic Mr. Fox and How to Train Your Dragon were both delightful films, a true joy to watch. We seem to be having such a renaissance in animation these days. Every year the bar for excellence seems to be getting higher and higher, and filmmakers just keep leaping over it. Fantastic Mr. Fox has the voice talent of George Clooney and Meryl Streep and Bill Murry and Jason Schwartzman, among others, and the direction of Wes Anderson. It's stop motion animation about a fox (Clooney) who just can't seem to resist stealing chickens even after he's become "respectable." The world of Mr. Fox was created, of course, by novelist Roald Dahl, but Anderson and company bring it fully to life. How to Tame Your Dragon is all computer generated animation, a very different look from Fantastic Mr. Fox, but once again it's the story that is the delight here. A young Viking, one not particularly adept at dragon-slaying, instead befriends one of the wounded animals and begins enjoying the world of flight and adventure. How to Tame Your Dragon, as I've said earlier, is one of the few films released in 3-D and IMAX this year that truly deserved both.

Runner-Up: Piranha (also known as Piranha 3-D) is a remake of a terribly cheesy movie from the 1970s (which I have seen, yes). Why anyone felt there was a need for another version of this film is a mystery, but I'm glad that the filmmakers decided it was worth the effort. I don't think I had a more enjoyable couple of hours in a movie theater this year. Of course, I know this is hardly high-minded cinematic achievement, but everyone involved seems to know that they should be playing this for laughs. Jerry O'Connell, in particular, seems to be having a blast, making what happens to him even more delicious. You know the story: Swarms of the flesh-eating little monster fish are released accidentally into an unusual environment, this time Lake Havasu during Spring Break. What follows is all rather predictable: people become imperiled out of their own stupidity, lots of folks die (not always at the hands, er, mouths of the fish, by the way), people resist efforts to help them. What made this film stand out for me, though, was not the plot but the energy. If you can set aside your predisposition to want a film with a message and just eat the popcorn (no, not drink the Kool-Aid), you can enjoy the goofy fun of Piranha. I'm actually sort of looking forward to the sequel that the end kind of implies.

If you're really expecting me to pick a "serious" film as one of my favorites of the year, the other runner-up would be The Town, the second film to be directed by Ben Affleck. Affleck and Jeremy Renner (in what may be the best performance by a supporting actor in 2010) head a gang of bank robbers who take a bank manager hostage during a heist. The complications that follow from that mistake lead to some intense discussions about loyalty and pride. All of the actors--including Jon Hamm as an FBI agent and the late Pete Postelthwaite as a florist who's really a mob leader--are top-notch, and the movie is filled with action and tension that make for a great moviewatching experience. I had no idea what to expect from this film when we went to see it, but it turned out to be a jewel.

Favorite Performance (Female): Julianne Moore in The Kids Are All Right almost steals the limelight from Annette Bening, no small feat. As a lesbian couple whose children reconnect with the sperm donor who gave them life, Bening and Moore are note-perfect here. Bening has the difficult task of watching so much of her life seem to fall apart in front of her, but Moore has, in a way, the more challenging role. She has to be the instigator for the series of events that lead to the near-collapse of her family. You can sense just how long she's had to endure people's low expectations of her, how she's never really been expected to do anything on her own that was successful. When she begins a sexual affair with the sperm donor--and who wouldn't, considering that it's Mark Ruffalo at his most rakishly charming--I almost felt betrayed myself, but then I realized just how emotionally needy Moore's Jules is feeling needed and wanted by someone for the first time in a long time. She's not just being taken for granted the way she usually is. It's tough to pull that off, to make an audience care for you when you're engaging in behavior that is really inappropriate, but Moore makes you like, even love Jules despite her mistakes.

Favorite Performance (Male): Joseph Gordon-Levitt in Inception is probably not on most people's radar as a standout performance this year, but what he brings to the role of Arthur, the most steady and reliable member of a team of intriguing misfits who plant dreams in people's heads, is a sly charm and a wise sense of the absurdity of the events that swirl around him and the rest of the main players. I know Leonardo DiCaprio is the star of the film and Tom Hardy brings a reckless abandon to his role and Ellen Page is playing up the snarkiness for which she has become well-known, but I kept waiting for Gordon-Levitt to return to the screen while watching Inception. He is sleek and professional and, with his sleek hair and carefully tailored clothing, a real charmer. When he steals a kiss from Page's Ariadne because, as he puts it, "it's worth a shot," you can't help but find him appealing. I realize that I may have asked this before, but who knew when we were watching Third Rock from the Sun years ago that we were witnessing the beginnings of what has turned out to be a remarkable and diverse career for a young actor?

Favorite Play: Del Shores usually writes plays that are more comedic that Yellow, stuff like Southern Baptist Sissies or Sordid Lives. Yellow has its moments of humor as well, but it takes on such serious topics as religious fundamentalism, faithfulness in marriage, parent-child relationships, even critical illnesses. Throughout the couple of hours that the actors occupy the stage--a beautifully if typically blandly done middle-class household in Mississippi--we learn a lot about the kinds of people their characters are. The son of the neighbor who befriends the main characters' family (and who winds up being taken in by them) will, of course, grow up to be gay. The way he is treated by his mother and his best friend (the family daughter) and even the family's son whom he has a crush on says a lot about who we are as a people and who we can aspire to be. The run of Yellow was extended several times at the Coast Playhouse, and it's easy to see why. Shores is a masterful writer, one who understands that so-called simple people truly lead complex, complicated lives.

Favorite Musical: I saw only a few musicals, and all of them were pretty spectacular, but the one I remember most fondly is [title of show]. No, that's not a typo; that's what it's called. It's a four-person show about the creation of an off-Broadway musical. Two men, one of them gay, and two women, both hilarious, present vignettes about the process of writing a show that you hope someone will see. All four actors--one of them best known for playing a drag queen called Bridgette of Madison County--are good singers and dancers, and the fact that the show was in the small venue of the Celebration Theatre made us in the audience seem even more invested in seeing this show-within-a-show musical come to fruition.

Runner-Up: The rest of the musicals I saw were all touring companies of Broadway productions, and the one that stands out is South Pacific. The revival of this well-loved show was everything you might have hoped for in a musical: great cast, spectacular sets, memorable songs. Everything about the production was gorgeous, and I (and the rest of the audience) sang along with the performers all night long. I had previously only seen the film version of South Pacific, never the full stage musical. This was definitely the way to make up for that deficit.

Favorite Book (Fiction): Sometimes picking up a new book is like visiting an old friend. You immediately know about the main character, and you just want to find out what's been happening her or his life since last you met. Reading Mary Ann in Autumn by Armistead Maupin was just such an experience. I've read all of the books in the Tales of the City series, even used one of them in my dissertation, and I've loved the characters so much since I picked up my first book (Sure of You) many years ago upon the advice of a then-boyfriend in Alabama. In Maupin's latest, Mary Ann returns to San Francisco after many years away focusing first upon her career and then upon her second marriage. All of the characters from the earlier novels return, some of them all too briefly, and once again, I found myself caught up in the lives of the former residents of Barbary Lane. Maupin is such a master of handling multiple plots and numerous characters. I hope there are many more Tales of the City books to come.

Runner-Up: I also had a chance to read the book Maupin finished in the series before Mary Ann in Autumn. Michael Tolliver Lives diverges from the other novels in that it is told in first person. This isn't too much of a distraction, however, since Michael (or "Mouse") is probably the surrogate for almost every gay men who's ever read one of these books. This is a novel about life and death and the consequences of both living and dying. I know that sounds rather unhelpful as a description, but reading Michael discuss how his life has changed after finding love with a younger man despite Michael's own diagnosis with HIV is a joy. I'm so grateful Maupin didn't allow this beloved character to die. The spectre of death isn't limited to just the main character, though, as he has to deal with the illnesses of his mother in Florida and his "adopted" mother in San Francisco. This is a somewhat melancholy work, but it was a pleasure for me to read this and Mary Ann in Autumn and get back in touch with these characters once again.

Favorite Book (Non-Fiction): The Star Machine by Jeanine Basinger looks at the Hollywood production system from almost the start of moviemaking until the collapse of the studio system in the 1960s. Basinger looks at fan magazine stories and publicity stills and in-house manuals, among other materials, to examine how it was exactly that our modern notions of what it takes to be a "star" got created and refined. This is fascinating reading, particularly when she begins looking at specific performers. I especially liked the attention to those stars who really didn't quite fit the mold of traditional Hollywood standards.

Runner-Up: I read two autobiographies, in particular, that I enjoyed this year: Like a Lampshade in a Whorehouse by Phyllis Diller and This Time Together by Carol Burnett. Diller has always been one of my favorite funny people, and I still have very fond memories of watching Burnett's show on Saturday nights when I was a kid. Both women are great storytellers. Diller's is a somewhat more traditional biography in that it follows her life from its beginnings through her failed marriage to success as a performer. Along the way, you get some of her best jokes as well. I laughed at the ones I recalled and at new ones I'd never heard before. Burnett's book is more like a series of vignettes, brief memories of people and instances from her life that people tend to ask her about most frequently. Both are fun and informative and testaments to perseverance.

Favorite Book (Poetry): The Fact of a Doorframe by Adrienne Rich was a book I was assigned to read in graduate school at USC almost twenty years ago now. I picked it up and started rereading it this summer and couldn't stop. Rich has written such a remarkable body of work over the years, and this collection of some of her best from the start of her career until the early 1990s is magnificent. I recall sitting in a packed auditorium at USC listening to her read from this collection and An Atlas of the Difficult World and just feeling like I would never get a chance to experience someone with this much power and control over the written word. I think almost any collection of Rich's work would transport a reader, but The Fact of a Doorframe is a great starting point.

Highlight of the Year: I dubbed it The Week of Music. On Friday, Aug. 20, The Boyfriend and I and a couple of friends went to see Rufus Wainwright at the Greek Theatre. Friends and readers of this blog know how much I love Rufus, and he didn't disappoint with this show. The first half was devoted to his most recent collection, All Days are Nights: Songs for Lulu. He didn't allow anyone to applaud during this portion of the show as he was performing the music as a song cycle. He entered slowly, walking across the stage in a goth-glam rock outfit, and sat at the piano and played. Behind him was a screen that projected a series of images of eyes throughout the performance. You can't say he doesn't try something new now and then. The second half of the show featured Rufus in his more traditional style of performing, charming the audience with anecdotes and flubbed lines. I loved that his sister Martha and her infant son were a part of the show as well; Martha is a great, underrated performer. Then again, I think Rufus still is too.

Next, on Sunday, Aug. 22, the Boyfriend and I went to the Hollywood Bowl to see John Mayer. Say what you want to about Mayer, but I enjoyed the show. He's only a passable singer, to be honest, but even he realizes that about himself. In fact, I found one of the most endearing aspects of the show to be his self-deprecating humor. He's heard all of the stuff written and said about him, and he freely admits to some of it and even laughs about the public persona he has. However, the best part of the show is his guitar playing. No matter what you might think about him overall, you should acknowledge that he is a remarkable picker. He sang some of his more famous hits and a couple of songs such as Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" that show just how talented he really is. I can't say much about his opening act, Owl City, except that I did recognize the one song "they" had that was a hit.

The following Friday, August 27, we were back at the Greek Theatre to see Cyndi Lauper in concert. Most of the first part of her set was music from her blues album, which by the way is pretty fantastic. She also told some hilarious stories about what life on the road is like, including on very bizarre, rambling one about a cricket that she befriended. The second part of the show was devoted to her hits, and I have to say that the audience went wild when she started singing songs like "Girls Just Want to Have Fun" and "Time after Time." Lauper may not still be on the minds of today's pop music programmers, but she knows how to perform. Her opening act was the legendary Allen Toussaint. He even came back to perform a couple of numbers with Lauper.

In all my 47 years, I've never attended that many concerts in just one week. However, given how much fun we had at all three, I'd be willing to try it again this summer. The schedule for the Hollywood Bowl is due in about another week, and I'm sure the Greek Theatre can't be far behind. Maybe they'll lead to the most memorable highlight of 2011.

Quick Takes in IMAX and 3-D

2010-12-29T19:59:00.000-08:00

I simply must get around to blogging about movies more often. When I realize how many months have passed since I saw these films, it makes me wonder how much attention I've been giving my love of watching and writing about movies.

Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland is, in my opinion, a real mess. It has a convoluted story with far too much bizarre non sequitur type stuff going on. I know it's somewhat spectacular (or garish, depending upon your perspective) to look at, but why couldn't he and his colleagues simply have used the plot from the Lewis Carroll novel? Why did it have to be some meta-narrative about Alice returning to Wonderland and re-encountering people she had met there before in her childhood dreams? And why does it have to be called "Underland" when that's not in the title of the movie? And why were so many talented people wasted in such strange parts? I like Helena Bonham Carter and Anne Hathaway and even Johnny Depp (when he isn't in these latter day Burton movies, that is), but they are just given strange things to do here. None of them get to play fully developed characters because Burton and his collaborators have strayed too far from the source material in their attempts to be clever and artsy. Carroll knew how to make the Mad Hatter (Depp's thankless role here) interesting. All Burton can do is make him dance a very strange dance and mumble jibberish. And having seen Mia Wasikowska (who plays Alice) in other roles such as the daughter in The Kids Are All Right, I know she has a great deal of promise as an actress, but she's so passive and bland as Alice that I couldn't imagine why anyone would build an entire movie around her. Yes, The Boyfriend and I saw this in IMAX and 3-D, but I can't say that either of those "experiences" truly enhanced my enjoyment of this movie.

Clash of the Titans was nowhere near as fun or as campy as the "original" from 1981, but nowadays films have to be special effects extravaganzas in order to be considered event movies like this one. In making the focus primarily upon special effects rather than, say, characterization, the filmmakers tend to lose the interest of a lot of viewers like me. I found this to be little more than what's been dubbed a "popcorn" movie: a few hours away from it and you forget almost all of it. There's little nourishment to be had. Sam Worthington, fresh from his success in Avatar, is the lead here as Perseus, a mortal son of Zeus whom the gods have given the unenviable task of saving the world from Hades and his evil minions. I expect Worthington to continue being promoted as the latest It Boy, but he doesn't strike me as the type who can handle a movie that isn't primarily about the special effects. Hades (played by Ralph Fiennes, who seems to be interested only in supporting parts these days and the odder, the better) plans to conquer the heavens eventually as well, so Zeus (Liam Neeson) has a stake in Perseus' eventual success. You don't really watch a movie like this for the plot, however, or for learning about the mythology upon which it's allegedly based. No, a film like this is primarily an opportunity to see how well the special effects team can create super-sized scorpions (try saying that one three times fast) and the kraken/cracken/whatever, and all of that is well done (although I still miss the days when Ray Harryhausen did special effects for films like this and the viewing of them was more fun). Like Alice in Wonderland, Clash of the Titans had also been converted to 3-D after its making, but we were able to see it in its original 2-D format. Again, I don't think there's anything about 3-D that would have enhanced the experience for me.

The Boyfriend and I were actually hoping to see a different film, but it was sold out, so we wound up going to see Date Night instead. If this were the 1930s, I'd use the term "screwball comedy" to characterize Date Night, and I always enjoyed those earlier films. Steve Carell and Tina Fey play a couple in the suburbs whose lives have been boring and routine. They still manage to have a "date night" on occasion, but even that is rather monotonous. After hearing that some friends are ending their marriage, Carell and Fey's Phil and Claire Foster decide to go to New York City and have an elegant, romantic evening at a fashionable restaurant. When they discover that you need a reservation far in advance, they assume the identity of another couple whose name is called. A couple of thugs with guns, thinking they are the couple with the reservation, take the Fosters into an alley behind the restaurant and attempt to kill them. What follows is a hilarious pursuit through the city, an homage to those earlier screwball comedies. Mark Wahlberg has a supporting role as one of Claire's former clients, one to whom she was obviously attracted, and he makes the most of his brief time on the screen. Carell's reaction to the flirting going on between his wife and Wahlberg's character is priceless. There's no deep meaning to this film and you won't learn any true life lessons from watching it--you already know that you should appreciate your spouse and spend more time with her or him, and you already know that sometimes a boring life with someone you love is all you truly need--but you'll certainly laugh at some of the situations in which Carell and Fey find themselves and the ways they try to get out of those situations. You don't need gimmicks like 3-D or IMAX in order to make a film like this one entertaining.

Dream Boy is a small independent movie about two next door neighbor boys who fall in love with each other and begin a furtive sexual relationship. The film is set in the South, apparently during the 1970s or early 1980s, based upon the clothing styles, and that naturally means that the boys, who are teens still in high school, have to keep their relationship a secret from their families and friends. Of course, each of the boys is saddled with trouble in their personal lives, and even though neither of the scenarios is all that unique in terms of independent gay film these days, I won't reveal the alleged surprises that occur. I will, however, readily admit to being appalled if not shocked at what happens when the boys join three of their so-called friends for a weekend getaway in the woods. (Why would people who basically live in the woods already feel a need to get away to the woods for an entire weekend? That mentality has always confused me, being from the country myself.) Both of the lead actors, Stephan Bender and Maximilian Roeg, are quite good, and it was a pleasure to see Diana Scarwid and Rickie Lee Jones playing their mothers. And I always enjoy seeing cinematography of the South when it's handled this well; it creates quite an appropriate mood and atmosphere.

How to Train Your Dragon was one of the highlights of the year for me. I'll be honest and admit that I didn't have high expectations based upon the few trailers I had seen, but when The Boyfriend insisted, I went along, paying for the 3-D and IMAX enhanced version as well. And, boy, am I glad that I did. This is a relatively simple tale of a young Viking named Hiccup (voiced by Jay Baruchel) who is an outsider in his village. He doesn't seem to be as athletic as his fellow teens or as interested in dragon slaying as they are. He does, though, want to fit in, so he begins going to classes in how to hunt and kill dragons, and we in the audience learn about the different varieties of dragons--a charming sequence in the film. Hiccup gets involved in defending the village from a dragon attack and injures a rare dragon of the Night Fury variety. He befriends it rather than kills it, and he and the girl he loves (you knew there would be a love interest) enjoy spending time helping the beast Hiccup has nicknamed Toothless regain his ability to fly. I suppose I don't need to tell you that Hiccup becomes the true hero of the story or that Toothless is integral to his success; you have seen enough movies about outsiders to know how this all ends. Yet knowing that some of the standard cliches are going to be included doesn't detract from the joy of watching some thrilling flying sequences or enjoying some broadly comic scenes involving Hiccup and his fellow schoolmates. This was one of the few movies in 3-D that I saw this year that was truly deserving of putting on those funny glasses.

I have never been a fan of the slasher genre of films. I've seen a few over the years, but I could never quite understand the appeal of watching some crazed killer devise new ways to off people. It always seemed like a sick joke to me that there's a large audience out there for these kinds of movies. The Boyfriend, however, is a huge fan (although he does have an odd tendency to hide his eyes whenever a particularly gruesome murder takes place while I'm always able to watch and be disgusted by what I see--go figure). So you can imagine my reluctance to go see A Nightmare on Elm Street, the "rebooting" of the series that stretches back to the 1980s. I think I had seen one of them, but The Boyfriend has seen them all and wanted to compare this one to those he already knew and apparently enjoyed. Well, even he didn't like this one. It's an attempt to give us a history of how Freddy Krueger (played now by Jackie Earle Haley) became the killer that he is. There's a backstory involving a class of students who all share a secret that I won't reveal even though it isn't all that surprising anyway. They begin dying off one by one, but to be honest, I found it difficult to care about any of them because they are so underdeveloped as individual characters and the actors portraying them are all relatively bland. Even the hunky Kellan Lutz, probably better known from those Eclipse movies, is wasted here, as is the great Connie Britton as the mother of one of the girls who is consistently tormented throughout the film. The Boyfriend, being more knowledgeable about the series, tried to explain some of the links to the original that the filmmakers tried to incorporate, but I think a film should be able to stand on its own, particularly when you're trying to delve into the origin of one of the most famous slashers in the past few decades. At the end of this film, all I felt was as exhausted.

Planning Ahead

2010-12-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

We had been working on doing some prewriting activities for the final essay of the semester in my developmental writing classes. Not horribly complicated stuff. Just getting some ideas down on paper for use in the rough draft. We'd been at it for about an hour, and I suggested that most of the information needed for a response to the assignment was now on the sheets of paper in front of them. I then asked them to take what we had previously discussed about organization and write an outline for the rough draft. I thought I would get some solid attempts at putting together a framework for an essay, but I have to admit that my favorite came from one of the football players. His outline, preserved in its original form:

intro
body
body
body
conlusion [sic]

As one of my colleagues stated, this student certainly seems to have caught on to how things work in a writing class. Unsurprisingly, his final draft was, to be generous, a bit of a mess and rather tough to follow. Makes you wonder how he went wrong with a structure like the one above.

Spiritual Awakening

2010-12-01T08:24:00.000-08:00

The assignment was a relatively simple one. I asked students to watch a movie or television show, select a specific group of people depicted on that show or in the movie, and then explain what a viewer's impression of that group would be based upon how it was depicted. I did suggest that it might be more interesting to choose a group of which the student was not a member.

The students (all of them in my developmental writing classes) made some intriguing choices: serial killers (Dexter), Alaskans (The Proposal), gypsies or "pikeys" (Snatch), pirates (One Piece), married men (Old School), bosses (The Office), snipers (Enemy at the Gates), even Jedis (Star Wars Episode II: The Attack of the Clones). A few faltered in the explanation of how the group was depicted, but it was only a rough draft, so I expect the final drafts will likely be stronger and have more examples and other details.

One, however, stood out not only for the group chosen for discussion but also for a couple of astonishing statements. The students is a tall, athletic Latino. I have reason to suspect that he might be religious given the brochures for the Latter Day Saints that I've seen in his notebook. I would never have suspected that he would choose Pineapple Express as the movie and potheads as the group. The overall essay was strong for a rough draft, but when I read the following statements in the introduction, I have to admit that I was pretty shocked: "People are very judgmental nowadays and they will try to determine the type of person you are by any little thing that they see. For instance people that smoke Marijuana are looked at upon in a very bad way just because they smoke a natural herb that God created for us." In the conclusion, he returned to the same idea: "Potheads are not bad people, they smoke a natural herb that was placed here by God. Humans don't add any chemicals or change the material to make what they want. It is a natural plant and you can pick it and smoke it instantly, other drugs need to be played around with to get the final result, but that's why marijuana is not bad." Yes, I preserved his grammatical errors in the quote, not to mention his apparent lack of knowledge of how people...um..."use" marijuana.

I know I probably shouldn't be shocked that there's a Christian rationalization for pot smoking. People can probably justify almost anything under the umbrella of religious faith. It just seemed so out of character for this young man. He states in his essay that he doesn't smoke pot (although he has friends who do) and I suspect that to be the case, but I would have never considered him to be a supporter of marijuana use. He even defended potheads as being more goal-oriented that people typically give them credit for being.

I feel like I learn something astonishing with almost every set of papers I read these days.

Shame on the Hall of Fame

2010-11-26T15:01:00.000-08:00

For the past three weeks or so, I've been posting videos on my Facebook page of women who have not been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame but who deserve to be (in my opinion, at least). It's a astonishing list: Joan Baez, Pat Benatar, Cher, Petula Clark, Lesley Gore, Janet Jackson, Joan Jett, Carole King, Cyndi Lauper, Stevie Nicks, Laura Nyro, Linda Ronstadt, Buffy Sainte Marie, Carly Simon, Tina Turner, Mary Wells, the Chiffons, the Crystals, the Go-Gos, the Indigo Girls, the Marvelettes, and the Shangri-Las. All of these women have made significant and lasting contributions to rock and roll and to music in general, yet they have yet to be included among the august company of inductees. And I stopped before I could include other luminaries such as Judy Collins, Marianne Faithful, Lita Ford, Janis Ian, Rickie Lee Jones, Nico, Helen Reddy, Carla Thomas, the Dixie Cups, the Runaways, and the Slits (whose lead singer recently passed away).

When you see that list of names and then you look at some of the inductees into the Hall of Fame, you begin to wonder just how fairly women are treated in rock music. I'm not trying to quibble over some of the people who have already been honored, but I do think that if you could find room to include the Dave Clark Five and Gene Vincent and the Lovin' Spoonful and Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, surely there must be room for Pat Benatar and Linda Ronstadt and the Go-Gos and Lesley Gore. If you can induct Bob Dylan and then later induct his band, The Band, then you can induct Joan Baez. If you can include James Taylor, then you can include his ex-wife Carly Simon and his current touring partner Carole King. If you can induct the Jackson Five and then later induct Michael Jackson, certainly you can make room for younger sister Janet Jackson.

It's true that Tina Turner is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame already, but as a part of a duo with her ex-husband, not for her solo career. Given the bad blood between them, Tina decided that she would skip the ceremony when they were inducted, leaving Ike Turner to enjoy an evening to revel in his success. Tina Turner has never had a chance to feel that same sense of pride. Yes, Stevie Nicks is also in the hall, but as a part of Fleetwood Mac, not for her solo career. Her time as a solo artist is almost equal to the time she's spent with the rest of Fleetwood Mac. Lest you think that it would be inappropriate to induct someone twice, just remember that Eric Clapton has been inducted three times already, for his solo work and as a part of the Yardbirds and as a member of Cream. And fifteen other men have been inducted twice, including three of the Beatles (no, not Ringo Starr--yet) and all of the members of Crosby, Stills, & Nash. Tina Turner and Stevie Nicks and other female performers should get the same consideration.

Likewise, Carole King is included in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but in the "non-performer" category that is now named after famed record producer Ahmet Ertegun. She's there with her songwriting partner, Gerry Goffin, but to consider King a non-performer is to miss the contributions of her overall career. Maybe none of the nominating committee has ever listened to Tapestry, at one time the biggest-selling album by a female artist.

By this point, you may be wondering just which women are already in the Hall of Fame. It is an impressive list of performers. The solo female artists in the hall are Aretha Franklin (inducted in 1987), LaVern Baker (1991), Ruth Brown (1993), Etta James (1993), Janis Jopin (1995), Joni Mitchell (1997), Dusty Springfield (1999), Bonnie Raitt (2000), Brenda Lee (2002), Patti Smith (2007), and Madonna (2008). That's eleven women out of the 82 solo artists who have been inducted, about 13 percent of the total. You may notice that not all of them are truly "rock and roll" singers, but they all have certainly influenced rock music throughout the years.

When it comes to duos and groups, the counting gets a bit trickier. Sixteen duos and groups with at least one female member have been inducted, among them the Supremes (inducted in 1988), Ike and Tina Turner (1991), Sly and the Family Stone (1993), Martha and the Vandellas (1995), Gladys Knight and the Pips (1996), Jefferson Airplane (1996), the Shirelles (1996), the Velvet Underground (1996), Fleetwood Mac (1998), the Mamas and the Papas (1998), the Staple Singers (1999), Talking Heads (2002), the Pretenders (2005), Blondie (2006), the Ronettes (2007), and ABBA (2010). A few of those, like the Pretenders and Blondie, are fronted by women, and others, like the Supremes and Martha and the Vandellas, are exclusively female groups, but no one would consider Sly and the Family Stone or the Talking Heads to be "female-centered." Still, if you're feeling generous, duos or groups with female members constitute 18 percent of the 87 duos and groups in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

(A quick note about the Velvet Underground: You may have noticed that I included Nico, who performed with the Underground quite often, as one of the women yet to be inducted. That's because she was omitted from the list of members when the group was honored in 1996. Maureen Tucker, the band's drummer, was included among the honorees, so that's why the Velvet Underground is included above.)

This is all about the category for "performers," by the way, but there are four other categories in which one could be inducted. There's one for "early influences, which includes thirty people, six of them women (Bessie Smith, Ma Rainey, Dinah Washington, Mahalia Jackson, Billie Holiday, and Wanda Jackson). Jackson, of course, was a contemporary of performers like Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis, both of whom are inducted as performers. Early influences, according to the hall's website, are performers "whose music predated rock and roll but had an impact on the evolution of rock and roll and inspired rock's leading artists." Perhaps there's some logic at work here that would explain why Jackson (who was inducted in this category in 2009) wasn't just included among the performers, given that she was one of the few women playing rockabilly music in the 1950s, but it escapes me. The lifetime achievement category has seven inductees, all of them men, none of them performers. I've already mentioned the "non-performers" category above with respect to Carole King. Two other women, both songwriters, are included in this category: Ellie Greenwich and Cynthia Weil, both of them inducted with their male songwriting partners too. That category contains 41 individuals. Finally, there's the "sidemen" category, which includes fifteen men best known for performing as backup musicians.

The rules for how an artist is inducted, to be fair, are a bit bewildering. There's a committee that picks finalists each year from a list of artists who have had at least twenty-five years since the release of their first record. Who's on the committee is never quite clear. Neither is it clear who the 500 "rock experts" are who are given ballots of the finalists to select. An artist must be chosen by more than 50 percent of those "experts" in order to be inducted.

This year's nominees are Alice Cooper (the whole band, not just the individual), the Beastie Boys, Bon Jovi, Chic (which has female members), Neil Diamond, Donovan, Dr. John, the J. Geils Band, LL Cool J, Darlene Love, Laura Nyro, Donna Summer, Joe Tex, Tom Waits, and Chuck Willis. Love, Nyro, and Summer have all been finalists in the past; none of them are given good odds for induction this year, but who can tell what the "experts" might decide.

I'd like to make a case for one female artist, in particular. Pat Benatar released her first major studio album in 1979 although she had, technically, released a single ("Day Gig") five years earlier. That would mean that she has been eligible for induction at least since 2004. To my knowledge, she's never even been one of the finalists. Yet she has amassed nineteen Top 40 singles, numerous gold, platinum, and multi-platinum albums, and four consecutive Grammy Awards for the Best Female Rock Vocal Performance. That last honor is rather unprecedented (well, outside of the polka category). Benatar received her first Grammy for 1980's Crimes of Passion album, her second for "Fire and Ice," the third for "Shadows of the Night," and her final award for "Love Is a Battlefield." She was nominated an additional three times in the same category and once more in the Female Pop Vocal Performance.

She was a star from the release of the single "Heartbreaker" in 1979, and she was well established enough by the time that MTV arrived in 1981 that her video for "You Better Run" was the second video ever shown on the channel (after "Video Killed the Radio Star" by the Buggles--someone at MTV had a sense of humor). She was known for her live performances and her groundbreaking videos, and she's still performing today with her husband of twenty-eight years, guitarist Neil Giraldo, and the rest of her band. I myself saw her perform at Mississippi State University in the mid 1980s, and I can still recall how powerful a singer she was (and is) despite being so tiny. I regretted not going to her show this past summer at the Greek Theatre, but she was touring with REO Speedwagon, and I didn't think I could manage to sit through their segment in order to enjoy Benatar and her music.

Benatar took up causes in her music, including domestic violence, child abuse, and sexism. If you read her autobiography published earlier this year, Between a Heart and a Rock Place, you'll understand just how much of a pioneer she truly was. She was one of the few women to challenge the men who controlled the music business. While she didn't always succeed, she managed to get the last laugh sometimes. I think her video for "Sex as a Weapon" was clearly aimed at everyone who told her that she needed to look pretty for the stage.

I cannot imagine a Rock and Roll Hall of Fame that doesn't include someone like Pat Benatar. She defined what being a rock star was during the 1980s and beyond. There's a scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High where some girls are talking about how much everyone is influenced by Benatar, and the camera then pans the school to show girls with that famous haircut and those outfits. I can even recall when the band Quarterflash was popular (briefly), and everyone was talking about how much the lead singer was copying Benatar's vocal style. Lots of other women in music did too, but it's too bad that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame hasn't seen fit yet to honor her contributions.

Nutty Neighbors: Late-Breaking News

2010-10-01T18:04:00.000-07:00

I know that I should keep you updated more often on the neighbors, but work takes up so much time these days that it's difficult to let you know about every crazy little thing that they do. For example, should I tell you about the loud fight they had last evening? It's not the first argument they've had, mind you, but this one lasted for a couple of hours and there was a lot of yelling involved. However, since they seemed to have made up this morning, perhaps I'll instead update you on a couple of other interesting items.

Item 1: For the past couple of weeks, the key case (you may recall it was very cleverly marked "KEY CASE" so no one would suspect what it is) disappeared from the door frame out in the hallway. The Boyfriend and I speculated about the possible reasons--she lost the case as well as the keys, they have no friends to leave the keys for any longer, he started stapling the key to her clothes every morning--but we reached no conclusion. However, I returned home one night earlier this week to find that the key is still being left in the hallway, just in a less conspicuous fashion.

Yes, that's the edge of the rug in the hallway. Yes, we're back to leaving the key under the rug. Yes, we're also not being very careful about how exposed our key is.

Item 2: Despite the months of having the key case (or, as if you prefer KEY CASE) on the door frame in the hallway and despite now having the key under the mat, Godzilla still sometimes locks herself out of the apartment and has to call the security patrol to let her into her home. It's a $50 charge each time, so it's costing her some money to do this. However, that's not the most unusual part of this. Several weeks ago, we received a memo regarding the complex's policy on dogs. It clearly states (in bold letters and some all capital letters, no less): "Pet Dogs are NEVER allowed in any Tower unit." You may recall that I live in one of the towers in the complex. Godzilla just happened to be sitting in front of her apartment with a dog in her lap when the patrol officer came by to unlock her door. He told her that he would unlock the door but reminded her that dogs were not allowed in the tower apartments. He even mentioned that we had recently received a memo about this issue. I am quite certain that Godzilla didn't read the memo, since most of the memos or phone books or fast food brochures wind up lying on the floor outside her apartment for days until someone else picks them up. She responded that she was just taking care of the dog for a friend--you know, dog-sitting. That's when the patrol officer reminded her of another provision that was included in the memo: "NO visitor or guest dogs are allowed on the property." She asked him to open her door anyway and said that she would take the dog somewhere else that night. You know, of course, how this turned out, don't you? The dog stayed the entire night, and it whimpered every time she left the apartment. Thankfully, its owner must have picked it up the next day, and there's been no further sign of a dog on this floor. (As for other floors, well, that's another story. Apparently, it isn't just Godzilla who doesn't--or can't--read memos.)

Item 3: For the past four days, there has been a box in the hallway outside the door to Godzilla and Hermey's apartment. It's the box from a new printer for a computer, and there is a printer inside. The Boyfriend thinks it's a brand new printer, complete with printer cartridge sitting on top. I think it's an old printer, maybe the one the new printer replaced, with a cartridge that won't fit the new one. Nevertheless, it just looks a bit trashy to leave one's garbage outside in the hallway, especially since we don't have door-to-door pick-up of garbage. Neither Godzilla nor Hermey will take the responsibility to move the box down to the garbage bins in the basement, and The Boyfriend is threatening to take the printer and sell it on Craigslist.

I guess it's not all that intrusive.

It just sticks out a bit and I know you can just walk around it, but I'm sure if you're a considerate tenant, you can think of ways to make it less of an obstacle.

You'd think if someone has the ability to move a box so that it doesn't stick out into the hallway as much as before, that same person could carry it to the garbage chute or to the basement so that the hallway doesn't look like the start of an episode of Hoarders.

This certainly isn't the first time that Godzilla and/or Hermey has left garbage in the hallway. Thankfully, it's usually only paper products like the new phone books or those fast food menus I mentioned above (or those helpful, informative memos from the apartment complex's owners). Still, you'd expect grown-ups to want their place to look a bit nicer than this, particularly if they are still going to have friends come over to visit. Then again, I guess I don't have much evidence that the people living next door are actually grown-ups.

Advice for Advisors

2010-10-01T17:36:00.000-07:00

I've been the advisor for a student club on my campus for fifteen years. As the years have progressed, I've noticed that the bureaucratic demands have only increased. To be more accurate, they've gotten worse, and I've gotten more frustrated. Sometime, perhaps when I'm feeling less wounded from the experience, I'll try to recount what happened in the spring when the club wanted to put on a drag show as a fundraiser. It was, simply put, a nightmare and one of the busiest times I've ever experienced as an advisor. I even started to think that that it might be institutional homophobia since the club is for LGBT students and their friends and supporters. However, when you receive an e-mail like the one below, you start to realize that it isn't at all personal. The bureaucracy treats everyone badly.

I received this e-mail from the person in charge of all of the clubs on campus. It was meant to give students some ideas for how they might "earn" some money for their club activities. It's not that unusual, frankly, because a lot of clubs and other groups at colleges and universities go to tapings of television shows. They just don't have to deal with as much paperwork as we do. You should know that the person who sent this e-mail is very well-intentioned, but as you can tell from the following, maybe a bit too hung up on forms.

"Here's a fun fundraising/event idea, however please keep in mind that such events should be planned at least 6 weeks in advance to meet the campus timelines and process requirement.

"(FYI....There won't be enough time to turnaround approvals for these October events, however, keep this type of event in mind for future.)

"For fundraising events such as this, please remember to:

"Start planning at least 6 weeks in advance
"Obtain information/agreement/co. forms from the taping co. Be sure to read the details very carefully. Pls check age requirement
"Seek availability of appropriate advisor to attend/supervise event
"Seek Club approval
"Submit FC Pre-Approval Form for Club Events to Student Affairs with fundraising form
"Once approved, submit Master Calendar request
"Complete FC Agreement/Contract Packet and forward to Co to sign. This contract is needed back at FC Student Affairs at least 3 weeks prior to the event to obtain FC signatures (per the FC President, there are no exceptions)
"Submit Field Trip Request with waivers/participant agreement forms to Student Affairs at least 6 working days prior to the event for campus approvals (for FC Students, Faculty and Staff only)
"Once event is approved by the campus, then you can begin to promote the event, as normal (submit Distribution of Printed Materials form with copy of flier to Student Affairs; obtain signage approvals through Student Affairs)
"Once payment is received from company, complete the reconciliation part of the copy of your initial fundraiser form (including advisor's signature) and submit it with the deposit form (with advisors signature) and payment to Student Affairs for processing.
"Enjoy!"

Well, that should be simple enough, shouldn't it? I think that last bullet point must have been ironic. If you've survived all of the preceding steps of the process, you won't have the energy to enjoy your time at Chelsea Lately or Dancing with the Stars or Let's Make a Deal.

I have tried several times over the past few years to convince some other faculty or classified staff member to take over as the advisor to the club. We used to have four advisors. In fact, there were times when the advisors outnumbered the club members. That's actually how the LGBT employee group got started; we were talking together at a student meeting and decided to form our own organization. Times were simpler then, and more people were able to be involved in things like advising. Can you imagine finding a replacement now if she or he found out about what the school demands just to travel to a taping of a television show? And don't even ask what you'd need to submit if you wanted to take one of the school vans to the event.

Doc Days

2010-08-14T10:54:00.000-07:00

The past decade has seen such tremendous growth in the popularity of documentaries. I have a dear friend who sees almost every documentary that makes it into the theatres and most of the ones that only appear on DVD, but I don't get to see as many of them as I would like. However, this summer I did manage to catch three great ones.

8: The Mormon Proposition is about the ways that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints helped to place the anti-gay Proposition 8 on the ballot in California and then supported it financially to ensure its passage. I doubt many people are unfamiliar with Prop. 8 at this point, given how much it's been in the news the past few weeks with the federal ruling that banning gay couples from marrying is a violation of the Constitution, but even if you think you've heard all there is to say about Prop. 8, you'll still find this film enlightening. Of course, it is one-sided, but it's a political documentary, not a film made for middle-school children. If you weren't angry at the church (the Mormon church or any other one, for that matter), watching this film just might remedy that problem. If nothing else, you should at least begin to question why churches with such vast amounts of wealth are not taxed and are allowed to insinuate themselves into political issues.

Stonewall Uprising attempts to piece together the story of the riots that erupted in New York City in 1969 when the police raided a gay bar called the Stonewall Inn. The riots are often credited with starting the gay rights movement, a gross oversimplification of the truth, to be honest. However, the importance of the Stonewall riots is undeniable as a flashpoint for gay identity. Once gay people realized that they didn't have to remain oppressed, that they could indeed fight back against their oppressors, everything seems to have changed. I admired that the film's makers managed to find so many people who were involved in the riots and their aftermath, including one of the police officers who has since changed his mind about gay people and is supportive of gay rights. It's pretty intriguing historical information that's imparted by the various participants, and I think the movie does an excellent job of placing the riots within the historical context of what it meant to be gay during the time period. The Stonewall riots have been the subject of many books and articles and even a few films over the years, but there's obviously still a great deal to learn. If there's a problem with the film overall, it's the re-enactments of the riots that the film makers shot (because there's apparently no actual footage from the 1969 riots), but I suppose those moments are handled in such a way that you know you're not seeing true archival footage, so it's a minor complaint.

Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work traces one tumultuous year in the life of the comedy legend, with occasional flashbacks to earlier points in her career. There are lots of moments of Rivers on stage, of course, both new and old moments, highlighting just how funny and daring she was when she first became prominent and how funny and daring she remains. However, if you're going to see this documentary, you're probably already familiar with Joan Rivers and her brand of comedy. You already know what a trailblazer she was, what an icon she has become particularly to female comics. What you'll instead take away from this movie is more interesting in terms of her psychology. She's a workaholic who seems to fear that if she stops working, she'll die. She hates to see an empty page in her datebook; she wants to stay busy. I suspect that might have something to do with the somewhat pervasive sense of loneliness she exhibits throughout the film. She also talks candidly about her plastic surgery, particularly when she admits that no man has ever called her pretty. I found that moment devastating. To think how much she has altered her appearance all because she just wants to be found attractive--it's staggering to contemplate that. It's a stunning film, one worthy of analysis by film scholars and feminist theorists for years. I've always loved Rivers; I owned her album What Becomes a Semi-Legend Most? and have always wanted to see her perform live. Watching this film was the next best thing to a live performance. It's more like having a private audience with Rivers herself.

Nutty Neighbors: New Depths or New Heights

2010-08-13T18:48:00.000-07:00

I haven't written about the next-door neighbors in a while, but that doesn't mean that they haven't found new ways to demonstrate their stupidity. In addition to their continual amazement that other people live in this building and are not interested in hearing their loud music (or, even worse, Godzilla's "singing"), my favorite aspect of their ignorance has to do with their keys. Yes, I know I've told you before about the keys under the doormat that became clearly visible when the mat was even slightly nudged out of its position. However, in an obvious attempt to provide greater security for their keys yet maintain that availability you want your keys to have, they've hit upon a rather novel solution.

I suppose we aren't meant to notice that, in addition to the outline of the key on the box, it is clearly marked "KEY CASE." Of course, this would only be visible to anyone who happens to be in the hallway and, well, who can see. So far, this has included several delivery guys, a couple of whom have actually picked up the case and rattled it to see if keys were truly inside, and the mail carrier and people visiting some of the other neighbors on our floor and the maintenance crew members who come by to fix sinks or replace light bulbs in the hallway and the security guards who came to tell Godzilla and Hermey that they were making too much noise (and who also picked up the case and rattled it and laughed that anyone would be so stupid as to leave a set of keys outside their apartment door).

However, the stupidity doesn't end there. For about a week or so this summer, Godzilla and Hermey had company. Actually, they frequently have company, a very confusing trend considering how difficult it is to find parking around this complex and the very limited number of parking spaces reserved for guests. This particular guest, though, was special. She apparently was unable to bend all the down to the floor to pick up the keys or the KEY CASE, so being the gracious hosts that they are, Godzilla and Hermey tried their best to accommodate her. I hope it's visible enough for you to tell how truly kind they are.

Not to worry, the key case has migrated downward since that guest left. It's back at the bottom of the door frame. But it still isn't as if the neighbors are trying to hide the fact that they leave their keys outside in plain view. Godzilla, in particular, is especially prone to bending down in front of other people--such as the Pizza Hut delivery guy who came to our apartment last week--to pick up her keys. It's a source of some amusement for them, frankly. I can't imagine what they think of someone who's willing not only to place her keys in a magnetic case attached to her door frame in an open hallway but also to retrieve said keys in full view of strangers. That takes either an enormous amount of trust on her part or a great deal of ignorance.

I haven't yet figured out why they leave their keys outside. Is someone just really bad at keeping track of door keys? How hard could it be to put two keys on a small key chain in your pocket or purse? Are they really that generous with their apartment that they want just any acquaintance of theirs to be able to use the place without them being there? Godzilla doesn't seem to take her keys with her to work nor bring them inside when she comes home at the end of the day. I am, as always, completely bewildered by their ridiculous behavior.

A Jury of Their Peers

2010-08-13T18:11:00.000-07:00

I narrowly escaped jury duty this week. I had already postponed my service twice this summer before I committed myself to getting it over with. I had received my first notice before the end of the spring semester and had initially rescheduled my service to start the Monday after we turned in grades. However, a hiring committee obligation offered a potential conflict, so I postponed my service again until after the summer school session had ended for me. I figured the three weeks between summer and fall semesters would be sufficient; the odds are against a person being chosen for a jury, and if you are, most trials are five to seven days long.

In Los Angeles County, you have to call in to "register" before the first day of your service, and then each night for the week you have jury duty, you have to call in to see if you need to report to the courthouse the next day. The last time I was sent a summons for jury duty, I was dutiful the entire week and was rewarded by not having to go in at all. I was hopeful that the same scenario would play itself out again, and I would be able to go on with my preparations for fall classes. I was in the midst of finalizing my syllabi at the time.

This time, though, I wasn't so lucky. On Monday night, I learned that I had to report on July 27, the day before my 47th birthday. Los Angeles County is under the "one day, one trial" system, so I figured I would go in and spend the day and perhaps avoid being chosen for a jury pool. That's what had happened the second time I had jury duty. Yes, I've been called numerous times; the most recent was my fourth or fifth--I've lost count at this point. I didn't have the same luck as before, however. At about 11:30 a.m. that day, about twenty-five of us were given instructions to return on August 9, almost two weeks later, to be potential jurors for a trial on the infamous 9th floor. That's the so-called "high profile case" floor, the one where they hold celebrity trials and those that have achieved a great deal of press (serial killer trials, particularly gruesome cases, that sort of thing). I began imagining the horrors of having to serve on a trial that would be in the press and fighting my way to the courtroom through television cameras. I even began trying to remember which celebrities had been arrested recently, just in case it was going to be one of those notorious cases.

We were also told by the court clerks that the estimated amount of time for the trial would be twenty days. The only problem for me would be the start of the fall semester one week after the day we were given to report to the courtroom for jury selection. You can't really trust the court estimates for trials, by the way. The first time I had jury duty, I was stuck on a civil case (medical malpractice, to be specific) that was estimated to take four or five days of testimony. We were in the courthouse for three and a half weeks. Knowing that a twenty-day trial would likely last a great deal longer than estimated, I started to panic because I didn't want to miss an entire month at the beginning of a semester, not with five classes (and one of them an Honors Program class), so I asked about another postponement. However, given that I was already in the pool, the clerks said it was too late to change.

We all had to call in again the weekend before August 9 on the off chance that the trial had been cancelled because of a plea bargain or other reason, but of course, the message informed us to be there bright and early on Monday morning. Thankfully, we weren't expected to be in court until 10:30 a.m., so I did get a chance to sleep in a bit later than usual.

The first day was incredibly unproductive. The clerk for our particular courtroom (the same one used for the O.J. Simpson trial, if you're interested in such trivia) called roll three or four times because some of the jurors weren't present. She said the judge would not call us in until everyone had arrived, so it was almost 11 a.m. before we were allowed to enter the courtroom. After everyone was seated, the judge told us a little bit about the case: three defendants, each with a different attorney representing him, all of them charged with murder and charges of conspiracy to commit murder and a couple of them facing additional charges, and allegations of gang affiliation as well. Based upon just those details, I began to think that twenty days wouldn't be enough to hear all of the testimony and deliberate and return with a verdict. The prospect of starting the fall semester with my students began to seem a bit more distant.

The judge asked if any potential jurors had reasons--other than a financial hardship, which is getting increasingly hard to prove in the court system--which might prevent them from serving on this jury. Those of us who did were asked to write down our reasons and submit them to the judge for consideration. The rest of the potential jurors--about a hundred people or so--were given questionnaires to complete in the hallway. Only a couple of people who had conflicts were released from duty. The rest of us were told to fill out a questionnaire and report back the next day at 8:30 a.m. I'd spent half a day at the courthouse and nothing had happened yet with respect to jury selection. I'd just filled out two slips of paper and read almost a hundred pages in one of the books I'd brought.

On Tuesday, we all returned. Well, almost all of us. Naturally, when the clerk took roll, a few people were missing and, just like on Monday, the judge wouldn't begin until everyone had appeared. It was almost 9 a.m. before the last person showed up, and we were all ushered into the courtroom to begin. The clerk read off the juror ID numbers for twenty people, and they were the first ones subjected to questioning by the attorneys. Each of the defense attorneys got to ask questions, and then the prosecuting attorney got the same amount of time as the three defense attorneys combined. If you want to see the disparity in justice, watch jury selection as it unfolds. The three defense attorneys were inept in their questioning; one of them had to repeat his questions two or three times because they were so unclear. It wasn't as if they were trying to trick jurors--at least, I don't think they were--they just weren't very good at articulating what it was they wanted the jurors to answer.

Based upon the questioning, I began to sense some of the key aspects of the case. Apparently, the crime happened in an area known for gang violence, so the attorneys wanted to know who had had bad experiences with gangs and whether or not that would affect their ability to be fair. The key witnesses for the defense were apparently going to be relatives of the three men (mothers, sisters, etc.), character witnesses, in other words, rather than eyewitnesses. The prosecution's witnesses would, of course, including the police who investigated the crime, but there would apparently also be witnesses who had substance abuse problems and/or criminal records--both of which were the subject of questioning about the effect they might have on the credibility of a witness. And it became evident rather early on that none of the three men were likely to testify on their own behalf, and the attorneys, at least one of them, anyway, wanted to know how people on the jury would feel about that decision, if it would seem odd or questionable.

After dismissing several jurors for "cause" during the first round of questioning--apparently, anyone who didn't speak English well or had a direct connection to the court system was automatically out--the number of people in the jury box had dwindled down to just eleven. The clerk read off enough numbers to refill the jury box and then those potential jurors were questioned. This went on, with one brief break in the middle, until almost noon. At that point, the judge announced that he had another commitment and court would be dismissed for the rest of the day. We still had no jury, and another day in the week before school was to begin was almost completely wasted.

Wednesday's session was another early start, 8:30 a.m., again with one or two people missing when the clerk did roll call. We did manage to start before 9 a.m., though, and the previous day's pattern quickly re-emerged of confusing questions by the defense attorneys and sharp-witted questioning by the prosecution. Frankly, it wasn't hard to see that the prosecution was going to be far more effective and professional than the defense. Nevertheless, all of us whose names had not yet been called sat in the audience hoping that we wouldn't be one of those stuck on the jury listening to twenty days of this nonsense. It took quite a while to get to twelve people that both sides could accept as a jury. It was 3 p.m., to be exact, when the entire audience perked up as the clerk swore the jury in. Almost half of the people who had been there on Monday morning were gone, having been dismissed for "cause" or as a result of the peremptory challenges which the lawyers on both sides used rather indulgently.

I started to think that I was going to escape without being questioned. I would be free to go to the college convocation on Friday and then begin my classes on time on Monday. There were twelve jurors sworn in, and the attorneys still had six potential alternates sitting in the box for the three slots the judge felt was probably appropriate given the length of the trial. However, rather than merely choosing from those six people, he decided to fill the remaining seats with potential alternates from the remaining audience members.

Mine was the first number called.

The questioning began after the other two possible alternates were seated. The first attorney didn't ask me any direct questions, spending much of his time asking about the gang-related murder of the best friend of the poor guy sitting next to me and the murder by an ex-boyfriend of the sister of the third "new" alternate. The second lawyer asked his usual rambling questions, and then he made a particularly sharp comment to me that just because I am a teacher, I was not to act like a teacher in the jury deliberations. I was an equal to everyone else, he wanted me to know. I accepted his statement as graciously as I could under the circumstances and waited for the third defense attorney to start. He asked a very bizarre question about how I would vote in the case if it was sent to the jury for deliberations at that precise moment. I responded that it would be impossible to make a decision without any evidence being presented since that's not how trials operate. He fumbled in asking the question a different way before I caught on to what he was trying to say. He was trying to get to the point that if the prosecution didn't offer sufficient evidence in the case, we would be obligated to return a verdict of "not guilty." I finally agreed with him, but I couldn't imagine a more convoluted way to make that point.

It was for the prosecuting attorney that I was allowed to express myself the most. She asked me about the civil case that I had served on some years ago. She wanted to know what impression I had of the court system based upon that case. (I guess I was too transparent when she asked if we had reached a verdict and I said "eventually.") I told her that I thought the past trial had been rather tedious and time-consuming, that I had spent more time sitting in the corridor reading books than sitting in the courtroom listening to testimony, primarily because of delays by the judge in the case who stopped two or three times a day to handle other casework, including arraignments, and because of the inept scheduling of witnesses by the attorneys. I said that if all I was going to do was read books, I'd rather do that at home. It would be a more productive use of my time.

When she asked if my frustrations in that case would affect my emotions in this case, I answered truthfully that they wouldn't, but that's because I had a new set of frustrations. I noted that we had already spent three days in court and had just gotten a panel of jurors, and now I was added to a list of potential alternates and was spending more time worrying about my classes starting on Monday and what was going to happen with my students if I were stuck (yeah, I think I did say "stuck") on a jury for the first month of school. She thanked me for being honest and continued with her questioning of the other two potential jurors.

When the attorneys went to a sidebar--one of dozens they held over the three days of jury questioning, by the way--they and the judge quickly decided on the three alternates. All of them were men and all of them were in the pool of six alternates they had before they called the last three of us into the jury box, but at least, I wasn't one of them. I don't know if my impatience put them off or not, but I was very grateful to be allowed to walk out of the courtroom free from any further need to appear in that building.

I picked up my Certification of Jury Service upstairs in the general assembly room. Everyone else gets $15 for each day (after the first day) of service, whether you're picked for a jury or not. They also get reimbursed for their mileage to the courthouse (just one way mileage, though). They'll all be getting a check in a week or so. I get nothing. As a public employee and thanks to a decision by the governor a few years ago, I receive no compensation for jury duty and, rumor has it, no reimbursement either.

So what do I have as a result of all of this? I wish I could say that I feel proud that I did my civic duty, but I don't really feel that way at all. I feel like I just wasted a lot of time sitting around the courthouse waiting to hear if I had to tell my dean that he would need to start scrambling to find substitutes who wouldn't screw up my classes at the beginning of the semester. Well, actually, I guess that's not all that happened. I did manage to finish a collection of short stories by Nathaniel Hawthorne (who's far more mystical than I remember) and most of a book on the 2004 presidential election by a political reporter who followed the Democratic candidates that year. But that's it, really. Well, that and this story. I suppose that was worth four days of my free time this summer.

Other Teachers Will Understand

2010-08-13T16:41:00.000-07:00

I had complained to the Critical Reasoning and Writing class during the next-to-last week of summer school that they weren't doing a particularly good job of introducing the material they were using from outside sources. I was getting parenthetical citations with last names and little else, and I suggested that readers needed to have the ability to judge the credibility of the sources in an essay by knowing something more about the sources than just the author's last name. We even had a little practice during classtime to remind them of this skill that they should have either developed or honed in their College Writing classes.

I took up a set of essays a day or two later. I was hopeful that some of them would have noted my frustration from our in-class discussion. Many of them had done a better job, to be honest. However, while I was reading and grading them over the weekend, I came across this particularly egregious example of how some people just never seem to know when to quit:

"In an essay in The Civil Mind compiled by Margaret Early Whitt and Janet L. Bland called 'A New Campus Crusade' by Keith Naughton, Mary Sue Coleman, the president of the University of Michigan, proposed a new process in choosing prospective students for the university."

How much of that do you really need to know at that particular moment in the essay itself and how much of it could be saved for the Works Cited list where it would look just a tiny bit less...well, clunky and ham-handed? At least, the student was consistent. Every single source was introduced by giving the author's name and the title of the article and where it was located. Probably one-eighth of the essay or so was taken up with these kinds of introductions (and they weren't even saved for only the first reference in the paper either. No, they had to reappear every single time that same source was used.) Thankfully, the student saved the date of publication and the type of source (Print, Web, etc.) for the Works Cited list.

Of course, I marked his grade down on that particular element, and I'm certain he was very disappointed and perhaps even angry. He had actually been one of the few who had done the citations (mostly) correctly for the first essay, but I guess the ones who really don't need the help often think that they aren't doing enough to demonstrate that they "get it."

Where Do You Start?

2010-05-29T16:24:00.000-07:00

As a writing teacher, sometimes I get sentences and paragraphs and even entire essays that are just so astonishing in their inability to convey information clearly that I have to save them and share them. The paragraph below, written for a developmental writing class, is the one that stood out this semester as the worst offender. The assignment was a relatively simple one. Students had to describe a place that held some special significance to them. I expected there to be not only physical description of this place but some attempt to explain why it was so significant, what sort of history they had with the places they chose.

I have preserved the sentence structure and the spelling and all other aspects of the original except for the line spacing (which had its own issues). This was the final draft's concluding paragraph. Yes, it is all just one sentence. I had written on the rough draft that the student should try to sum up, as best he could, why the place he had chosen to discuss meant so much to him.

"In conclusion, Angel Stadium means a lot me and it will always be a place of merit and it's a place that will always have importance to me and it will never be a place to I can hang out because of the memories that I have at the stadium and it will never leave my mind and the memories i have of game seven of the world series and it can be a good thing it can also be a bad thing but I see it as a good thing because it will always be in my mind and that is why it has merit and importance in my life."

I just couldn't think of what to tell the student about how to make that conclusion better. Unfortunately, he stopped coming to class at about the same time, so I never had a chance to return the graded paper and talk to him about how he might try to improve his writing skills. That means that someone--hopefully, someone more patient and talented than I am--will be helping him out in the same class next semester.

Quick Takes: Now Available on Blu-Ray and DVD

2010-05-29T15:36:00.001-07:00

You know you've not been blogging very often when it comes time to write about some of the movies you've seen "recently" and you have to acknowledge that most of them are already out on DVD. What with the typical busy-ness of the semester and a change in the living arrangements at home (more on that later, perhaps), it's just been difficult to get around to blogging. I've actually seen quite a few movies besides the ones below, but apparently, I'll have to wait until they're on video for me to write about them.

Crazy Heart will likely be remembered as the movie that finally won Jeff Bridges the Oscar for Best Actor. He is certainly very good here as country singer Bad Blake, but it's a performance that's definitely within his typical range. He isn't asked to do anything extraordinarily difficult in this film, just sing a little and act drunk a lot. You'll be happy to know that he excels at both. I enjoyed the music of this film, especially the award-winning title song, more than the plot, what with its Hollywood take on redemption from the depths of alcoholism. The drunken-country-singer-turns-his-life-around theme has been done before and better; if you want the best version of the story, check out Tender Mercies. Crazy Heart pays a nice homage to that earlier, better film by casting Robert Duvall as Bad's friend. It's always a pleasure to see Duvall on screen. There's also a nice cameo appearance by Colin Farrell, who is a pretty talented singer himself, as Bad's former touring partner who's gone on to have a more successful career on his own. I have no idea why he isn't listed in the credits, but I hope he gets another chance to sing in a movie soon. Maggie Gyllenhaal plays a journalist who gets involved with Bad, but I found that entire subplot to be unbelievable. We all know that he's using her and her little son to make up for the bad relationship with his own abandoned son, and we should all know how badly it's going to turn out when you put your trust in a movie alcoholic who hasn't yet found redemption. Gyllenhaal was this year's surprise Oscar nominee in the acting categories. After years of good performances, the Academy chose to reward her for what is essentially a thankless, less-than-challenging part. Go figure. Maybe the Academy members were trying to redress past slights to a lot of actors, and Gyllenhaal got in the mix with Bridges and Sandra Bullock for The Blind Side and Christopher Plummer for The Last Station, but more on that later...

Edge of Darkness is the latest addition to the growing body of evidence that Mel Gibson movies are becoming increasingly obsessed with violence. This film is quite brutal. Gibson plays a police officer whose daughter is murdered when the two of them come home from dinner one night. After an initial suspicion that he was the intended target, Gibson's cop discovers that his daughter has been involved in some subterfuge at the company for which she worked. Gibson should have figured out something was wrong as soon as he discovered that the company's boss is played by Danny Huston. Is Huston turning into Hollywood's go-to bad guy these days? I'm thinking it might be time to throw him a romantic comedy lead just for a change of pace. He, of course, gets beaten up by Gibson's Thomas Craven, as does the actor playing the daughter's boyfriend and a bunch of other people. I even started to suspect that Gibson's character had arranged his daughter's murder just so he could go on this rampage. Frankly, I was exhausted and feeling a bit beaten myself when this movie was over and I could finally leave the theater. Someone should be writing a dissertation on the growing level of violence in Gibson's oeuvre. I know he didn't direct this film, so he isn't fully responsible for its content, but he did select it as an actor. There's some interesting psychosis to examine there, I think.

Fantastic Mr. Fox is, quite simply, a fantastic movie. A stop-motion masterpiece by director Wes Anderson, this charming fable about a fox who has been domesticated but still feels the urge to steal chickens from hen houses is a delight. Everyone of the voice actors--and this is some pretty high-powered talent on display--is great. George Clooney as Mr. Fox plays off his own sly public persona, and Meryl Streep as Mrs. Fox is a calm, reassuring, but firm presence. They should be paired again in a live action film. I loved the interplay between Clooney and Bill Murray as Badger, Mr. Fox's partner in crime. Badger isn't always quite up to speed on what's happening, and Mr. Fox is often frustrated by his need to repeat what seem like simple conclusions to his friend. The highlight of the film, though, is the competition between the Fox family's son Ash, voiced by Jason Schwartzman, and a young fox for whom the family takes responsibility, Kristofferson, voiced by Eric Chase Anderson. Ash always loses to Kristofferson, regardless of the contest, but then again, Kristofferson doesn't even realize there's a competition going on. I'd also point out that the set design and decoration are brilliant, a series of quite stunning masterpieces of location. The amount of time and effort the filmmakers have taken to create this gem is well worth it. This was one of my favorite movies from last year. If you haven't seen this movie yet, rent it immediately and enjoy.

It's Complicated is the kind of movie that Hollywood studios used to make, a generic romantic comedy, no particular deep messages involved, just some fun for the actors and the audience. Meryl Streep (again--what a streak she's on these days) is Jane, a divorced woman who runs a bakery. At her son's college graduation, she reunites with her ex-husband Jake, a randy Alec Baldwin (that may be redundant calling Baldwin randy, I realize), and they begin having an affair. Jake is unhappy with his new, younger wife, played by Lake Bell, especially with her non-stop attempts to get pregnant. Simultaneously, Jane begins dating the architect who is designing the addition to her home, Adam, played by Steve Martin. I don't know why Jane needs a bigger kitchen or even a bigger home. She lives in one of those mansions that only movie middle class people own, with huge rooms and lots of pillows and mementos from a lifetime of travel and such. And I also don't know why it would be difficult for her to choose between these two men; she knows what each one of them is like. Then again, we're not supposed to think too deeply about a movie like this. It's all just harmless fun, and it often brought a smile to my face, particularly whenever John Krasinski appeared on screen. He plays Jane's daughter's fiance, and he's hilarious as the only person who knows that Jane and Jake are having an affair. He may never be a big movie star on his own, but Krasinski could make a long career of playing supporting parts like this one.

The Last Station was advertised as a film about the final days in the life of Russian writer Leo Tolstoy (played expertly here by Christopher Plummer). Instead, the main focus of the plot is really on the musings of a young man named Valentin (James McAvoy) who has been sent to keep an eye on Tolstoy to ensure that the great writer's legacy, including his commitment to a life devoid of material things, is preserved--mainly because there are people like Vladimir Chertkov (Paul Giamatti) who want the Tolstoy fortune to support revolutionary changes in Russia. Chertkov's goals are, unsurprisingly, opposed by Tolstoy's wife Sofya (Helen Mirren), who wants to keep the money for herself and her children. Sofya is quite the drama queen, and Mirren is allowed to chew the scenery almost every moment that she's on screen. It's quite a histrionic performance, and I was surprised that it won her another Oscar nomination for Best Actress. This film also brought Plummer his first ever Oscar nomination (his was for Supporting Actor), and it's a shock to realize that such a long, distinguished career as his has never been acknowledged by the Academy before now. All of this would make for an okay film, but in truth, the movie is really more about Valentin and how he comes to understand what Tolstoy stands for. McAvoy's character has to figure out what kind of life he wishes to live, one that follows the teachings of the writer or one that mirrors the way that the writer actually lives. It's an intriguing question about the conflict that often occurs between one's principles and the (messy) real life one has to live. The Last Station isn't without its genuine moments of emotion, particularly Tolstoy's death at the train station of the title, a scene which much have cinched Mirren's nomination in particular. I suppose this was considered an "event film" given the way that it was released. Here in Los Angeles, it played for only one week in only one theater in December in order to be eligible for Academy consideration, and then it disappeared for a while. When it returned, it again only played for a limited time in a limited number of theaters. Perhaps the distributors were hoping to garner more than just two nominations, but frankly, they should have been grateful given the relatively mundane quality of this film overall.

The Loss of a Teardrop Diamond is based upon an unproduced Tennessee Williams screenplay, and it covers some rather familiar territory for the playwright. Bryce Dallas Howard plays Fisher Willow (terrible name for a character, by the way), a Memphis debutante who doesn't quite fit in with the rest of her alleged social circle. Fisher likes to drink and have fun and enjoys jazz music, all of the things that respectable girls in the 1920s weren't supposed to enjoy. She also has feelings for Jimmy (Chris Evans), the son of the man who runs her family's plantation, but since Jimmy is poor, they could never be allowed to marry or have a relationship. No, Fisher must listen to her grandmother, Cornelia (Ann-Margaret in a role that makes you wish she were cast in movies more often), who wants her to settle down and find a respectable young man to marry. The title diamond earring is one of a pair (family heirlooms, of course) loaned to Fisher by her grandmother for a party. Its loss is the subject of quite a number of accusations and plot contrivances, none of which, frankly, matter (although it does allow for an almost nude scene for Evans, an initial suspect in the diamond's disappearance). This is more of a mood piece than a drama anyway. Ellen Burstyn makes a brief appearance as an older woman who has led a remarkable life on her own terms, but whose current health problems will condemn her to a life under the care of her conservative, traditional family. When Howard's Fisher is in the bedroom with Burstyn's Addie, the film truly comes alive, and it's hard to imagine such a static scene would come across so well. Overall, this is certainly a minor work by the great playwright, and I don't really know that there was any urgency to film this screenplay. It isn't a disaster by any means--although some of the actors' attempts at Southern accents do qualify as such--but it also doesn't add much to our knowledge and appreciation of Williams' achievements.

Nine is the film adaptation of the Broadway musical that was itself an adaptation of Federico Fellini's film 8 1/2. Given all of that adaptation, quite a lot has been lost, and the filmmakers haven't helped their cause any by casting the wrong person in almost every role. I admire Daniel Day-Lewis as an actor, but having an Irishman with little singing ability trying to pass himself off as an Italian director is a bit of a stretch even for the talented Day-Lewis. And his character is so utterly lacking in charm or any other personality trait that would make him seem appealing, I kept wondering what all of these women saw in him. To have such a lackluster character as the centerpiece of the film seems a supreme obstacle to overcome. And, to be frank, the way that the director has chosen to present the songs--as all having come from Guido's consciousness and almost all of them presented on the empty sound stage of his next movie--is a mistake, I think. They should be more integrated into the plot rather than being delivered as if they were asides or diversions from what is a very slight storyline anyway. It's really just about Guido not having an idea for his next movie because he's got too many problems with the women in his life; that's it. I'm also not fond of having actors perform in musicals if they have little or no singing ability, and that is the case with much of this cast. Oscar-nominated Penelope Cruz plays Carla, Guido's mistress, as some sort of hot-blooded, oversexed spitfire. I guess it's mean to be a comic role; it certainly had me laughing but for the wrong reasons. Since she can't really sing, the film creates an elaborate production number for "A Call from the Vatican" in order to distract the audience from noticing her slight voice. Only two of the women in the film acquit themselves with their songs. One is, of course, an actual singer, Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas, who sings "Be Italian" with gusto. The other is Marion Cotillard as Guido's wife Luisa, but only in "My Husband Makes Movies," a delicate, gentle song about her feelings of being abandoned by her spouse. I was not as fond of her other number, "Take It All." I liked the staging of "Cinema Italiano" even if I didn't think Kate Hudson's singing was up to par. Nicole Kidman, who has demonstrated her ability to sing in Moulin Rouge!, is at a loss here with the song "Unusual Way" (which, I must confess, I didn't know was from this musical); it's a weak performance. (And she's an Australian playing a German--there's no end to the lunacy of the assignment of roles here.) I've already written too much about a movie that forces Dame Judi Dench to sing and dance her way through the ridiculous "Folies Bergere." A lot of wasted talent and a lot of bad casting choices all round, sad to say.

The Princess and the Frog takes the fairy tale story of the girl who kisses a frog and turns him into a prince and twists it in a few novel ways. This time, the prince doesn't emerge from the kiss; the girl just turns into a frog too. And this isn't set in a period long, long ago in some mythical land far, far away. This is 1920s New Orleans with all of the jazz music and period atmosphere you'd expect. Tiana (Anika Noni Rose), the "princess" of the title, really just wants to live out her father's dream and open a restaurant; she even has a big number ("Almost There") imagining what the restaurant will be like. It's a song and production very reminiscent of Disney's Beauty and the Beast and the "Be Our Guest" number, but I didn't mind the familiarity because Rose and the rest of the cast are able singers and the music by Randy Newman (with help from Dr. John) is very much in the New Orleans style. We wind up in a bayou--much like the one from the 1970s animated film The Rescuers, to be honest--and there's even a Cajun firefly who is, at times, a little too close to being like Evinrude from that earlier Disney film. Still, the lack of originality doesn't detract from the fun to be had with this film. The princess is really just an ordinary young woman in many ways, and the message that anyone could be a princess is delightfully conveyed here. I could quibble with the choice of Bruno Campos as Prince Naveen, Tiana's frog suitor, who's not African American like much of the rest of the cast, but he is so very funny and charming in the part. And there's also the divine Jenifer Lewis as Mama Odie, who represents the good aspects of voodoo, and Terrence Howard as James, who's there as the bad part of voodoo, both of them a delight to hear/watch. Much was made about how The Princess and the Frog was a return to more traditional methods of making animated films (what with drawing and such instead of computers), and I have to say that the final product is quite beautiful, a jewel of a movie and one of the best of the many good animated films released in 2009.

Shutter Island is a bit of a puzzle, and I'm still not certain exactly how I feel about it. Set during the 1950s, Martin Scorcese's film is very exact when it comes to period detail, and there's no shortage of suspense here. I can't really give too many details about the plot without spoiling it for you if you haven't seen it. Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffalo are federal marshalls sent to the title island to investigate the disappearance of one of the inmates. The remote island is home to a mental institution for the criminally insane, and a female inmate there has allegedly vanished. Mysterious things begin to happen to the marshalls, DiCaprio's character especially, almost immediately after their arrival, and it isn't long before we as audience members start to question what is real and what is imaginary. The plot hinges upon our questioning, and I was intrigued by that possibility until the last fifteen minutes or so. To be honest and without revealing too much, those final minutes almost ruined the entire film for me. It's not easy to watch what is a very skillfully made film with a lot of remarkable talent--including Ben Kingsley, Max Von Sydow, Michelle Williams, Jackie Earle Haley, and the great Patricia Clarkson in small but significant role--and not feel somewhat disappointed by the cheat of an ending. Stylistically, Scorcese has managed to recreate the look and feel of a lot of films from the decade of the 50s, but plot-wise he and the movie are hampered by Laeta Kalogridis' script.

Watercolors is a love story about a young artist named Danny (Tye Olson) who falls in love with a member of the swim team, Carter (Kyle Clare), who at first resists his attraction to Danny. It's become something of a cliche in gay films to have the shy and sensitive artist fall in love with a jock, and this movie doesn't often rise above the level of cliche, to be honest. The film begins with the adult Danny (Ian Rhodes) at his first solo art exhibit, and we realize that he's been painting images of his high school lover over and over again, much to the chagrin of his current boyfriend, Allan (Edward Finlay). I know that movies like this are important for young people to see; it helps to realize that other people are going through some of the same issues that you are. However, as an older gay man, I've grown a bit tired of watching films that duplicate this plot again and again since these films seem to be excuses to show handsome (well, handsome to some people, I suppose) young men in various states of undress. And Clare's Carter, in particular, spends a lot of time in his Speedos or underwear or nude posing for Danny. Not that I have anything against that on principle, mind you. I just think movies should do a bit more than titillate sometimes. I did admire how supportive Danny's mother (Casey Kramer) and his close friend Amy (Ellie Araiza) and, in particular, his art teacher (the great Karen Black) are, and the three women in those roles are all talented actresses. Unsurprisingly, there is a tragedy at the heart of this film that has led to Danny's artistic obsession. If you've seen gay films before about the coming out experience, you can probably figure it out for yourself. If not, consider this film a template for your future viewings of such movies; they probably won't venture too much from this standard plot either, but at least you'll get to see some cute young boys in their underwear.

Invictus

2010-02-07T20:05:00.000-08:00

Invictus is a spare and noble film about the importance of and difficulty in achieving a measure of acceptance and even solidarity among people of different cultural and racial backgrounds. Set in South Africa in 1995, not long after the election of Nelson Mandela to be the first black president of that country, Invictus depicts the sharp divisions between whites and blacks at that time. Even though you expect to see a strong sense of unity by the end of the film--and you know you won't be disappointed--what director Clint Eastwood and stars Morgan Freeman and Matt Damon manage to achieve is nonetheless admirable and even enjoyable to watch. You might even, as I did, find yourself interested in the outcome of a rugby match upon which, seemingly, the fate of South African hinges.

Yes, that's right, rugby--a sport with which I am completely unfamiliar--is the means by which Freeman's Mandela plans to unite the blacks and whites of his country. He notices not longer after taking office that the national team, the Springboks, is automatically granted one of the spots for the World Cup of 1995 because South Africa is the host country. He attends a match and notices that only the whites seem to support the team. Blacks tend to favor soccer, a point illustrated at the beginning of the film when you watch a soccer match played by poor blacks and a rugby match played by rich whites on opposite sides of the road down which the newly freed Mandela is traveling. It's a somewhat heavy-handed way of displaying the sharp divides in the country, but I suppose you need a context for the brief history lesson that also opens the film.

Mandela, trying his best to get his country past the desire on the part of blacks for retribution and the fear on the part of whites of that same retribution, reaches out to the captain of the Springboks, Damon's Francois Pienaar, an Afrikaner (white), to assist him. He doesn't say that, of course. He only hints or suggests it. And Francois is somewhat uncertain as to how to get his less-than-stellar team to engender much of a following in the black community. There's only one black member of the team, Chester, who is something of a national hero. Pienaar, at the urging of Mandela, takes the team to a series of rugby clinics in the poor black townships. We watch some bonding between the guys on the team and the young blacks who come out to play. The team also makes a visit to the prison where Mandela was held captive for more than twenty years, and it's there that Pienaar seems to have his most profound epiphany.

That sequence is also where the film takes its one flight from realistic depictions of these events. Wherever he turns at the prison, Pienaar seems to see a shadowy image of Mandela and what his days there must have been like, whether being confined to his tiny cell or breaking rocks in the yard alongside the other prisoners. It's a bit disconcerting to watch these moments, given how much attention has been given to recreating the time period in realistic terms. However, it doesn't detract from the overall film's success, and it does provide a means for understanding the change of heart that Pienaar seems to have had about the destiny of the team and his home country.

Freeman, as you might expect, is excellent as Mandela. Although many have criticized his accent here, I think he manages to capture both the speech patterns and the mannerisms of the former South African president, and he achieves a much more difficult act of representation: the smile for which Mandela is so well known. It's as if he shines from within when he smiles, making it all the more interesting when you know the mistreatment that he suffered at the hands of the previous white-controlled government. Freeman never loses sight of the actual man; he just allows us to see just how fervently committed to a peaceful unity Mandela was. I can't imagine anyone else in the role, and frankly, I can't imagine that anyone else could do as good of a job.

When casting the part of a rugby team captain, Damon might not be the first person who comes to mind, but he acquits himself nicely here. Gone is his familiar Boston accent, replaced by a carefully controlled Afrikaner one instead. And, despite his role as a rugby player, Damon has to bring a level of gravitas to many of the scenes he plays. When he tells his team during the World Cup final match against New Zealand, "This is it. This is our destiny," you have to believe those words. They could easily devolve into cliche, but thanks to Damon's consistency throughout the film, they ring true.

The title Invictus comes from a Victorian era poem by William Ernest Henley. It's a relatively brief poem, just four stanzas, and it's one that Mandela memorized during his time in prison. He recites some of the key lines at one point in the movie, and he writes out a copy to give to Pienaard. The poem is about overcoming one's negative circumstances, about finding a sense of hope in a time of darkness. The last couple of lines, "I am the master of my fate:/I am the captain of my soul," served as a source of inspiration to Mandela, and he hopes the same fate will happen to Damon's Pienaar. I'm glad to see a movie use a poem as such a key plot point. It isn't a particularly good poem, but it's sentiment is honestly expressed.

I might say the same about Invictus. I think it earns its emotional resonance honestly. Thanks, at least in part, to the unobtrusive directing style for which Eastwood has become known, we are allowed to witness the events of the narrative without being manipulated too often or too heavily. There are no directorial flourishes here, just good, somewhat old-fashioned storytelling that gets to the heart of the racial divide in South Africa. At times, some of the white characters act in ways that suggest that they are still fearful or resentful of a black-led government, and at times, some of the black characters behave as if they feel the whites should all be punished. It doesn't make them into stereotypes or caricatures, though, because they are almost always balanced by another character (and it's usually Freeman's Mandela) who tries to restore a sense of balance. It's a tricky achievement to depict that, but one that Invictus manages to reach.

Nutty Neighbors: The Definition of Stupidity

2010-01-24T11:36:00.000-08:00

A little context first. I live in one of the largest apartment complexes in the country (if not the world). We have more than 4,000 units here, and in my building alone, there are 156 apartments. If you figure that, on average, each apartment has two tenants--several have lots more than two--that means at least 300 people could be living in just this building. There are thousands of people who live within the several city blocks covered by this complex.

Beyond just lots of residents, though, we also have visitors and delivery persons and the mail carriers and people who leave fliers hanging on the doorknobs and no telling who else stopping by. Yes, there is a fence surrounding the property, but that's to keep cars out more than people. Anyone can walk into the complex without being stopped or questioned. It happens all the time.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I returned home one day this past week to find the following:

That's right. Godzilla and Hermey apparently leave a set of keys to the front door of her apartment under the tiny little doormat. The keys were just lying on the carpet in front of her door in the middle of the afternoon. Perhaps the maintenance workers for the building accidentally moved the mat while vacuuming or something. I don't know. I was just dumbstruck to see that someone could be so foolish as to leave a set of keys outside the apartment door, available to anyone who might want to use them. I'm surprised the neighbors haven't had every last possession stolen from them. Apparently, they want their friends to be able to enter the apartment at all hours of the day or night whether they are home or not.

Godzilla--or perhaps it's Hermey--has taken precautions since that fateful day last week. No longer are the keys just left under the mat for just anyone to find. No, now they are stuck to the bottom of the doormat. Again, I am just dumbfounded by the lunacy of the neighbors.

I took the second picture because I had to see what had happened to the keys. I mistakenly assumed they'd put them on a key chain and keep them in a safe place after discovering how easily the location of the keys could be revealed. Not Godzilla and Hermey. You'd think that living in a city of several million people would make you a little more reluctant to do something as stupid as leaving the keys to your apartment under a doormat. Who does that nowadays?

I will admit to being torn emotionally when I saw the keys just lying on the carpet. I considered taking them and hiding them or throwing them down the garbage chute just to be spiteful. I didn't, though, so you can rest easy. My conscience go the better of me, I suppose. Momentarily, anyway. Of course, I don't think everyone would be as kind to Godzilla and Hermey as I was. One of these days, if they aren't careful, one of their "friends" or perhaps even a stranger may avail himself or herself of the opportunity to go on a "shopping spree," and maybe then they'll learn that grown-ups have better sense than to leave keys under doormats in a large apartment complex in the middle of a huge metropolitan area.

Quick Takes 3: Dream Warriors

2010-01-10T23:36:00.000-08:00

At this time of year, it's tough to sort through the movies I've seen. Some of them will undoubtedly be nominated for the Best Picture Oscar, especially now that the list has been expanded to include ten films. Those films should really be "saved" for my other blog, so I'm going to discuss films I've seen recently that stand little chance of making it to the final ten in this year's race. I'm not suggesting that they are not worthy films--several of them are exceptional--merely that they don't seem to be generating the kind of "buzz" that gets a movie nominated for the top honor.

Bright Star is the fictional rendering of the love affair between the English Romantic poet John Keats and a remarkable young woman named Fanny Brawne. Keats is already sick with the tuberculosis that will cut his life short, but he cannot stop from developing feelings for the extraordinary Fanny. As played by the gifted Abbie Cornish, Fanny is a strong woman possessed of a keen intellect and a talent for making herself into an artistic creation through her needlework. Directed by Jane Campion, Bright Star deserved greater attention than it received, and if there were any justice, Cornish would be nominated for Best Actress (and deservedly win) for her portrayal of a woman who has to come to terms with the potential loss of the love of her life. Kudos also to Ben Whishaw, who was also good in the completely unnecessary remake of Brideshead Revisited, as the doomed poet and to cinematographer Greig Fraser. Bright Star is simply one of the most beautiful films of the past decade thanks to Fraser's camera work. I will never forget some of the visuals of this film, including a field of lavender flowers and a moment when Fanny lies on her bed allowing curtains to billow over her body--extraordinary moments in a great movie.

The Messenger takes as its subject the difficult work of informing family members of the death of a loved one in the military. It's a serious movie about a formidable task, one that you'd expect few soldiers want to have. Ben Foster stars as Staff Sergeant Will Montgomery, who has been injured in Iraq and is now assigned to work with Woody Harrelson's Captain Tony Stone delivering the bad news to the next of kin. We watch as Montgomery slows learns the nuances of the job and even becomes skilled at going around the military's protocol when dealing with the grieving parents and wives and other family members with whom he and Stone come into contact. He also develops a genuine affection for a young widow played by Samantha Morton, and their friendship almost becomes too much for both of them. It could have been played for cheap emotions, but thanks to a solid script and talented actors, viewers instead sense a tender connection between two lonely people. Anchored by three strong performances, especially the luminous Morton, The Messenger is a complex study of the emotional impact that the current war can have on the people back home.

I found Sherlock Holmes to be typical blockbuster fare, and that's too bad. The potential was there with the inspired pairing of Robert Downey Jr. as Sherlock Holmes and Jude Law as Watson, and perhaps the best part of the movie is their verbal sparring, especially when they are squabbling over such matters as the cleanliness of Holmes' rooms in the house they share. However, the plot seemed unnecessarily complicated, maybe in an attempt to get the crowd to stay until the end of the film so that Holmes could explain all of the connections that we could never have made ourselves, thanks to the stinginess of the script. The stories by Arthur Conan Doyle were frequently action-oriented, but they also had a cerebral quality to them with Holmes figuring out clues and piecing together motives. The movie version goes almost exclusively for action, with one big, expensive sequence after another. Having read "A Scandal in Bohemia," the Holmes story that includes the character of Irene Adler and how she outsmarted Holmes once, I had hoped that more could be done with the character being played here by Rachel McAdams. No such luck, though, because she's really secondary to a plot about a cult of magician types led by Mark Strong's Lord Blackwood. This film really is a mess, but at least, we know there will be a sequel, so maybe there's a chance at redemption yet.

A Single Man has justly received praise for the performance of Colin Firth as George, the college professor attempting to come to terms with the death of his long-time partner. Firth is a revelation here, particularly in the scene where he learns of Jim's death in a car accident and that the family doesn't wish him to attend to funeral. Taking place over a single day in George's life, a rather fateful day when he has chosen to commit suicide, A Single Man does a nice job of evoking the mood of the early 1960s when then film is set, but I did feel director Tom Ford was a bit too obsessed with the appearances of everything, actors included. There's a hypersheen to the visuals that makes them seem somewhat unrealistic, especially in the black-and-white sequences that serve as flashbacks for moments of Tom and George's life together. And I never quite understood what Ford was trying to accomplish with all of the images of eyes that appear throughout the film; I'm sure there's meant to be some symbolic weight to them all, but I couldn't figure it out thanks to how numerous and seemingly random they were. It was a delight to see Julianne Moore as Charley, George's long-time friend, an aging party girl who wishes he were attracted to her. It makes me want to see her and Firth in movies more often, just ones that are less concerned with how people look and more interested in how they think and feel.

The Young Victoria is a visual feast of a movie. It concerns the early years of the reign of Queen Victoria of England, when she was little more than a teenager. As played by Emily Blunt, Victoria is inexperienced but clever, a very fast learner in the ways of the monarchy. She meets a Belgian prince, Albert (played by Rupert Friend), and begins to fall in love with him. However, her mother (Miranda Richardson) and her mother's chief advisor (Mark Strong again, cornering the market on English baddies for the Christmas season) have other plans for her future. She also has to face conflicting political advice from such men as Paul Bettany's Lord Melbourne and Michael Maloney's Sir Robert Peel, the two prime ministers who serve during the start of her historic reign, still the longest in English history. However, the political intrigue tends to become of secondary importance when Victoria and Albert begin to express how they feel for each other. Blunt and Friend are very good together. They have a very natural chemistry, and the film does a fine job of depicting the strength of the bond Victoria and Albert had for each other. This is another film that has been sadly underrated. Perhaps moviegoers are just not interested in historical dramas these days unless there are going to be some explosions along the way? That would be very sad if it were true.

I'm pleasantly surprised by how many good performances I saw in the last couple of months. It's an impressive list just from the five movies described above: Abbie Cornish, Ben Whishaw, Ben Foster, Woody Harrelson, Samantha Morton, Jude Law, Robert Downey Jr., Colin Firth, Julianne Moore, Emily Blunt, and Rupert Friend. Heck, I'll even add Mark Strong to the list; he's actually guite good as a bad guy, and I enjoyed the gusto with which he portrayed Holmes's nemesis. And that doesn't even include a lot of supporting cast members such as the children in Bright Star, especially Edie Martin as Toots, Matthew Goode as Jim in the too-few scenes in which he appears in A Single Man, and Jim Broadbent as King William and Harriet Walter as Queen Adelaide (and Richardson, too, as the Duchess of Kent) in The Young Victoria. Great performances, all of them.

Taking Stock: 2009

2010-01-01T10:58:00.001-08:00

Last year was a better year for movies and movie-watching for me. I managed to see 49films in the theaters in 2009, almost double the number I saw in 2008. I caught another dozen movies on DVD, but most of them were older films, not new releases. I read fewer books this past year, just 38, compared to the 43 I read in 2008, but to be honest, a lot of the books for 2009 were longer and took a far greater amount of time to read. One doesn't just skim through Arthur Laurents' Original Story by in a hurry. I even got out of the house to see fifteen plays or musicals this past year, and I was lucky enough to perform in a play as well. Here's hoping that 2010 brings even more opportunities to read and watch and enjoy.

Favorite Movie: Inglourious Basterds. Does anyone have more fun thinking up ideas for movies and then executing them than Quentin Tarentino? A wildly imaginative piece of speculative fiction, Inglourious Basterds leads us to wonder what would have happened had a band of Jewish-American soldiers (under the leadership of Brad Pitt in a hilarious, loopy performance) decided to take revenge for the Nazi atrocities during World War II and killed Hitler at a screening of a terrible propaganda film. Anchored by the astonishing performance of Christoph Waltz as Col. Hans Landa, and for whom there has been universal praise, this film managed to divide audiences, but I still don't think there's anyone as talented and audacious as Tarentino working in movies today. I just wish he worked more often so we could get more movies like this.

Runner-Up: Adventureland. This is a small movie about a young man who spends his summer working at a local amusement park, falling in love and having a lot of those "first time" experiences. The trailer for the film made it seem like it was some sort of fraternity-boy comedy, but in truth, Adventureland is sweet and romantic and charming. It's a shame too few people went to see this movie. It only played in theaters for a short while during the spring. Maybe it was the fact that the movie is set in the late 1980s, and we're not ready to revisit that era yet. However, even though I was already a college graduate (twice) by that time, I found so many moments in the life of Jesse Eisenberg's James that resonated with my own experiences. It's worth renting to catch this gem.

P.S. I'd also like to mention how much I engjoyed getting a chance to see the short films, both animated and live action, that were nominated for Oscars for 2008. Someone had the bright idea to package them (and throw in a few more notable short films) and put them into theaters. I've written about all of these films on my other blog, but they provided some of my favorite moments in movie-watching last year. It takes real talent to compress a story into a few moments and have an impact, but the film makers of these shorts succeeded. I hope that this year's crop of nominees is similarly honored by being released for the movie-going public to enjoy.

Favorite Performance (Female): Abbie Cornish in Bright Star. Cornish plays Fanny Brawne, the young woman with whom English Romantic poet John Keats fell in love. If the real Fanny were anything like Cornish's performance, you can understand why. She's luminous and quite understated as an actress, allowing you to see glimpses of how she has internalized her emotions. Watching Fanny convey her talent through her sewing and then seeing her learn to understand and appreciate Keats' poems are both revelatory moments in Cornish's hands. She is ably surrounded by wonderful actors, including Ben Whishaw as Keats, but if you had the chance to experience this beautiful but sadly underseen film by the great Jane Campion, you won't quickly forget Cornish. She gives one of the best performances of the past decade, in my opinion.

Runner-Up: Gabourey Sibide and Mo'Nique in Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire. The title is ridiculously long (and kind of ridiculous), but the performances are first rate. Mo'Nique has justly been lauded for her work as one of the darkest characters in recent film history. She's a heartless, opportunistic, scheming woman who seems to feel no pleasure or joy in life. Her last scene in the film reveals a monstrous personality; I don't know how anyone could pull it off as well as she does. I do think Sibide is her equal here even though she has the quieter role. She has to portray a victim of abuse, yet we also need to see just how much spirit she manages to keep inside her despite the constant ridicule of her own mother and the ways that society seems to be against her. Both women are amazing to watch together. Their scenes have a vitality and energy and even a sense of fear and tension that you don't see in the movies enough these days.

Favorite Performance (Male): Joseph Gordon-Levitt in (500) Days of Summer. Who knew when we were watching Gordon-Levitt years ago on Third Rock from the Sun that we were witnessing the start of a great career? Gordon-Levitt has been stunningly good in movies as diverse as Mysterious Skin and Brick. Now he adds this charming little movie to his resume. He plays a young architect stuck in the wrong job and in love with what turns out to be the wrong girl. Gordon-Levitt's part is the best written in the movie, which is more than a little unkind to its lead female character, and he makes us empathize with all of the ups and downs that his character faces. And you have to love the expression on his face during the musical number choreographed to a Hall & Oates song. It does a fantastic job of capturing how it feels the morning after your first time with someone.

Runners-Up: Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna in Rudo y Cursi. Reunited years after their hit Y Tu Mama Tambien, Bernal and Luna here play brothers who are recruited to play professional soccer but on different teams. The film gives almost equal time to each actor, and they are both good as they reveal how emotions like familial love and professional (and personal) jealousy can drive people to engage in some stupid behavior at times. These two brothers try to support each other, but they just can't help but become selfish at times too. This movie was little seen in the United States, but it deserves attention for the performances by these two fine young actors.

P.S. I'd also like to note the astounding work by Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker. As a man who can't seem to live without the thrill of his high-pressure job of dismantling bombs, Renner taps into the rage and sadness of a generation of soldiers. It's a stunning movie and a great performance by him in the lead.

Favorite Play: Leslie Jordan: Full of Gin & Regret. This performance consisted primarily of Jordan and a microphone and a bare stage. But when you have the stories to tell that Jordan does, you don't need more than that. Best known for his work on Will & Grace or his role as Brother Boy in Sordid Lives, Jordan has several decades' worth of material on the entertainment industry, his Southern family, even his love life, and it's always a pleasure to travel down memory lane with him. His stories are not always for the faint of heart, as even he would admit, but his personality and charm make you want to listen.

Favorite Musical: Monty Python's Spamalot. This touring company production of the Broadway show managed to capture all of the silliness of the movie upon which it is based and to send up the whole genre of musical theater while it does so. John O'Hurley, best known for his work on Seinfeld and on the American version of Dancing with the Stars, made a wonderful King Arthur, and he received able help from the supporting cast, particularly Merle Dandridge as The Lady of the Lake. I loved her song "The Diva's Lament" about how long it's been in the show since she was featured. I don't know that you'll necessarily sing the songs after you leave the theater, but you'll probably be humming "The Song That Goes Like This" for a few days afterward.

Runner-Up: Guys and Dolls. This was a production done by my college, which has a remarkable Theater Arts Department. They took a musical that has been done many times, including a movie version, and made it entertaining and dazzling and fun. Kudos, in particular, to the male chorus of the show. Their singing and dancing got the loudest applause of the evening and deservedly so. And the performance by Ryan A. Coon as Nicely-Nicely Johnson, especially his rendition of "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat," was a showstopper.

Favorite Books (Fiction): Rainbow Boys, Rainbow High, and Rainbow Road by Alex Sanchez. This trio of books follows the adventures of three gay high school boys as they come to terms with their sexuality. Two of the boys fall in love with each other--the romance is handled with great tenderness and sweetness--and the other one is initially jealous. However, he too manages to have a few romantic moments along the way. In one of the books, the boys take a cross-country trip that is really a journey into a greater understanding of the gay community and its culture and history. I wish I had had books like this when I was a teenager. I know Sanchez has said he only planned a trilogy involving his characters of Jason, Kyle, and Nelson, but I would like to know what happened to them in college and later in life. That's how engrossing these books are.

Favorite Book (Non-Fiction): The World without Us by Alan Weisman. Weisman takes on an interesting premise here: what would happen if the human population somehow disappeared from the Earth? Could the Earth recover, and how would it do so? He then talks to scientists and others who discuss sites around the world where nature seems to have regained control over what had been the domain of man. It's a fascinating read and an intriguing bit of speculative writing. He never spends too much time bogged down in the science of whatever issue he's discussing, but there's enough there to give you a sense, for example, of how a city of buildings would eventually collapse without the constant attention of humans. It's a compelling book about the ways in which we have damaged the Earth and how we might be able to restore it.

Favorite Book (Poetry): The World of the Ten Thousand Things by Charles Wright. Wright is from my part of the country, a Southerner by birth. He pays attention to details, and his descriptions of the landscape are so beautifully rendered. I hadn't read his book since it was assigned to me in college more than a decade ago. Oddly enough, I read it while at the University of Southern California, not Mississippi State University, despite its focus (at times) on Wright's home region. Reading this collection of poems again was like getting in touch with an old friend. Wright has moved beyond the subject matter of his regional roots, but his work is clearly still influenced by the sense of connectedness he learned while growing up in rural Tennessee.

Highlight of the Year: I had a blast seeing Barry Manilow at the Hollywood Bowl this fall with five dear friends. We sang along to all of his hits, and I had an opportunity to remember the last time I saw him perform live, 1977 at the Ravinia Arts Festival in Illinois. He's older now and doesn't dance around the stage quite as much, but he still puts on a spectacular show. I never had a chance to see him perform live during the intervening 30+ years and I stopped buying his records sometime in the mid-1980s, but it was such a thrill to get to hear him one more time. And I will likely never forget the sight of all those glowsticks with his name emblazoned on the side lighting up the hillside.

Runner-Up: I was invited to participate in a staged reading of The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later: An Epilogue in October, and despite not having performed on stage since my junior year in high school, I agreed. I was given three small parts with only a few lines each so, thankfully, I had no major blocks of dialogue to remember or perform. The play itself, a follow-up to the Tectonic Theatre Project's original production on the impact of the death of Matthew Shepard, is brilliant and emotional stuff. I had a chance to watch real actors going through the process of preparing for their roles, and I got to watch some astounding performances through the rehearsal process and then in the three actual productions we had on National Coming Out Day. I feel privileged to have been a part of what turned out to be something of a national phenomenon, with more than 100 productions throughout the United States on the same day, including one at Lincoln Center in New York. You don't get many chances like that in life, so it's best to take advantage of them when you do.

Random Notes on Rock and Roll

2009-12-24T11:03:00.000-08:00

I finally had a chance to watch all of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 25th Anniversary Concert, a title that's almost as long as the show itself. It's been a busy fall, so I had to watch it several weeks after the show first aired in order to have a chance to sit through it all at once. It's mostly a tribute to artists who have been inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and it was a treat to see some of the "older" rockers still performing.

For example, Jerry Lee Lewis started the concert by playing a version of "Great Balls of Fire." Lewis is quite old now, one of the very few survivors from the early years of rock and roll, but he still knows how to play the piano just as nimbly as he did back in the 1950s. What impressed me more, though, was how he ended his performance. Like the true badass that he is and always was, Lewis kicked over the piano bench and knocked it out of his way so that he could exit the stage. Had he been a guitar player instead of a piano player, I suspect he would have smashed a guitar.

The concert had several emotional moments as artists paid tribute to singers and plays who had passed away. There was a lovely version of "Here Comes the Sun" by Paul Simon, Graham Nash, and David Crosby in honor of George Harrison. And I was particularly touched by Stevie Wonder's tribute to Michael Jackson. Wonder sang a version of "The Way You Make Me Feel," and it was all he could do to get through the song. He teared up in the middle and couldn't make the words come to him. He eventually recovered, but it was a powerful reminder of the friendship the two men had had all those years ago at Motown Records and to how much we lost musically with Jackson's passing this year.

If you wanted to see the pure joy of performing with one of your idols, all you needed to do was watch the lead singer of Metallica, James Hetfield, singing along with Ozzy Osbourne. He wasn't singing into the microphone; he was just "mouthing" the words that Ozzy was singing, and he was having a blast doing it. Speaking of Metallica, who knew that they could be such a great back-up band to Ray Davies of the Kinks? Davies, who has long been estranged from his brother and the other members of his original band, should go on tour with Metallica. They could bring a heavy metal edge to some of the Kinks' great songs.

Most of the concert was taken up with intriguing pairings of artists, but none was better than when U2 brought out Bruce Springsteen and Patti Smith to sing "Because the Night." Springsteen and Smith co-wrote the song, and Smith popularized it, and it was an inspiring touch to have Bono and U2 join them in singing it. It was almost perfect harmony.

Speaking of harmony and estrangement, one of my favorite segments was the one "hosted" by Simon. He brought out Art Garfunkel, and the two of them sang several of their hits with the beautiful combination of voices they always had. It's a shame that artists like Simon & Garfunkel couldn't seem to get along well enough to maintain their careers together. Hell, even the members of the Eagles have managed to overcome their creative differences and tour together. I'd love to see another concert of Simon & Garfunkel singing "The Sounds of Silence" and "The Boxer" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water" like they did for this concert.

The most powerful political moment--and a welcome one it was--was the arrival of Annie Lennox of the Eurythmics to duet with Aretha Franklin. Franklin was adorned in one of her usual showstopping dresses, but Lennox was wearing a simple outfit that included a t-shirt that said "HIV Positive." Now, Lennox isn't HIV positive; she's wearing the shirt to call attention to the devastation that AIDS has brought to Africa and to remind us that we don't always know the status of our partners unless they choose to be honest with us. Rock and roll is political, and Lennox reminded us of that even at this august occasion. And she and Franklin totally brought down the house with their rendition of "Chain of Fools." So when does Lennox get inducted into the Hall of Fame?

There were lots of other favorite moments: the appearance of Little Anthony and the Imperials, still in fine voice after all these years; the segment hosted by Jeff Beck that was primarily devoted to himself and other guitar gods; and Springsteen, Tom Morello of Rage Against the Machine, and John Fogerty of Creedence Clearwater Revival playing with the E Street Band--magical stuff. Sam of Sam & Dave sang with Springsteen's band, as did Darlene Love. And then Billy Joel sang "New York State of Mind," one of his best songs. It was a powerhouse way to end the evening.

Watching all of these performers brought back a lot of memories of my high school and college years. Many of them have seen their heyday as top-selling artists come and go, but the drive to perform is still there. If Jerry Lee Lewis, who's 74, by the way, can still rock, so can the rest of us.

I have a few quibbles with the choices the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has made over the years. How exactly are the Staples Singers rock and roll? Or Madonna? Or ABBA, one of the inductees for 2010? How much of an influence, truly, were the Dave Clark Five? Or Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers? Or the Hollies, again one of the inductees for 2010? The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame bypassed KISS, the great Laura Nyro, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers in order to add ABBA and the Hollies next year. At least, the new inductees include the Stooges (with wild man Iggy Pop) and Jimmy Cliff, both deserving and long overdue. There was a call a few years ago by a rock journalist to start taking people out of the Hall of Fame because there were too many people he considered to be second-caliber talent being inducted. I wouldn't go that far, but I do wish the keepers of the hall would pay attention to their own concert. The stars performing that night are still shining, still performing, still worthy of our adulation. And they're still rock and roll to the core.

Nutty Neighbors: The Saga Continues

2009-12-24T10:54:00.001-08:00

At 3 a.m., most of the building was awakened by the sound of a hammer pounding. Several of us yelled loudly, and the hammering stopped. Temporarily. After about ten minutes, it started up again. Then it would stop for a little while, only to start up again. Several of us called the security office to complain, but frankly, none of us were certain from where the sound was coming.

Well, that's not entirely true. I immediately suspected Godzilla. I checked to see if there were any lights on in her apartment, and there were, all in the back bedroom whose wall I share. I think she might have been putting together some presents or furniture or something, but why at 3 o'clock in the morning?

I'm not fond of confrontation, but I'm also not above it. When I knocked on her door, she opened only the peephole, so I still haven't seen what she looks like. I asked if she were the one hammering, and she replied that she wasn't. She said she thought I was the one making the noise. She then vowed to call security herself. I would like to note here that there was no more hammering after I confronted her about it.

By this point, it was almost 4 a.m., and I couldn't get back to sleep. I tossed and turned, but I just couldn't doze off again. Around 5:30 a.m., drawers in her walk-in closet were opened and shut (yes, you can hear them when they are slammed back into the wall), and a few minutes later, the charming sounds of her heels on the hardwood floor made their way to the front door.

I'm not trying to be accusatory, but Godzilla never gets up that early for work. That is more likely to be the time she goes to bed. Perhaps she was trying to get all of her stuff together so that she could go somewhere for Christmas? I hope so. It would be good to have her out of the apartment building for a few days. Maybe then we can all get some well-deserved sleep again.

Nutty Neighbors: Godzilla's Slippers

2009-12-22T00:49:00.000-08:00

I apologize for how blurry the picture is, but I was trying to keep from getting caught. The shoes above belong to Godzilla, one of the losers, uh, neighbors next door. You may recall that we had a lot of rain in Los Angeles a couple of weekends ago. Well, sometimes when one is destroying Tokyo in a rainstorm, one gets mud on one's shoes. I opened the door to my apartment on Sunday morning to get the paper and saw a pair of slippers in the tiny, tiny space between our front doors, and that's when I grabbed the cell phone. Luckily, Godzilla doesn't tend to wake up early.

The night before this picture was taken had been a rough one, actually. Godzilla had spent most of the weekend hanging out with a group of friends led by a 25-year-old who thought he was quite the success story already. I know this because he proclaimed it loudly both inside Godzilla's apartment and then again in the hallway before they left for the evening on Friday. I'm not sure who it was that he was trying to convince.

They returned home at 2 a.m. or so on Saturday. I know this because they woke everyone in the apartment building up. Including her roommate, Warren (whose name I learned because they kept yelling it repeatedly). Warren was apparently distressed over something that had happened to Godzilla. Well, he said her face was "fucked up." I have no idea how. After some loud discussions back and forth--and repeated calls from other neighbors to shut up--and a few phone calls to the security guards--Godzilla and her Wunderkind took their argument outside. As in the front of the building. As in loud enough to be heard by everyone in the building. Thankfully, the security officers showed up quickly and quietened them down and sent Wunderkind on his way.

Wunderkind hasn't returned, to the best of my knowledge. Warren's presence hasn't been apparent in the past week either; I suspect that the early morning wake-up might have been the last straw in their friendship. And Godzilla has been chastised at least once more, this time for playing her music too loudly. I know this because I heard the knock on the door from the security guard. I hadn't fallen asleep yet because, well, the music from next door was too loud. Good thing someone in the building had the foresight to call and report it, huh?

Since the photo above was taken, she has purchased a doormat. It's actually quite a pitiful one. No, I don't have a picture, at least not yet. It's small and obviously cheap, like one you'd pick up at the 99 Cents Store. I purchased a rather nice one a few years ago, but I keep mine just inside the front door. I figured the people streaming in and out of the apartment next door would wipe their dirty shoes on my mat, and I'd be left cleaning up after them. From the looks of the shoes above, my fears weren't unfounded. Oddly enough, it has stayed relatively clean inside my apartment.

I have to admit that I'm a bit worried about this doormat purchase. That might indicate a desire to stay here longer than the six months or so that the last two sets of tenants have managed. Then again, given how cheap it was, she might consider it to be disposable. Time will tell.

Nutty Neighbors: Godzilla and the Giggle Sisters

2009-12-06T10:32:00.000-08:00

I still have no idea how many people are living in the apartment next to me. Whenever a new batch arrives, it's always a fun guessing game as to the number of folks who will wind up being "permanent" residents. I thought for a while it was a young couple, a woman and a man, but now I'm beginning to suspect that it might be two women who have male visitors occasionally. But there's no way to tell. Well, other than getting to know them personally, and I have no particular interest in doing that. Given the trend for that short bus of an apartment, they won't be here for very long anyway.

I have to say that, so far, they have been "better" than some of the previous residents, "better" being a somewhat relative term. Perhaps that's because they seem hardly ever to be home. And, shockingly, I'm okay with that. Now and then, though, they do have some odd habits which seem designed to annoy all of the other people on this floor, or maybe they have a grander scheme in mind: annoying everyone in the building. They have the capacity to do so. I just hope they never use it.

I've only had to call the security patrol once since the new neighbors moved in. It was one of the weekends when they were moving stuff into the apartment and unpacking. They had two--yes, two--stereos blasting music. Most of the other residents of the hallway stuck their heads around the corner to confirm the apartment number, a sure sign that I wasn't the only one who called. The response to the patrol officer's telling them that their music was too loud? "Seriously?" That's the best they could muster, and it was in that Paris Hilton/Valley Girl tone of voice that too many young women mimic nowadays, so you know what it sounded like. But they turned the music down, and peace was temporarily restored. Since I've only had to call the patrol once in the month or so since they moved in, I'm already happier with them as neighbors than the previous two sets. Of course, the holidays are looming, and you can never tell what parties might be on the horizon.

No, when it comes to noise, they only have a couple of annoying habits. One of them likes to play music while taking a shower. I guess she/he wants to be able to enjoy a few tunes while soaping up. I don't know; it makes no sense to me. I just want to get in the shower, get it over with, and get on with my day. They, however, must think of it as some sort of retreat. The music only lasts as long as the shower is running, so at least, I know it's only temporary. Of course, the showers go on for at least half an hour, so there may be no water left in the city of Los Angeles if this keeps up.

One of them is also rather heavy-footed. It's a woman because sometimes she likes to wear heels when stomping around the apartment. Well, I suppose it could be a man in heels, but I've heard the voice and I'm sticking with it being a woman. The worst is when the doorbell rings and she has to stomp from her bedroom to the front door. It sounds like Godzilla destroying Tokyo. And it happens a couple of times a week now. I can't imagine what the people living downstairs must think. It must sound like they are under attack. Did I mention that we have hardwood floors in most of the apartments in this building? Yes, that only adds another dimension to the horror.

There is a dog next door. His name is Oliver, and I know this because one of them--obviously, Oliver's owner--yells out his name every night when she comes home. So far, Oliver hasn't been prone to barking, but dogs are illegal in the tower apartments like mine, so I'm holding on to that little tidbit of information in case I need it later on. He's a small dog, and she apparently hides him in a big purse to take him for his nightly walk. Or so one of the other neighbors told me. She, too, has chosen not to turn in the errant dog owner. Yet.

I first nicknamed the new tenants the Giggle Sisters because, when they were moving stuff into the apartment, they always seemed to be giggling about something and doing so quite loudly. One of them, in particular, seems especially mirthful. I was dreading the inevitable late night jags of talking and laughing that seem endemic to the younger generation, but apparently, they are not fond of hanging out in the living room. After two sets of tenants with no living room furniture who loved to hear the sounds of their own voices echo, I fully support them staying in their own bedrooms. There are still giggles at times when they are walking from the elevator to the apartment and vice versa, and everyone on the floor can hear them, especially when the one in the movie business (yeah, exactly how I felt) is also talking on her cell phone. And she's always talking on her cell phone as she walks to and from the elevator. What is it about that generation's obsession with talking so loudly that everyone can hear? Does no one value a sense of privacy any longer?

I had a blissful couple of months when the property owners were going through the eviction process for the last tenants, the Bros. It was so peaceful and quiet. I could get my grading done with ease, and I could watch television without interruptions. I could even sleep without having to hear some racket from next door. And there was no constant slamming of the front door like I had with Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls, who never seemed to be able to stay in or out for more than half an hour at a time. That brief amount of solitude without neighbors was among the best few months I've had in the building in almost fourteen years of living here.

I am grateful that these new neighbors are relatively quiet. I understand that you do have to put up with some distractions when you live in a building with 156 apartments. And that's just my building. There are several thousand units in this complex and the neighboring ones, so the possibilities for noise are infinite. You might enjoy, for example, the rock band upstairs who like to play very synth-heavy, gloomy music all afternoon. Over and over and over and over. It's very depressing stuff. Or maybe the trumpet player who likes to practice with all of his windows open is more to your liking? I know he needs the practice. God knows he needs the practice. And don't get me started on the neighbors who like to sing. Well, "sing" is a generous description of what they're doing. I first thought someone was either drowning or gargling. Maybe it's just modern music, and I'm not up on the latest styles.

Yes, I have thought about moving. I've thought about it more than once, actually. However, my rent is under the city's stabilization plan, and comparatively speaking, I don't pay all that much for my two bedroom apartment. A friend and I checked out a one bedroom apartment last weekend that goes for almost as much as I pay, and that one doesn't even have a parking space for the tenant. I doubt I'd be able to find any place that is both cheap and quiet, so for now, I just keep hoping that the giggling is kept to a minimum and that Godzilla will someday have to give those tired feet a long, long rest.

Quick Takes 2: Electric Boogaloo

2009-09-25T13:07:00.000-07:00

The movies have piled up again. Thanks to the events of summer and a frantic start to the fall semester, I haven't had time to write much about the various movies I've seen. So here, briefly, are some remembrances of films past.

Adam stars Hugh Dancy as a young man with Asperger's Syndrome who must learn to live on his own after his father passes away. He falls in love with his upstairs neighbor, Beth (Rose Byrne), and slowly begins to find his way in society, haltingly and unsuccessfully most of the time, though. I can't say that I particularly enjoyed this film, because except for the inclusion of the Asperger's Syndrome, there's nothing really new here. It's a quirky independent movie with quirky independent character types. You're likely seen this film before, just with a different issue that what Adam has. Dancy is good, much better than, say, Dustin Hoffman was in Rain Man. Where Hoffman was all gestures and tics as an autistic adult, Dancy is very subtle and sweet (really). However, I'm not sure that his performance is truly substantial enough to recommend watching the entire film.

All About Steve was a waste of time and money, frankly. I went with a friend because, as he put it, "it looks funny from the trailer." Whatever jokes were in this film must have all appeared in the trailer. Sandra Bullock--who needs some career advice and fast--plays a woman who creates crossword puzzles for a living (well, as much a living as you can have living at home with your parents and making a little money from crosswords). She goes on a date with a local TV cameraman, the vastly underused Bradley Cooper, and thinks they are destined to be together after he tries to brush her off too politely. She has a little trouble with reality, I suppose. Thomas Haden Church is a lot of fun to watch as the reporter Cooper works with regularly, but he seems to be in his own movie at times. Avoid this film at all costs unless you want to see how a movie turns the incident of a dozen deaf children falling into a well into comic fodder.

District 9 was one of my favorite movies of the summer. An alien spaceship gets stuck over South Africa, and rather than exterminate the aliens, the government decides to restrict them to one slum area, the District 9 of the title. A government agent, played by Sharlto Copley, shows up with the troops to help relocate the aliens, many of whom do not want to leave. One, in particular, wants to stay because he thinks he has almost found the secret to reviving the engine of the mothership. Through an odd series of events, the agent becomes infected with an alien chemical and begins turning into one of the "prawns," as the aliens are known. Yes, I realize the allegory is pretty heavy-handed for those of us trained to find allegory, but I have a sense that most of the people leaving the theater never caught on to the racial and ethnic politics underpinning this film. I'm not always a fan of science fiction movies, but District 9 is compelling, particularly for the performance of Copley as the frantic human trying to make some short of connection with the aliens with whom he now shares DNA and for the documentary style the film makers have used here. The visual effects blend smoothly into the hand-held camera work to make us feel like we are witnessing an actual news story.

(500) Days of Summer has two things working in its favor. It has a clever structure, going back and forth in time to show different days in a relationship between a young man and woman who work in the same office where greeting cards are created. And it has Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the male lead. Otherwise, if you put the story elements in chronological order, you'd have a fairly pedestrian love plot and a really vicious portrayal of a young woman named Summer (Zooey Deschanel) who breaks, seemingly maliciously, the heart of Gordon-Levitt's Tom. I've admired Gordon-Levitt's work in Mysterious Skin and Brick, and he's very good in this film as well. Too bad the film doesn't really rise to the level of his performance. It's just too mean to its female lead to make you fall in love with it.

Inglourious Basterds was the most fun I've had at the movies all year. Quentin Tarantino's latest film is an intriguing experiment in alternative history. What if Hitler and the highest ranking Nazis were killed before the end of the war? The movie takes place primarily in Occupied France and features a gange of pretty ruthless Nazi hunters led by Brad Pitt as Lt. Aldo Raine. Pitt seems to be having a blast in this role, and it's good to see him enjoying acting (more so than he did in that tiring The Curious Case of Benjamin Button). To attempt to summarize a Tarantino movie is really a fruitless exercise, so let me concentrate on two aspects of the movie. The first is the acting of Christoph Waltz as Col. Hans Landa. What a find this guy is. Multi-lingual and hugely talented, he's spellbinding whenever he's on the screen. The rest of the cast, including director Eli Roth as one of Raines' crew, are uniformly good too. And then there's the music. Does anyone have a better ear for music than Tarantino? In particular, his use of David Bowie's "Putting Out Fire" from the movie Cat People was brilliant. That scene alone should put an Oscar in Tarantino's hands next year. I wish more filmmakers were as audacious as Tarantino. We'd get to see a lot more interesting movies if they were.

Julie & Julia features two great performances from two great actresses. It's no surprise that Meryl Streep is at the peak of her considerable acting talent portraying chef Julia Child. Streep has such a joy that radiates through her in this part. How she's able to give one standout performance after another is a testament to her skill. She's quickly surpassing many of the greats (Davis, Garbo, Hepburn) in my esteem. The other performance, though, is equally good, and that's the one that has been most criticized. Amy Adams plays a bureaucrat who decides to cook all of the recipes in Child's book during one year. Adams is meant to represent a certain type of person in her generation: self-absorbed, prone to emotional outbursts if things go wrong. I think she nails the part and allows us to see the contrast between her Julie and Streep's Julia (and to see the many, many traits they have in common). A quick shout-out for Stanley Tucci as Child's husband Paul. If all of us had spouses that supportive and, frankly, that randy, we'd all be as happy as Child was.

Ponyo is an absolute delight. It's an animated film by the Japanese master Hayao Miyazaki (of Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle and My Neighbor Totoro fame), and it is just glorious in its use of color and action. The title character is a goldfish who meets by accident a little boy named Sosuke. So enamored does Ponyo become with him that she transforms into a little girl with wild red hair and a wild attitude to match. I mean, it's not every little girl who can run on top of the waves of a tsunami, but Ponyo can. She gains her powers from her father, Fujimoto, who is sort of a wizard trying to protect the sea creatures from the ill effects of mankind, and her mother, who is a sort of goddess of the sea. I know that all sounds strange, but this movie is so charming that you find yourself accepting the most remarkable of events as being possible. I'd have a tough time choosing between this film and Up as the best animated feature of the year so far. They are both such masterpieces and worth a second or third or even fourth viewing.

Nutty Neighbors: Saying Goodbye to the Bros

2009-09-25T12:51:00.000-07:00

It started innocently enough. I came home from work one afternoon last month and found posted on the neighbors' door a notice that they had not yet paid that month's rent. My complex, as you may remember, does not believe in delicacy. The amount of rent due and the names of the tenants are prominently displayed for everyone on this floor to see. Perhaps the owners are trying to use shame as a means of getting their money.

Apparently, one of the Bros Next Door came home and removed that notice. It was certainly gone the next morning when I left for work. I'll be honest. I hadn't realized that they had already started moving out. I didn't notice that the noise level had subsided a great deal. It had been quieter, but it took additional events to clue me in.

A couple of weeks ago, September 8, to be specific, I came home to find a "Notice of Failure to Return Possession of Apartment" taped to the apartment door. The Bros seem to have left without returning the keys to the apartment. It must have been a very abrupt move since I don't recall hearing any noise (as I usually do when people move out from next door). The Bros were supposed to have returned the keys on September 2, and the notice was there to warn them to "surrender" the keys or face criminal prosecution.

Guess what? Nothing happened.

Last week, a new notice appeared. This one came not from the apartment complex but from the Sheriff's Department instead. I told you they don't mess around here. This one was labeled "Notice to Vacate," and it gave the Bros a week to get their stuff and move out and return the keys or else. This is, of course, all visible to everyone in the hallway, so now I'm probably known as the guy with the bad neighbors. Frankly, given the craziness that has gone on next door, I'd be surprised if I haven't been known that way for years.

Guess what? The Bros did nothing again.

Just this week, on the door knob next door, hung the "Notice of Eviction." Given that the Bros haven't taken any action in a month, that gives ownership of the contents of the apartment to the owners of the complex. To be honest, I think there's still some stuff in there. You can see objects in the window of the apartment, but I have no way of knowing what all the apartment owners are going to take into their possession. What happens to that stuff, anyway? Is there a big yard sale?

I realize that the apartment owners are going through with all of the legal steps necessary to evict the Bros. I just don't think they realize that the Bros are apparently long gone. I hope this takes months to resolve and involves the court system and testimony and people hauling out possessions in black plastic bags. The longer it takes, the quieter this floor will be.

Ted Kennedy and My Love of Literature

2009-08-26T22:43:00.000-07:00

It was the summer of 1980, and I was about to become a high school senior. I was too young to vote in the presidential election that year, but I had hopes that Jimmy Carter would be re-elected. That's not what happened, of course, and our country has been on a very strange course of events since then.

I watched the Democratic National Convention that year, the first one I had watched with any sense of political awareness. Senator Ted Kennedy had to give a concession speech, but of course, it turned out to be one of the most eloquent speeches ever given and hardly a concession at all.

I remember reading Time or Newsweek the following week in order to find out where he got the quote that he cites a few minutes into this clip. It's from the poem "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, and it's become one of my favorite poems over the years. I frequently teach it, and I always love rereading it.

Almost a year after he delivered this speech, I used the same lines from the poem as a part of my high school graduation speech. I was the salutatorian, having missed being the valedictorian by 0.6 points (not that I'm still bitter after all these years, mind you). I like to think that Kennedy inspired me that night at the Democratic National Convention. Due in part to him and his work, I not only became a lover of poetry but also a long-time liberal.

Thank you, Senator Kennedy, for all of your work on behalf of those less fortunate, those who have been ostracized, those for whom government no longer seems to care.

Hair

2009-08-26T16:38:00.001-07:00

Two weeks ago, I had my stylist cut off almost all of my hair. I have developed a bald spot on the crown of my head, and it was getting larger and larger, so I decided it was time to get rid of all of my hair. I asked him to shave my head, but he said he didn't have the equipment to do that. Instead, he promised to cut it very short and then let me shave off what was left. When he finished, I decided I liked the buzz cut look and kept it. I have maybe a quarter-inch growth, and that might just be the length I keep it.

By the way, while I was in the chair, my stylist began by cutting shorter and shorter on the sides, keeping the top longer. He cut it so that I had a short mohawk for a few minutes, but I thought I looked too much like Travis Bickle to keep it that way. Off the rest of it came. Since then, I've had a lot of people say how much they like the shorter 'do, and some who just say that it's a big change. I must admit that I've let go of a lot of vanity now that I have no hair to trouble with any longer. I enjoy this short haircut more than any I've had in decades.

I will admit that I have always had a complicated relationship with my hair. It has never been easy for me to maintain. When I was younger, I suffered the indignity of having a flat top like every other little boy around my age. We even had buzz cuts for a while then although none were quite as short as my hair is now. I remembered hating School Picture Day because I'd be stuck with photos of me with that flat top. It wasn't even long enough to need "product," as my stylist says. My grandmother tried to get me to use this stuff called Butch Hair Wax (I know, the irony of it all), but it never seemed to help. By the way, I think I destroyed all of those photos of my elementary years a while back. I just couldn't face looking at that kid's awful hair any longer.

My grandmother, bless her, tried all kinds of things to help me. She bought something called "hair trainer" from Avon or Luzier or Watkins or some door-to-door peddler. It was a waste of her money. My hair couldn't be trained. It just would hang limp whenever I tried to do anything with it. I couldn't even get the cowlick or two that I had to lie flat with the trainer stuff. My brother's hair would respond to almost everything she or my mother tried but not mine.

I was in junior high before my hair was allowed to grow out a bit. And, as soon as they allowed me (sometime in high school) to decide how long to grow my hair, I practically turned into a hippie. My bangs were so long that I would have to push the hair out of my eyes sometimes just to be able to read. I eventually cut it a bit shorter when I got to college, but I always seemed to prefer it to be a bit long. Oddly enough, my hair was still pretty long when I got my senior year photo taken at the university. The way our photos were lit made it look like I had a halo behind my head, leading to what my mother has always referred to as my "Jesus picture."

I have had almost everything done to my hair over the years except for coloring it. I had a "body wave" for a couple of years in high school. That's what they called "permanents" for men at the time, and a lot of guys did it at the time (even though most of us wound up looking like large poodles). It didn't really help me until the first time I got it cut. Then it would look good for a couple of weeks until the "wave" would grow out. I have also had it cut with almost everything, including a straight razor. If you want to know pain, have someone use a straight razor to slice off your hair. I have had it short and long. I once got the same haircut that Arnold had in the Terminator movies. I never had a mullet, thankfully, but it has frequently been long enough to have one.

I've used mousse (remember that stuff?), gel, pomade, even hairspray for a while. I tended to favor Garnier Fructis Fiber Gum Putty in recent years because it was sticky enough to hold my hair in place but not so sticky that it looked like I had clumped a lot of product on my head. I've had dozens of stylists over the years before I found my current one. They've tried everything they could to help me, all to no avail. One of them did reveal to me that I had hair the same texture of the hair of most Native Americans. I do have some Chickasaw heritage in there somewhere, I guess, but I didn't know it would manifest itself in my hair. (His first job after getting his cosmetology license was cutting hair on a reservation. That's how he knew.)

In recent years, it's gotten gradually shorter as my stylist has tried to keep me from looking too much like a bald guy. I tried to keep what hair I had for as long as possible, but nothing seemed to help. No ointments or pills kept the bald spot from getting larger, and there are side effects to the pills that a man should never want to have happen to him. I never wanted to do a comb-over because they look so silly and obvious, and I think getting hair plugs is an extreme sign of vanity even though I know some people who have had the procedure done. I also know some guys who just comb their hair straight back to cover the spot, but that too seems like an act of desperation. So a buzz cut it is.

I will admit to missing my longer hair. I had a good thick pelt there for a long time. I should have appreciated it more than I did, I suppose, despite all of the grief it gave me over the years. However, you can't imagine how much easier the maintenance is. I've shaved (no pun intended) at least half an hour out of my morning ritual. No more fussing with my hair. I just towel it off, and I'm ready to go. Maybe I should have gotten this buzz cut years ago. Think of all of the agony I might have avoided if I had.

Stories My Mother Told Me

2009-08-26T16:15:00.001-07:00

I recently shared with you a photo of me with my grandfather that was taken just a few years ago. The one above is the first photo of the two of us together, at least the oldest one that anyone can find. I'm just a few months old, and we're on the porch of the "old place." Within the next few months, we would move into the house that I grew up in, my home for the first 18 years of my life. I know this picture is a bit fuzzy, a bit out of focus, but that's how different the talents for picture-taking were in those days.

My mother says that this picture shows just how devoted my grandfather was to me. She claims he doted on me as a baby like no man she had ever seen. I love it when she talks about the time she found him painting the "new house" with me cradled in one arm and holding a paint brush in his free hand. There he was standing on top of a ladder painting a house with a baby of only a few months. She asked him if he thought it was dangerous. His reply was classic Papa: "Aw, that baby's all right." I suspect I was no bigger than you see in the photo above.

Years later, when I began my first real job, as a reporter for a daily newspaper, I needed to find a place to live in Starkville, MS. I had always lived either at the "new house" (they called it that for years after we'd moved in, of course) or with Papa in his home after my grandmother died or in the dorms at school (the university officials preferred the term "residence halls," but as we say in the South, just because your cat had kittens in the oven don't make 'em biscuits). I wanted to go apartment hunting, and he and his wife, my step-grandmother, came with me. I found a little house for rent for $250 a month. (I know. Don't even get me started.) The landlady said she knew she had to rent the place to me when she saw that I had brought my grandparents with me.

I stayed in that little house for about five years before coming to California to attend graduate school. Naturally, Papa came to help me pack everything up and put it in the moving van. He wasn't making the trip to California with me--that was Mom's job--but he wasn't going to let me leave the state without helping. My mother told me that first night of our trip west, when we had finally stopped to rest for the night, that he had been crying as we drove away from the house. Many times over the years, she would remind me that she had never seen him cry over anyone else.

Whenever I would call home, Papa would always ask when I was coming to visit. What I didn't know was that when he and my mother talked on the phone, he would sometimes say to her, "I reckon Joe likes it out there." That was his way of saying that I probably would never move back to the South. Mom knew how that felt herself, having moved to northern Illinois almost forty years ago.

I wasn't his first grandchild. That would be my cousin Debbie, who was born three years earlier than I was, and he'd already had half a dozen or more step-grandchildren from my grandmother's kids (four boys) from her first marriage. I wasn't even the first grandson for long, as my cousin Jamie arrived just seven days after I did. However, I was the only one who lived with him. I think sometimes he considered me to be his son more than his grandson.

I'm feeling a bit sentimental these days. On the night of his wake, after we'd all returned to my uncle's house, we sat around for several hours talking about my grandmother. My uncle's wife said, "She must really be on your mind tonight." And she was. Perhaps sometime I'll post about her. However, Papa's been on mind lately. I know it isn't surprising, but I've been thinking back and remembering all of these stories, particularly the ones my mother has told me about when I was a little boy. I don't remember them, of course, but I do have pictures like this one.

15 Films

2009-08-24T14:01:00.000-07:00

Again, the rules from a Facebook posting:

Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen movies you've seen that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what movies my friends choose.

Here is my list:

1. Lawrence of Arabia (still my favorite movie of all time)
2. Star Wars (I was 14 when it came out, the perfect age to love this movie. Still thrilling after all these years)
3. Casablanca (I could watch this film over and over and never tire of it. It's the most perfectly made film)
4. Citizen Kane (I find something new about this movie each time I watch it)
5. Sunset Boulevard (one of the greatest performances by an actress in the history of film. Compelling viewing)
6. Jaws (I could tell you almost every detail of the day I saw this movie--life-altering)
7. The Boys in the Band (sigh. another one of my favorites, now finally on video)
8. Forbidden Games (hardly anyone has seen this, but it's an intense, beautiful movie. A forgotten treasure)
9. La Strada (great film, great performances)
10. 8 1/2 (want your mind blown about what film can achieve? watch this one)
11. The 400 Blows (that final image still haunts me)
12. The Poseidon Adventure (I love popcorn movies, and this was one of my earliest favorites)
13. The Way We Were (I never make it through this movie without crying)
14. The Letter (my god, Davis is spectacular in this one. The opening sequence alone is worth watching it for)
15. Atonement (this movie is so underrated. I think it's just brilliant)

These are the first ones I thought of, but it seems like such a pedestrian list in many ways. Do you know how tough it is for a movie lover to pick only 15 movies, though? I could make this list almost five times as long. I'd have to add Rashomon and Close Encounters of the Third Kind and The Godfather and Willie Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (no, really, I would) and so many others. And Pulp Fiction and Jackie Brown and Reservoir Dogs...

Guess Who?

2009-08-24T13:58:00.000-07:00

He's a famous writer. Once his identity is revealed, you'll probably say to yourself, "Of course..."

Papa

2009-08-11T16:59:00.000-07:00

I always called him Papa. Even after I was a grown man, he was still Papa to me.

When I was growing up in Mississippi, he was the only father figure I had until my mother remarried. I never knew my own father, and my paternal grandparents remain a mystery to me. If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know that I grew up with my maternal grandparents. When they divorced in 1972--long after they probably should have split up, frankly--I lived with my grandmother until her death during my senior year (December 27, 1980, to be specific). After that, I lived with Papa.

He gave me my first job, working with him as a carpenter. I use the term "carpenter" loosely to describe myself, but he taught me what he knew about painting and roofing and plumbing and whatever else it took to build a house. I worked with him during every Spring Break and every summer and every winter break from school even after I started college. If I know anything about tools and fixing things, it's because of him. I still have the toolbox he gave me as a gift, and I have several tools that he gave me as well. And I have so many memories of the places we worked on, including that first house I helped to build and all of those roofs we put on during the hottest days of the summer.

I also owe him my sense of humor. If I'm at all funny, it's because of his genes. My mother is funny, but even she would admit that Papa is the source. I can remember him cutting a slice of cake for himself one night and then taking a bite and telling me that I wouldn't like it. "It's got that old moist taste," he said. Then he'd say that he didn't think it was "fit to eat," but, of course, a second slice would be the determining factor. I'm nowhere near as subtle as he was, but I like to think that I owe him my sense of humor.

He was in a terrible car accident three weeks ago. He ran a red light and hit a semi truck. The truck Papa and my step-grandmother were in spun into another car before finally coming to a stop. He was thrown from the car because, as usual, he refused to wear his seatbelt. He made sure his wife was buckled up, saving her life, thankfully. She suffered some bruising and a fractured leg, but that's all, amazingly.

He spent two weeks in a surgical trauma intensive care unit. He was only allowed visitors four times a day for twenty minutes. I was teaching summer school and had one more week to go when my mother called to say that the end would likely be near and that I should make arrangements to get there as soon as possible. I purchased my plane tickets, planning to fly on Tuesday of last week. He died Monday afternoon after his wife made the difficult decision to take him off life support when his kidneys and liver failed. He had been on a machine that was doing most of his breathing and another that kept his heart pumping. He had pneumonia and what my mother keeps calling "weeping edema." He was 86 years old, and although he was in good shape from having remained active all his life, there's no way he could have survived all of the injuries he sustained. And he wouldn't have wanted to be an invalid, believe me. He hated being in the hospital the few times he was ever sick.

Members of my family who were there said they're glad I didn't see him in the hospital. He certainly looked like he had suffered a tremendous amount of pain when I saw him at the funeral home on Thursday night. He almost didn't look like Papa. He didn't have that smile I was used to seeing. I know he's no longer in pain and, hopefully, now at peace. I only wish I could have said goodbye to him before he passed away. He's buried in a little country cemetery in rural Alabama, and he has a view of a beautiful pasture filled with cattle. If I know him, he's probably complaining that the owner should plow the land and plant some corn instead of wasting all that good land on a bunch of cows. (He was never much of a beef eater except for the occasional hamburger.)

When I would talk about going home to visit, I meant going to see Papa. The picture I've included of the two of us is from one of those holiday visits. It's from Thanksgiving a few years ago, and we're riding his four-wheeler, which he drove like a crazy person, by the way. He had already driven me down to the pond to see his fish and over to the chicken house and out to the dump. We were coming back to the house when this picture was snapped. My mother loves this picture of us, and so do I. It's the last photo that I have of him. I don't know what my family will do this Thanksgiving without Papa. We'll have nowhere to go, and even if we do all meet, it certainly won't be the same.

I saw lots of my family--and it's a big family--last week. He still has three sisters who all live in the same area, and there are lots of grandchildren and great-grandchildren and even a couple of great-great-grandchildren. I stayed with my uncle and his wife, whom I'd not seen in years, and they live next to two of my cousins and their families. I reconnected with people from high school who heard of his death and wanted to come see me. I met a lot of people who knew my grandfather from his more than 60 years as a carpenter and from his life spent in the same geographical area. Thursday's visitation was packed, a testament to how well liked Papa was.

Mostly, though, I cried. I broke down on the phone with my brother when he called last Monday to tell me the news. And I cried again when I saw my mother at the airport on Tuesday when she and my stepfather came to pick me up. I had to walk outside the funeral home several times Thursday night because I was so overcome with emotion. And the funeral on Friday rendered me speechless except for my sobs. Even on the plane ride home on Saturday, I felt the tears begin to well up a few times, but I somehow managed to hold them in until I got in my own car in the parking lot.

So many of you have lost loved ones, and you have been such good counsel for me during the past few weeks. I do appreciate all of your thoughts and prayers. I would never have made it through without your help. I know I'm not done grieving, but I'm very grateful to know that you've been there for me. I recognize that this post is going to be a difficult one to get through for many of you--it was tough for me, too--but I needed to write down what I'm feeling. It might help me to move on to the next stage, so thank you for indulging me.

15 Books

2009-08-01T23:32:00.000-07:00

Here are the rules (as per a friend on Facebook): Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen books you've read that will always stick with you. First fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag 15 friends, including me because I'm interested in seeing what books my friends value.

1. Moby-Dick (Herman Melville). This book is like the movie Casablanca. I can reread it and find something new and interesting each time. I can watch Casablanca over and over again and never tire of it either.
2. Sure of You (Armistead Maupin). The first book I purchased in the Tales of the City series. I now own all seven of them, and whenever I want to have a fun reading experience, I go back to Maupin's novels.
3. Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens). My favorite novel from one of my favorite novelists.
4. Beloved (Toni Morrison). I must have read this book a dozen times now. It was one of the works I discussed in my dissertation. Breathtaking stuff.
5. The Sound and the Fury (William Faulkner). I could put down any number of Faulkner novels, but after reading The Sound and the Fury, I could never read fiction the same way again (and, yes, I think that's a good thing).
6. The Lord Won't Mind (Gordon Merrick). Trashy, fun stuff. The first in a trilogy of novels about this gay couple. Hilarious, profane at times, serious-minded, groundbreaking.
7. The Borrowers (Mary Norton). The first book I ever sought out to read after watching a TV show or movie adaptation. It was the TV movie from the 1970s, by the way, not the stupid adaptation of recent years with John Goodman.
8. Pippi Longstocking (Astrid Lindgren). My mother bought me three of these books after we saw those wonderfully campy movies in the 1970s. I reread them about a year ago, and I had a blast. It was just like being a kid again.
9. Any of the Peanuts books by Charles Schulz. I owned a lot of them over the years. I loved that strip and its world view. I, naturally, always fancied myself to be like Linus. Minus the blanket.
10. The Rain God (Arturo Islas). This and Migrant Souls are two of my favorite books from my graduate school years in California. I had never heard of his before taking a seminar in Chicano/a literature, and I was devastated when I found out he had died after completing them. No more masterpieces from such a gifted writer.
11. The New Confessions (William Boyd). Victorian in its size and scope, this novel is about the life of a film director. It spans much of the Twentieth Century, and it has one of the best opening sequences I've ever read. Comparable to the shock value of reading the opening sentences of Billie Holiday's Lady Sings the Blues.
12. The Tipping Point (Malcolm Gladwell). I've read all of three of his books, but this was the first for me. He finds the oddest things fascinating, the most minute of issues and moments to discuss.
13. America's Faces (Rheta Grimsley Johnson). Johnson was a columnist for the Memphis newspaper for many years. This is a collection of her columns, and it made me want to be a better writer. Any budding journalist would benefit from reading her work, but sadly, it's out of print.
14. Collected Poems (Frank O'Hara). I'd also recommend reading Brad Gooch's biography of O'Hara, City Poet. O'Hara is one of my favorite poets, right up there with William Carlos Williams and Edna St. Vincent Millay. I'd recommend this collection for the poem "Joe's Jacket" if for no other reason.
15. Passage to India (E.M. Forster). Just brilliant.

I've left off too many people. Where's Jane Austen? Where's Virginia Woolf and To the Lighthouse? Why isn't there more poetry? This is such a difficult task, but I went with the first ones that popped into my head.

Updating My Ethnicity

2009-07-25T12:56:00.000-07:00

We received an e-mail at work a few weeks ago asking us to go online and "update our ethnicity." The Department of Education, the federal one, is collecting data on the race and ethnicity of college employees and students. I suspect it might have something to do with our having received a couple of grants as a Hispanic-Serving Institution over the past dozen years or so.

I dutifully went to the page online that I was supposed to use and answered the two questions. The first simply wanted to know if I was Hispanic or Latino. Since I'm not Hispanic or Latino, I then had to choose from a series of lists to identify more accurately what my ethnicity is. Well, to be more accurate, there were five categories--American Indian or Alaskan Native, Asian, Black or African American, Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, or White. The Asian category had nine subcategories based upon national ancestry (Cambodia, China, India, Japan, Korea, Laos, Vietnam, the Philippines, and Other), and the Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander had four subcategories, again based upon national ancestry (Guam, Hawaii, Samoa, or Other). The other three had only the one item per category. Before you start to ask, yes, I could check more than one box; we weren't restricted to only one ethnicity, which is good to know.

I don't object to reporting my ethnicity. I have only a vague sense of my family's ancestry anyway, so it's only speculative on my part. We're supposedly Scotch-Irish on my grandfather's side, and my grandmother always claimed that we had a Dutch background as well. Of course, she also claimed that one of her ancestors (a word she would never have used, for the record) was a "Hindi." I asked her once if she meant Hindu, but she'd never heard of that. I can't imagine that anyone in my family is truly of Hindu background, but who knows? There's also a strong Native American influence in my genetics, probably either Chickasaw or Choctaw in nature. Anything else is completely unknown to me.

My issue has to do with the way it was presented to us: "updating" our ethnicity. I can update my contact information when I change my cell phone number or when I move to a new address. I can change my emergency contact person if I decide I want someone else to make decisions for me, so that's an update. How exactly, though, do I "update" my ethnicity? I can report it, certainly, but updating it seems a bit far-fetched. Have I changed my ethnicity since the last time I was asked? Perhaps I should contact my mother to see if we are now of Guamanian descent. Or perhaps we actually are Hispanic or Latino, but I wasn't at the family reunion this year to listen to the deliberations.

I know this all seems rather silly, but I am an English teacher, after all. Language matters, and the words we use should be chosen carefully. You'd think that someone at the offices of a school district would have thought about the implications or the connotations of the word "update" before using that to describe the process we're undergoing. Or perhaps they just wanted us to have a chance to reconsider who we are. Knowing that we might have to do this on a regular basis, I'm going to start thinking about what ethnicity I want to be the next time I'm asked for an update.

Cheri

2009-07-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I ventured out of the apartment a couple of times. Once was to see a production of Reefer Madness: The Musical in downtown Fullerton. I went with N and R, and we all had a lot of laughs, and N and I had a few mojitos afterward to make the day even more enjoyable. The theater where the musical is being staged is one of the hardest to find I have ever encountered, but as I tell people who are trying to find my apartment for the first time, once you've been there, it's easier.

On Sunday, I went with a friend to see the movie Cheri. It's only playing in one theater here in Los Angeles (if it's still playing, that is). It's based upon a Colette story, and it features a luminous performance by Michelle Pfeiffer. It's been a while since she has starred in a film. The last time I saw her on screen was in a supporting role in Hairspray. It was such a delight to watch her be the center of attention again. She deserves it.

The plot, as with many films based upon works by Colette (think Gigi), is simple. An older woman falls in love with a younger man, only to have her heart broken by him when he chooses (is forced to choose, really) marriage with another woman, someone closer in age to himself. That's really the whole movie. Yet what Pfeiffer accomplishes is a master class in acting. She has moments where she doesn't speak, yet every emotion is evident on her face and not in some ham-fisted way, either. She is masterful at expressing herself in subtle ways. There's one close-up in this film that is just as memorable as the final close-up of Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons. You have to experience it yourself--preferably on a large screen--to appreciate it fully. Any description of it wouldn't do justice to its impact.

Speaking of that earlier film, which also starred Pfeiffer, it's the same team of director Stephen Frears and writer Christopher Hampton who created Cheri. They've given their star some great material here, especially the discussions about growing older and how people react to you as you "mature." I couldn't help thinking that moments like those were directed at the Hollywood studios, with their insistence on new, young, "fresh" stars and their habitual abandonment of some of the more talented performers. And Pfeiffer only brings greater resonance to those moments because she is just as stunningly beautiful as ever.

By the way, Cheri is not the name of Pfeiffer's character. That's actually Lea de Lonval. Cheri is the young man, the son of one of Lea's fellow courtesans. To be honest, I didn't quite see what anyone saw in him. He's played by Rupert Friend, who is, I suppose, attractive enough, but his character is such a twit. I know that he's meant to be representative of a certain type of young man common to the Belle Epoque, so I guess I should just be grateful that that period ended quickly.

It might be a bit of a challenge to find Cheri in a theater near you, but it's worth the effort for Pfeiffer's performance. I doubt very many people will get to see this movie, and that's a shame. It's only playing in art house theaters, and the audiences are rather small. Maybe a dozen or so people saw it when we did. Anyone who doesn't take the opportunity to catch this film is missing out on my early favorite for the best female performance this year.

What I Learned

2009-07-20T18:08:00.001-07:00

I'm grading essays for my literature class. Still? Again? Tough to tell sometimes.

I always find literature papers intriguing. Sometimes, the students take on challenging texts and do amazing things with them. Other times, they tackle poems or stories that seem to have been thoroughly mined already, yet they come up with a new, different, unique perspective.

And then there are the students who provide valuable non-literary insights in their essays. Such as the following statement, the opening sentence to an essay about Tennyson's "Ulysses": "Even old, wrinkly people can have dreams and aspirations."

I have so much to look forward to. At least, I hope it's still looking forward. I need to look in a mirror.

Rough Draft

2009-07-13T15:25:00.000-07:00

Here's the thesis for one of the rough drafts I read this weekend for my English literature class: "In two of his [Charles Dickens] most famous works, A Christmas Story [sic] and Oliver Twist, there are many similarities between the two if one takes the time to look a little below the surface."

Aside from the fact that this thesis has no specific focus, which is a significant problem, it suggests that every similarity must be discussed. Right? You'd expect a litany of similarities to follow, lots and lots of details from both works that are common.

What actually follows is one-and-a-half pages that, basically, point out that there's a little boy in "A Christmas Carol" and there's also a boy in Oliver Twist.

Shocking. That wouldn't seem at all obvious to someone who has read either work or even to someone who has never read the works but only heard of them.

Then there is a paragraph with two sentences about the moral endings of the two works. There are no specific details or examples from either work to support this assertion.

Attached to the second and last page of this exhaustive analysis is a Post-It with this message: "I got stuck on what else I could say. Could I do differences as well?"

Sigh. How can you advise a writer who feels exhausted after writing so little? Is this the future of literary studies?

Reassured about Insurance

2009-07-12T11:17:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago, I received an envelope from my car insurance company. Inside was one of those little yellow feedback cards. You know the kind. "How would you rate our handling of your claim?" The problem is I hadn't filed any claim in years. I started to worry that someone had filed a false claim, and my insurance had paid out some money to some criminal posing as me.

I called up my agent and gave her the claim number. She took a few minutes to find my file and locate the information. It turns out that the insurance company had finally retrieved all of its money from a claim I had filed four years ago. That's diligence, if you ask me. This company didn't stop until the owner of the vehicle responsible for the damages to my car had paid in full (with some interest, apparently, as well). The yellow card was an indication that the claim was finally "closed," at least in the minds of the insurance company honchos.

Here's what happened four years ago this month. I was dating someone new, and he was going to off to Mexico for a week to be at some artists' retreat. We went to dinner on his last night in town--a sushi place on Santa Monica Boulevard, not bad, actually--and returned home. I helped him pack up a few things and then watched him take off in the shuttle that he had ordered before he and I met (in case you're wondering why I didn't just drive him to the airport myself and save myself all of this grief). Just as an aside, the relationship didn't last long after he returned from Mexico because he turned out to be a bit of a jerk, but that's a post for another day.

When I walked out to the street to get into my car--we had walked to the restaurant from his condo--I noticed police cars all around. My car had apparently been hit by a rather large vehicle, and the entire driver's side was almost caved in. The front bumper had been almost completely torn off, too, with only a couple of inches still attached on the passenger side of the car. Four other cars had also been hit, one of them hardly recognizable as a car any longer. Mine was still sort of drive-able, so I took it home and called the insurance company. They started to work.

Once I got the police report later that week, I found that mine and the other cars had been hit by a speeding drunk driver in a Yukon. In case you're not familiar with that model, it's an enormous SUV. I was driving a Saturn L300 at the time, so imagine the amount of damage a huge truck like a Yukon could do to my mid-sized car if the driver was drunk and speeding. The police had arrested him and charged with a few different offenses, but he had been subsequently released after paying his fines. My insurance company and some others were in the process of filing claims against him. My car was in the shop for almost a month as a result of all of the damage, and I can't imagine the other cars (if they could even be fixed) got repaired any quicker. The one parked in front of me had to be totaled by the crash.

The insurance company paid for almost all of the repairs to my car, something to the tune of about seven thousand dollars as I recall. I had to pick up the tab for the deductible, of course, but the insurance company got that money for me out of the Yukon driver and mailed me a second check for that amount. I was only inconvenienced by not having a car for several weeks during the summer. At least, I wasn't working then and could just enjoy the leisure time.

By the way, this car accident was what prompted me to get a cell phone. I hadn't owned one prior to this accident, and I had so much trouble finding a working pay phone that night that I decided that I would make purchasing a cell phone a top priority when I got my car back. I couldn't even call a tow truck, prompting me to consider abandoning my car at one of those places that says cars will be towed if left overnight. I didn't. I managed to get the car home after all, but it was an incredibly slow drive.

I still am amazed that the insurance company--named for one of the Roman gods, if you must know--has been working on this case for four years. I must say that I am impressed that the driver of the vehicle had to pay them back for all of the money he cost them. I know that, at the time of the accident, I certainly wanted to make him pay. My anger subsided a bit when all was taken care of by the insurance company, but I feel comforted knowing that he has been punished for boozing it up and getting the behind the wheel of an enormous tank and plowing down five cars parked on a street. There is a little bit of justice in the world after all.

Served Well

2009-07-11T18:09:00.001-07:00

Sad news for those familiar with the British television comedy Are You Being Served? Mollie Sugden, who played the brightly haired Mrs. Slocumbe on the show, passed away July 1. I used to watch the show regularly on KOCE here in Southern California, thanks to Partner at the Time, who is English and was familiar with the show from his days there. It's allegedly a take on the huge department store Harrod's and featured some memorable characters like Mrs. Slocumbe and Mr. Humphries (John Inman), one of the most outrageously gay men on television.

One of the running jokes on the show was about Mrs. Slocumbe's cat. Of course, that's not the word she used to describe her pet. Someone has edited together a lot of funny moments related to her "pussy." I know this is more scandalous than you might expect from me, but I couldn't resist having a chuckle, especially when she's on the phone with her neighbor Mr. Akbar. Enjoy, in particular, the one featuring her with a bright pink hairdo near the end of this collection.

Sadly, Inman and Wendy Richard (who played Miss Brahms) have also passed away in recent years. Everyone in the cast brought so much joy to people familiar with the show. If you've never watched an episode, put one in your Netflix queue and prepare to laugh.

Teaching the State of California

2009-07-10T18:14:00.000-07:00

I'm teaching a night class this summer. We're studying English literature since 1800, and we've made it through the Romantics and are almost finished with the Victorians. This is a good class, filled with lots of smart students from throughout the state. I know they are all students at my college now, but here's just a few of the places where they "regularly" study: Fullerton College (naturally), Mt. San Antonio College, UCLA, Chapman University, Loyola Marymount University, Biola University, Stanford University, and the Cal State Universities at Fullerton, Long Beach, and the Channel Islands. That's quite a range. Apparently, very few colleges or universities are offering summer school classes, and those that are have a very limited set of offerings for students. We seem to have attracted people from all over the state. Perhaps next summer we'll go national or even international.

Some of my colleagues will, of course, state that the reason the class is so talented is this mix of students from the universities. I think, however, that our community college students are just as well suited to this class as those coming from the four-year schools. The home-grown students seem to be just as insightful and participatory as anyone else. It's good to have a chance to compare, and it's perhaps even better when the comparison comes out so favorably.

The MP3 Shuffle Challenge

2009-07-10T18:07:00.000-07:00

The directions from my friend D on Facebook were simple:

1) turn on your mp3 player
2) go to Shuffle songs mode
3) Write down the first 25 songs that come up...song title and artist-- NO editing/cheating, please.
4) Choose 25 people to be tagged. It is generally considered to be in good taste to tag the person who tagged you.

I followed the directions and here is what resulted. I will try to keep the commentary to a minimum.

"I'm Alright" by Jo Dee Messina
"Get Right" by Jennifer Lopez
"I Wanna Dance with Somebody" by Whitney Houston
"War" by Edwin Starr
"Sara Smile" by Hall & Oates
"Lovesick Blues" by Hank Williams (Sr.)
"If We Make It Through December" by Merle Haggard
"The Rest of Your Life" by Kenny Loggins
"Hard Luck Woman" by Kiss
"Mi Amor Contiki" by Disco Ruido! (from the Rudo y Cursi soundtrack)
"Intermission" by Scissor Sisters
"My Heart Sings" by Frances Faye
"Wait for Me" by Hall & Oates
"Oo-de-Lolly" by Roger Miller (from the Disney animated film Robin Hood)
"The Best of My Love" by the Eagles
"Everybody Wants to Rule the World" by Tears for Fears
"I Want You to Want Me" by Los Odio and Juan Son
"Larger than Life" by the Backstreet Boys
"Hello Stranger" by Emmylou Harris
"Dear Me" by Lorrie Morgan
"Somebody to Love" by Queen
"The Way We Were" by Barbra Streisand (the album version, not the soundtrack one)
"Where Is It Written?" by Barbra Streisand (from Yentl)
"Goin' on a Holiday" by Labelle
"The Love Boat Theme" by Jack Jones

I think the only word that fits is "eclectic." I'll leave it to the professionals to analyze what my random song selection says about me.

(By the way, I seem to have lost the bullets function on Blogger. I think I used to have it, but it has disappeared. So I apologize for not having the list look more orderly.)

Quick Takes

2009-07-05T12:16:00.000-07:00

I have been to several movies in the past month, but I rarely have time to blog about them these days. (I read books, too, but hardly anyone else these days seems to care about that activity. Try talking to someone outside of an English department about a book you recently read and see what happens to you.) In the interest of sharing, here are some random thoughts on recent films.

I really enjoyed Easy Virtue. It's better than the reviews it received. Jessica Biel plays an American race car driver who falls in love with and quickly marries the son of an aristocratic English family (of course, that phrase could be redundant for the movies). The family, headed by that always reliable charmer Colin Firth and the witheringly funny Kristin Scott Thomas, seems to be rather traditional and conservative, at least if Scott Thomas' Mrs. Whittaker is any example. The movie is based upon the Noel Coward play, and I love his ear for dialogue. There are some great moments of slapstick here, and several scenes where characters analyze each other with scalpel sharp tongues--witty stuff. I'd also like to praise the music, all done in the style of the 1920s and 1930s, including a musical hall version of the 1976 classic "Car Wash." I downloaded the songs as soon as I got home from the theater.

The Hangover has gotten a lot of press this summer, and frankly, I was a bit underwhelmed by it. Yes, it's pretty funny, but that's mostly because of the situation, not because of, say, the actual dialogue, which is rather cliched. It's just a "bad trip to Vegas" movie with a veneer of cleverness over it. I did like the performances by Bradley Cooper and Ed Helms, and Zach Galifianakis seems like he's in another movie altogether, which really works here, oddly enough. Any movie that manages to get mileage out of a cameo from Mike Tyson can't be all bad, but can we please stop with the "fag jokes" already? I'm so bored with having comedies, in particular, resort to using such stupid humor.

My Life in Ruins stars Nia Vardalos of My Big Fat Greek Wedding fame. Here she's a former university professor reduced to giving tours of the Greek islands. Of course, most of the people who wind up on her bus are what they used to call "ugly Americans," and they fit every stereotype you could imagine for tourists. I will admit to being temporarily intrigued by the fellow who's an IHOP manager, but then he started talking about syrup and lost me. The real reason to see this movie--other than a few fun moments with Richard Dreyfus--is Vardalos' co-star, Alexis Georgoulis, whose character is the sadly named Poupi Kakas. He starts out as the scary looking bus driver and turns into the hot Greek stud by movie's end. Hey, at least, you'll have something to look at besides ruins. It's all a cliche, frankly, but Nia and Alexis actually made an appearance at the screening I attended to answer questions and promote the film, so I'm willing to forgive them this time. It's all relatively harmless fun, and the scenery (of all kinds) is quite beautiful.

Sex Positive is a documentary about one of the three men credited with creating the concept of safe sex. His name is Richard Berkowitz, and he's an intriguing central figure. He isn't an easy interview by any means, and he's always changing his mind about comments that he has made. He's sometimes brazen about his past, and at other times, he doesn't really want to talk about some of the things he's done. The other people who are interviewed seem to appreciate and accept just how difficult Berkowitz and his colleagues, Michael Callen and Dr. Joseph Sonnabend, had it when they tried to convince gay men in the 1980s to try, for example, using condoms. This is a significant historical document of a specific time in our history, one that is not frequently discussed for any number of reasons.

The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 is one of the most unnecessary movies released this year. It's a remake of a 1974 film which was perfectly fine as it was. There was no real need to make a new version of this film because none of the updates to the story really contribute to its being more interesting. The lead performance by Denzel Washington is good, but the other lead actor, John Travolta, is in fun "ham" mode in this one. I could never quite figure out why his character looks the way he does: the haircut, the tattoos, everything. I kept thinking it was supposed to be some kind of ethnic representation, but the film takes you off that path pretty quickly. Rent the original instead. You'll have a better time.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is truly a silly movie. I suppose it could serve as the perfect example of a popcorn movie, no substance, all style, just like everything director Michael Bay does. The explosions were frequent but not too loud, thankfully. Shia LaBeouf and Megan Fox are fine if a bit bland as the "heroes," but I'd rather watch sidekick Ramon Rodriguez. He's at least interesting. I have never seen all of the first Transformers movie, and I wasn't a fan of the TV show either. I don't even know when the show as on the air. Still, if a friend invites you and you want to get out of the house for a few hours, I suppose this is harmless enough. After the show, I overheard a young boy say it was "the awesomest movie ever." I'm glad he had a good time, but it does make me wonder about the future of America if he's any example. And I still want to know how the robots can be almost five times as large as the cars or trucks from which they transform. Yes, I know I'm not supposed to puzzle over questions like that in a movie like this.

The Problem with Twinks

2009-07-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday, I went to see the Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles perform their final concert of the season. It was entitled "Broadway!" (please note the exclamation mark--it's vitally important) and featured Tony and Grammy award-winner Jennifer Holliday (that's how she was billed). I always enjoy the chorus. They have impeccable taste when it comes to choosing songs to sing, and Sunday's concert featured some of my favorites.

The show started with "The Bitch of Living" from Spring Awakening, a show I saw last year at the Ahmanson, followed by "Life Is" from Zorba, which I have never seen. The third song of the day is one I have always loved: "We Kiss in a Shadow" from The King and I. They had a lovely arrangement of the song, and listening to all of those beautiful male voices blending together just made it even more joyous for me. If I recall correctly, Jennifer came out next and did a solo number, "Blues in the Night." All of her trademark "sounds" were a part of the performance, and I knew we were in for a real treat.

"My Junk" from Spring Awakening was next, followed by a medley of songs from South Pacific. Of course, "There Is Nothing Like a Dame" got big laughs, and "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair"--complete with shower stalls and well-built boys in towels--got a lot of sighs. "He Vas My Boyfriend" from Young Frankenstein was done with boys in leather, a rather inspired and somewhat inspiring touch for quite a few in the audience. I loved that they sang "(Not) Getting Married Today" from Company; it was a perfect political statement in this post-Prop. 8 world of California. After "Loving You" from Passion, a show I need to watch again soon, they ended the first act by dueting with Jennifer on "One Night Only" from Dreamgirls.

It was during the intermission that I had my twink problem. I purchased my tickets online the day before the performance, so I was in the balcony. I still had a great view, but one of these days I'm going to think ahead and get tickets closer to the action, so to speak. I was sitting behind a row of six or seven friends, all of them in their twenties (isn't almost everyone these days?). Two or three of them decided to stay behind during the intermission, and they were talking about how much they liked the show so far.

I was trying to read a book I had brought with me. You should always have a book handy; it helps to keep you from getting bothered too often. Still, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation. Twinks are notorious for being loud; it must be from all of those years talking on cell phones. One of them asked, "Now why is Jennifer Holliday here?" I almost tore my book in half. When his friend answered that she didn't know either, I decided to butt in and share that Jennifer was the original Effie White on Broadway when Dreamgirls opened. That's right, dear. Long, long before Jennifer Hudson wowed you in the movie theater, Jennifer Holliday was wowing them on the stage. In fact, anyone who's see both performances will tell you that Hudson borrowed deeply from Holliday's performance.

See for yourself. I'm not responsible for the picture quality, by the way. First up is Holliday's performance from the Tony Awards broadcast for 1982.

Now it's Hudson's turn. Tell me you can't see any difference between these two.

Sigh. The younger generation has no sense of history. And it doesn't seem to bother them at all, either. You might recall that I had a similar encounter at the Hollywood Bowl when Rufus Wainwright performed his tribute concert of Judy Garland music. When he introduced Lorna Luft, some twink sitting near me asked aloud, "Who is Lorna Luft?" Mine was not the only head that jerked around in shock and disgust.

Thankfully, the intermission on Sunday was short, and I could go back to enjoying the chorus. Act 2 began with "THe Circle of Life" from The Lion King, and we had chorus members throughout the audience, even in the balcony, dressed in what approximates African costume these days. The second song of the second act was quite a stunner: a medley of "Written in the Stars/The Gods of Nubia" from Aida, the musical, not the opera. The soloists were Jessay Martin and Richard Rocha, and Martin was particularly outstanding. His singing of "The Gods of Nubia" brought the house to its feet. I was almost in tears. He's that good. Why have we never heard of him before? Why doesn't someone sign him up for a recording contract?

Jennifer returned to do her big number, "And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going" from Dreamgirls. I think she sounds even better now than she did in the 1980s. She's lost none of her power, and she deservedly received another standing ovation. Another of my favorites came next, "Could I Leave You?" from Follies, a comic gem of a song done with great timing by the chorus. "Let's Not Waste a Moment" from Milk and Honey, a show I've never even heard of, featured a solo by Bill Bowersock, a man closer to my own age if not a bit older, and I was delighted by both the song (which they merged gently with "It Only Takes a Moment" from Hello, Dolly) and the performance.

The chorus finished the show with "First You Dream" from Steel Pier, another lovely number for which they had a fantastic arrangement. Jennifer joined them on stage for bows, and then they did an encore. And what a choice: "We Are a Family" from Dreamgirls. A perfect song to end the concert, and we were almost all standing by its finish.

I took my program and left the theater, passing a lot of men "of a certain age." There are some twinks who go to these events, but more and more I see guys my age and older at them. I suppose choral music isn't for everyone, and the younger generation doesn't seem to be all that interested in older music anyway. The advertisement for Sunday's concert read: "Gay Men Sing Showtunes. Imagine That." However, if my twink neighbors during the show are any indication, it's only when those showtunes are later performed in movies that they'll pay any attention.

An Analogy

2009-07-03T22:55:00.001-07:00

If this apartment complex were a school, then the apartment next door would be the short bus.

Inappropriately Funny

2009-07-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

When I drove home from work on Monday, I noticed that, during the day, while I was at work, posters and billboards for the movie Orphan had popped up all over town. It's as if the movie studio is trying to blanket the town in publicity for this film. Now I'm not saying that this is a bad movie. I haven't seen it yet, so how could I judge it? However, it bears a remarkable resemblance to the old movie The Bad Seed from the 1950s, only with a dark-haired girl this time and she's an orphan this time around (hence, the title, I suppose). I first saw the trailer for Orphan a week or so ago, and I have to admit that I laughed out loud at how ludicrous the trailer makes the movie look. Why do I suspect that the choker around her neck is somehow the key?

And the tagline? "There's something wrong with Esther." Of course, there is. But there's also something wrong with the studios who make movies this silly and the audiences who spend good money to watch such claptrap. Oy.

Enjoy.

A Lot of Little

2009-07-02T14:29:00.000-07:00

I recently completed a task that seems almost too daunting. I watched two versions of Little Dorrit. One was the 1988 film version, originally released in two parts, as I recall, and starring Derek Jacobi. The second was a BBC miniseries that aired on Masterpiece Classic during the Charles Dickens "festival" earlier this year. The ubiquitous Matthew Macfadyen played the lead role of Arthur Clennam that had been Jacobi's part in the earlier version.

Why would simply watching a movie and a miniseries be daunting? If you have to ask that, you must never have read the Dickens novel on which it is based. It's one of his whoppers at 826 pages. The first film version clocks in at six hours; the miniseries bests it by taking almost eight full hours to watch. It took me weeks to get through both of them, thanks to my schedule.

Both versions are solid adaptations, but they emphasize different elements, of course. The 2008 miniseries, for example, picks up the plot thread about the murderous Frenchman Rigaud that had been deleted from the earlier version. Both, though, are gloriously Victorian and delightfully Dickensian. I particularly enjoyed the Clennan house in both versions. It's an architectural monstrosity, and there's a constant rain (it seems constant) of dirt pouring through it. The home, in both cases, is just about as I would have imagined it after reading the description in the novel.

Watching these films nowadays, I was struck by the amount of attention given to the character of Mr. Merdle, the so-called "man of the age." Merdle makes all of his money in speculative ventures. In other words, he's a banker/broker using other people's money to get rich. When it inevitably all falls apart, an entire nation seems to collapse with his schemes. How very remarkable of Dickens to warn us a century ahead of time about the dangers of the stock market and banking.

What I will remember most, though, are the performances. In the 1988 version, the film is anchored by the performance of the great Alec Guinness as Mr. Dorrit, the long-time resident of a debtors' prison who comes into a great fortune, only to realize that money cannot help him to erase his years in solitude. Guinness is quite the peacock in his scenes at the prison, forcing everyone to make him the center of attention he so desires to be. It was also a treat to see Joan Greenwood, Guinness' former co-star from Kind Hearts and Coronets forty years earlier, in the pivotal role of Mrs. Clennam. She's just as fussy and cranky as the character in the novel. There's even a young Miriam Margolyes playing Flora, the once-beautiful girl of Arthur's dreams, now older and not quite so thin as he remembers. Margolyes has a deft touch with comedy, but she also allows you to see the desire her character retains for a love match with Arthur.

In the newer version, Tom Courtenay is brilliant as Mr. Dorrit. He allows us, even more than Guinness does, to see the fragility of Dorrit's ego. Eddie Marsan as Pancks, that character who seems to have his hands in a bit of everything, is so much fun to watch. The snorts and sniffs he makes are spot-on with the kind of little traits Dickens liked to give to his characters. And I particularly admired Macfadyen's performance here. I think I first noticed him in the adaptation of Pride and Prejudice from a few years ago; he was, of course, Mr. Darcy. He was also in Frost/Nixon last year. However, here he is called upon to be a strong moral center to the action, perhaps even more so than Claire Foy's Amy, Little Dorrit herself, the character usually given credit for being the moral compass, and he is compelling to watch in the part. I even found him to be quite sexy, to be honest.

The BBC version is, as you might expect, more faithful to the text itself. They are masters, those folks at the BBC, in replicating the look and feel of previous eras. I've enjoyed all of the adaptations of Jane Austen's novels that they've done over the years. The film version is more intriguing, though. The first half of the film is told from the perspective of Arthur Clennam, thus making Jacobi the focus of our attention. The second half shifts to that of Amy's perspective, so we see the action through the eyes of Sarah Pickering's Little Dorrit. It's an inspired choice, just as successful as the more faithful adaptation from twenty years later.

An Epiphany

2009-06-28T11:00:00.000-07:00

I've come to a realization that I think is going to make life so much simpler for me: I'm not a leading man. You know how the leading man is the focus of the movie (or TV show or play or whatever)? Among the various characters, it's his story that we watch with the greatest anticipation. We want to see him succeed at the end of the movie and get the guy or girl (depending upon the kind of movie you're watching). He's the focus of our attention.

Well, I'm not that guy.

I'm a character actor. I'm a supporting player. I'm a featured actor. I'm there to have a funny line or two, perhaps help the leading man in his quest, but not to take over the story. Sure, I may get a few moments to shine, and I might, briefly, steal the picture from the star, but he'll get it back in time. He always does.

I'm Claude Rains. I'll be in a lot of movies/lives, and people will always remember me in some fashion or other, but I won't be the one who has to "carry" the entire picture. Lots of people in Hollywood made a good living as character actors, actually. I'm thinking of people like Agnes Moorehead and Thelma Ritter and Ward Bond and Andy Devine. There are hundreds of others like them, and none of them were ever really, truly the star of a movie.

Billy G. tried to tell me something like this one time. We were in the cafeteria talking about his performance in The Rocky Horror Show. He kept telling me that I would be great on the stage, and he kept suggesting roles like Brother in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I suppose I should have realized then that I'm not really cut out for the part of Brick, but I guess it had never quite dawned on me that I would be better suited for the supporting part. I guess I should be grateful that he didn't suggest Big Daddy (although that time is coming rapidly).

Before you start in on me, consider this. In my students' lives, I'm not the lead. They are the leads. I'm just there for a few hours a week. The rest of the time is all focused on them. That's really being a character actor. It's not as if I am not memorable at times--perhaps so, perhaps not--but I'm only temporarily the focus.

And with friends, it's pretty much the same. They have lives of their own in which they are starring. I get my few minutes now and then to shine, and then I get to recede into the background while they carry out the main plot.

This realization is going to save me so much time.

If I'm not the lead, then I don't have to worry about how things are going to turn out. That's someone else's concern. I also don't have to fret about being single any longer. Since I'm not the star, it doesn't matter if I'm paired up with someone else. My job is to be there for the lead and whomever he chooses.

By the way, the lead never chooses the featured player as a partner. It's not in the script because no one would believe it. He wants another lead.

I will, at times, be part of an ensemble cast. Think, for example, of a department meeting. Well, I suppose the department coordinator running the meeting might nominally be the lead, but everyone has a role to play and all of us are involved to some degree or another. It's much more equal in terms of the players, yet it too is only temporary, once a month for a couple of hours. At other times, I will merely be background, a bit player, a face in the crowd, little more than an extra. I'm thinking of those Opening Day convocations with hundreds of employees all listening to speeches. I've spoken at four or five of those over the years, but even then I was only a featured player, not the real star. If you don't believe that to be the case, ask our current college president who she thinks is the focus of Opening Day. Some of you already know the answer to that one.

Now that I've accepted my character actor status, I'm going to have it so much easier. I won't continue to be hung up on finding another leading man. Certainly, the supporting actor sometimes finds someone to be his partner in life, and I'm not giving up on that possibility, believe me. However, knowing that I'm not the star of some romantic comedy gives me less of a burden. I'll just remember my job is to display some wit now and then and perhaps even draw attention away from others momentarily, but eventually (inevitably?), someone else will take over the greater amount of work.

Dog Days

2009-06-27T15:48:00.000-07:00

When I first moved into this apartment complex, no pets were allowed. None. No dogs, no cats, nothing. Many of the residents had pets, of course, mostly cats, but we all had an understanding among us that we would never tell the owners or property managers. When it came time for one of our annual inspections (fire alarms, water, whatever), all of the cats would have to disappear for a day--to avoid any unpleasant encounters with the maintenance crew conducting the inspections. If you got into the elevator on the night before an inspection, you were very likely going to be sharing the ride down with a cat in a carrier.

The new property manager, however, brought a dog with him. He was a bit upset to find that dogs were not allowed, primarily because they have an annoying tendency to bark when their owners aren't at home, thereby disturbing the other residents. No matter. He just changed the rules to allow dogs in some of the buildings, not all of them. Thankfully, mine is not one of the "lucky ones" to allow dogs. I've lived under those circumstances before, and I wouldn't care to repeat it.

However, everyone who lives here has noticed the change whether or not you live in a "dog-friendly" building. People walk their dogs a lot around the complex, and there's hardly any time during the day when you can't see a pooch and her/his master on the sidewalk. I frequently pass five or six dog-master combos on my morning or evening walk around the block. Some of the dogs are friendly, naturally, but others of them apparently have to be kept on a very short leash. It makes me wonder sometimes why anyone would want a dog so prone to attacking others. Wouldn't that put the owner at risk too, given the dog's usual behavior?

Nevertheless, the biggest change isn't the presence of the dogs themselves. It's the dog shit. Yes, some owners are very good about taking a plastic bag with them on the walk. Others, however, are very inconsiderate and leave behind their dog's turds. There was a time not too long ago when you could just crank up the iPod and walk around the block without having to worry about stepping into something that would ruin your shoes. You won't do that nowadays if you're smart.

I don't know what possesses someone to allow a dog to use the sidewalk for a bathroom without cleaning it up. And it's not as if it's always a small...um..."offering" that's left behind. I've been careful so far and have managed to avoid the need to wash my shoes before entering the apartment, but why can't these owners just follow the rules and pick up after their pets.

This is one reason I've never had a dog in the city. Well, that and the thought of having to carry around a bag of dog shit. When we were growing up, we almost always had a dog, but we lived in the country. If the dog went into the woods to do nature's bidding in nature itself, no one cared. Here, though, we should be paying more attention to the people who live around us, and far too people seem to be concerned about the consequences of their and their dogs' actions. You know how you're supposed to train dogs not to go to the bathroom inside your home? I'm starting to think that might be necessary to use on owners who don't clean up after their dogs. So, if you come to my neighborhood and you see someone whose nose looks like it's been rubbed in dog shit, you'll know I've finally had enough.

By the Way

2009-06-26T16:48:00.000-07:00

At what point will Americans stop being surprised when some right wing tool who has set himself up to be a paragon of virtue and morality turns out to be a hypocrite? Have we not had enough examples yet for them to get the picture? Whenever someone, particularly in the political arena, starts passing judgment on the behavior of another person and taking what is supposed to be some sort of moral high grind, you just know it is only a matter of time before we find out what inappropriate behavior he (and it's always men, isn't it?) has been up to himself. I hope the rest of the country catches on soon because, frankly, I'm tired of being shocked that other people can't see how prevalent hypocrisy is among conservatives. And these are the folks who get to decide whether or not I can get married? Ludicrous.

A Tough Week

2009-06-26T16:01:00.001-07:00

It must now be the fate of people my age to start witnessing the loss of so many icons from our past. I was stunned to learn yesterday that both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson had died. Jackson's death was particularly shocking because he was still young (only about five years older than I am) and had not been ill like Fawcett had been. His death was completely out of the blue; I was listening to the radio on my way to get dinner last night and couldn't figure out why the station was playing so many Michael Jackson songs in a row. Earlier in the week, we also lost Ed McMahon, and I was struck again by how much I missed the old Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and him.

What I always liked about Ed was how willing he was to play along with whatever Carson was doing. A particular favorite of mine was watching the two of them interact when Carson was doing his Carnac shtick, especially when Ed would laugh right along with the insults he received. And how can you top Carnac asking for "complete silence" and Ed responding, "That's what you have received many times." The slow burn Carson would do after that remark was priceless. As Carson said on the final show they did, the two of them were friends and you can't fake that. For all of those years that they were on, I felt like they were my friends too. I never warmed to Jay Leno as host. My mother did, but I never quite got over the loss of Carson and McMahon.

When Charlie's Angels debuted, everyone in my school watched. We would talk about the previous night's show on the bus ride and then all day between classes. People quickly picked favorites among the three actresses. Most, of course, were Farrah fans. I was more of a Kate Jackson person myself--you know, she was supposed to be the "smart one," code for not as pretty as the other two, complete nonsense by the way. It was later, actually, that I became a fan of Farrah's work, especially her dramatic work in Murder in Texas and The Burning Bed and Extremities. I remember feeling so grown up watching The Burning Bed, in particular, because it was about adult subject matter (spousal abuse) and I was finally old enough to be able to watch without having someone question whether it was appropriate for me (VERY different from when I had wanted to watch Elizabeth Montgomery in A Case of Rape). Farrah was so good in those movies. I never owned the famous swimsuit poster, but many guys in my school did, so I was quite familiar with it. My stepbrother, as I recall, owned the t-shirt with the famous photo of Farrah on it. She was such a beautiful young woman then, so full of life and energy, and that smile certainly made you like her instantly.

Before all of the craziness and the accusations and odd marriages and all, there was the music. I grew up listening to the Jackson 5, and I was one of the first people to own a copy of Off the Wall, Michael's solo album that came before the monster Thriller. I loved "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough" and played it over and over and over again. I must have driven my grandmother crazy. I can also recall the day that the video for the song "Thriller" debuted. I was living in a dorm at the time, and everyone in the building was in the television room. No one was playing pool or foosball. (And no one was going to class, either.) For the fifteen minutes that it took for the video to play on MTV, no one spoke. Sure, we had a few laughs when he said, "I'm not like other guys," but otherwise, we were too entranced to talk. Don't lie. You know you've watched the video and tried to do that "dance of the undead" yourself. Everyone did. It was THE style of dance everyone wanted to emulate, but no one could really do it justice. Michael was one of a kind.

I have among my possessions a trophy that I won at an all-night skating rink party in 1984. It's for third place in a Michael Jackson dance-alike contest. (No, you can't see it.) I used to be able to do a pretty mean moonwalk before my center of gravity shifted. I never owned a zipper jacket (despite what Missy Elliot might say), and I never wore the one sequined glove, but I certainly had friends who did. Everyone I knew owned Thriller, and we knew all of the words to every song on it. (Personal favorite: "P.Y.T." Runner-Up: "Human Nature.")

I have written before on this blog about famous people who have passed away. I don't know if I'm truly a very late member of the Baby Boomer generation or an early member of Generation X or something in between. I just know that I am having a tough time reconciling all of this loss of icons from my childhood and young adulthood. There have been and will be many tributes to these three, but what I'm offering here is not really a tribute. It's just a simple recognition of the role they played in my formative years, the influence they had in making me who I am today. That will have to be what sustains me now that they are all gone.

Up

2009-06-21T10:28:00.000-07:00

Will there be a more poignant sequence in movies this year than the one early on in the movie Up that takes Carl and Ellie from their days as young newlyweds to her death? It's a completely wordless sequence, yet it conveys a range of emotions so clearly and powerfully. There's one moment, in particular, that had me in tears, and all of the sequence is beautifully rendered. After you watch that sequence, you know why Carl has to go on the adventure that the movie depicts.

And will there be a more uplifting moment in movies this year that when you see all of those balloons rise from behind the house, lifting it slowly off the ground so that Carl can finally escape the city and begin his journey to Paradise Falls in South America? You know before you enter the theater that the moment is going to happen, but nothing quite prepares you for the beauty of it and sheer audacity of someone like Carl taking this chance to live out a lifelong dream.

At this point, Up is my favorite movie of the year. However, I don't think it's a movie for kids at all. I think only a grown-up can truly appreciate the depth of its characterization. The kids at the screening I attended were very restless, and one even asked to leave early because she was bored. I think her father was enjoying the movie far more than she was. The folks at Pixar made one of my favorite movies of last year, Wall-E, and now they've done it again, but just like with the earlier film, I think Up truly belongs more to those of us who are mature enough to understand the story.

Hence, the Name

2009-06-21T10:23:00.000-07:00

I don't feel this way all of the time, but occasionally, the words to this song ring very true.

Glen is singing it a bit faster here than on the record, but that's okay. For some reason, the words are clearer and more distinct in this live performance.

Notes on Pride

2009-06-15T16:14:00.000-07:00

This year, at the urging of my friends S and J, I went to both the Los Angeles Pride Festival and Parade. I hadn't been to the parade in about five years, the last time being at the insistence of my good friend J (a different one). As for the festival, well, it's probably been at least ten years since I attended. I remember that Partner At The Time and I went a few times when we together, but it's been more than seven years since we broke up.

I enjoyed myself yesterday. It was good seeing S and J, two friends from my days in graduate school here in California. They are both charming hosts and sharp wits. We walked around a bit, enjoying the different types of music and the various booths for organizations and vendors. We ate some tasty kabobs and had more than our share of beer. We watched some performers on the so-called Main Stage, and we shopped for rings together. No, not those kind of rings, but the ones we found were quite nice.

Some observations I made during the day yesterday:

Where would the organizers of the festival be without American Idol? Among the performers this weekend were Fantasia Barrino, Syesha Mercado, and Blake Lewis, one winner and two finalists. Of those three, I saw Mercado (whom I initially thought was Rihanna thanks to her performance of two Rihanna songs back to back) and Lewis, and both are assured singers, Lewis being the more experimental and edgy of the two. However, if it weren't for the TV show, the gays would be left with Teri Nunn and Berlin (whom I also saw) and Deborah Cox and Expose, none of them performers at the top of the charts these days.

The dance "tent" should be renamed The Land of the Ken Dolls. I've not seen so many shirtless guys with the same basic body since, well, the last time I was at Pride. There is definitely a specific body that is prized among gay men, and you can tell they've put in some heavy duty hours in the gym to achieve it. I just find it sad, though, that you could take the head off one guy and put it on another guy's body, and no one would be able to tell. And the body type cuts across ethnicities too. It's not just white guys who have "the look."

It's almost embarrassing to watch porn stars with any clothes on. Several boys from Randy Blue (some of you know what I'm talking about) marched in the parade and then walked around the festival site yesterday. My friends and I have, naturally, seen some of these guys' work. It's very disconcerting, though, to see a handsome, muscular young man wearing a pair of baby blue shorts when you know what he looks like naked. And in various positions.

The parade always starts with Dykes on Bikes. I have never figured out why. There must be a story about how they became the traditional beginning of the parade. Nevertheless, here's my proof that there was, indeed, a parade:

I received a signed baseball cap from Pat Rocco yesterday. He was one of this year's honorees, and I was apparently the only person in my area who recognized him. I applauded him as he passed, and he waved me over to the convertible and presented me with the cap. It was really a surprising moment, and he's a very generous man. Here's someone who helped to found the festival and has gone on to have an intriguing career as an independent/underground/experimental filmmaker. You'd think he would have needed a lot of caps to distribute. (The cap came in handy, too, as the sun came out and proceeded to scorch us for most of the afternoon.)

Lots of people distribute promotional material during the parade and festival. You get lots of lube and condoms, unsurprisingly, and plenty of fliers for various events and clubs. I also got a paddle, courtesy of the Pleasure Chest, which says "Spank Someone Happy." Not sure when I'll get to put that to use, but I suppose it will be good to have it handy just in case. However, the most interesting thing I got was a flier for a "dating" service. A very young Asian guy was distributing the cards to selected men only, and I happened to receive one of them. (S and J were not invited.) It's for a website called Gay Sugar Daddy Finder. Now before you start, let me assure you that he didn't think I was on the market to find a sugar daddy for myself. I must look like a potential sugar daddy to him. Sigh. I guess I should be flattered, but it's tough not to wonder if that is what life has left for me. I don't make anywhere near enough money to be considered a sugar daddy, and I'm not especially interested in younger men anyway, but perhaps this is where you wind up when you reach my age.

I will admit that I don't often feel like I'm truly a part of the gay community. What tends to represent our community is the image of the young, muscular, hairless type of guy, the Ken Dolls I spoke of earlier. That's not me. It never has been me. Oh, of course, I've been young, but the guys my age who come to Pride now are really of two camps, for the most part: guys who are trying to look like they're still young and guys who just want to look at those who are still young. I'm neither of those. I was always skinny until I hit my late 30s. Then I guess my metabolism changed, and I got lazy. I'll never be a cover boy, and frankly, I don't have the time and energy to become one. As for the hairlessness, well, I'm on my way, but in all the wrong places, sadly. I'm close to joining the Bald Brigade, as I dubbed them yesterday.

However, despite all of that, I did feel at times that I belonged yesterday. I still love watching guys dancing together in the country music pavilion. It's a thrill I could never have imagined growing up. People were, for the most part, very kind to each other. I managed to get through the entire day without one beer being spilled on me by someone, for example, and I figure that has to be a major accomplishment. And I even got to speak to a couple of people who struck up conversations with me. Of course, most of them were lesbians or bisexual women or fairy godmothers, but the point remains that I wasn't completely invisible. That's quite refreshing for me to realize, considering how often I feel as if I am that way.

I still want to attend Pride someday with someone I love. I still want to hold hands with someone and walk around and dance together and listen to the performers and buy useless crap for each other and eat cheap food and drink too much. And I still want to talk after the festival is over about how much fun we had and how much we're looking forward to the next one.

Foreign Languages

2009-06-09T16:34:00.001-07:00

I ventured out of the house yesterday to see the movie Rudo y Cursi at the Beverly Center. It's a film from Mexico starring Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna (so memorable together in Y Tu Mama Tambien) as brothers who dream of being star soccer players. It was the second foreign language film I'd seen in a week. I had earlier gone to the Arclight to watch Departures, the Japanese film that won this year's Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film. I've always enjoyed watching movies from other countries. It's good to get a different perspective on filmmaking, and you wouldn't find two more different movies than Rudo y Cursi and Departures.

Rudo y Cursi is, of course, in Spanish, and my knowledge of Spanish is pretty limited to reading it with a low level of fluency. I can't usually detect every word when people are speaking in Spanish, but I usually get the gist of the conversation. I know enough Spanish to realize that some of the subtitles for the movie were way off from what the characters were saying, but I think that's likely to be the case regardless of the movie. Both of the lead actors in Rudo y Cursi are great, and I liked watching their rivalry develop over time as each plays for a different team. It's a pretty interesting depiction of the vagaries of fame and the evolving bonds between family members.

Departures, being in Japanese, demanded much more of my attention. I spent a great deal of time reading because I know no words in Japanese. It's a much quieter movie than Rudo y Cursi. It deals with a cello player whose orchestra folds and he must take a job preparing bodies for funerals (or "departures"). It's a beautifully delicate film in many ways, nuanced and silent at times but with touches of humor as well. Watching the rituals associated with preparing a body to be placed in a casket was quite intriguing, and I think the movie has a lot to say about the respect that we give our dead and even to the living who must work with the dead.

Having said that, I'd like to point out that when I went to see Rudo y Cursi yesterday, there were three other people in the theater. Four people total, that's all. Even in Los Angeles, with its large Spanish-speaking and/or bilingual populations, you'd think there would be more people going to see this film. People are missing a funny rendition in Spanish of the old Cheap Trick song "I Want You to Want Me," if nothing else. The audience for Departures was larger, of course, no doubt a result of its having won an Academy Award. There must have been at least, oh, twelve people in that theater.

There's an article in last week's Entertainment Weekly about how "grown-up movies" are an endangered species in Hollywood. So many movies that are targeted to people above the age of 25, say, are failing to take in a lot of money these days, so the studios are going to keep unleashing gross-out comedies and sequels and torture porn and such because those are the kinds of movies the kids want to see. But who's going to see foreign language films these days? When you can only muster about a dozen folks to see the movie that is being advertised as the surprise Oscar winner, what does that say about the future of these movies? I worry that we're going to become so insular that the market for films from other countries will only be on DVD, and even those are not easy to come by sometimes. You'd have to have some incredibly strong word-of-mouth to get people to rent a foreign language film.

I know every now and then a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon breaks out and makes hundreds of millions of dollars, but those kinds of hits are becoming fewer and fewer in number. Will there be a market for foreign language movies that have never played in a U.S. theater? I realize that Los Angeles is a major market for foreign language films, but you can count on your hands the number of such movies playing right now in the city. And compare those numbers to, say, the number of screens on which Land of the Lost or Terminator Salvation played, and you'll begin to see what I fear the most. I suppose I could just wait for the inevitable Hollywood remakes, but I plan to keep seeking out movies like Rudo y Cursi and Departures even if it means that, at some point, I'm the only one in the theater.

Nutty Neighbors: Uncle Boo and the Bros

2009-06-09T16:13:00.001-07:00

I've been so busy watching old movies and preparing for summer school that I've neglected to introduce the new neighbors to you. They moved in about six weeks ago, just before the end of the spring semester. Once again, I can't really tell you how many people are living in the apartment, but I think it might be two guys. Just like with the last set of neighbors, though, it's a little tough to tell. Some nights we get the pleasure of having almost a dozen guys next door, and on other nights, it's seems like there's only one person there. Given the track record of people living in that apartment, I guess it's just a matter of time before I find out. After all, when the notice of non-payment of rent shows up on the door, all of the tenants are supposed to be listed.

I've nicknamed them the Bros because they are all guys in their twenties and none of them seem to have much going on in life. I think they work, but it's tough to tell. Most of the afternoons are quiet around here, as I've found out since I've been on break from teaching for almost three weeks now, but they don't have early-to-bed-early-to-rise jobs. Most mornings the shower next door doesn't start up until about 10 a.m. I know this because I've been sleeping in a lot of days, and a short shower wouldn't be a distraction. I clocked one the other morning that lasted 38 minutes. None of the guys I've seen entering or exiting the apartment are that big, so I don't know what takes so long to wash.

One of them has some sort of movie or TV production job. I know this because he had an extended cell phone conversation with his mother in the hallway outside the apartment. I suppose he wanted all of us on this floor to be able to hear him beg his mother for money. Apparently, the job isn't paying all that well and she only sent him 100 bucks last time. I just kept thinking as the begging continued how pathetic it must be to have a job and a place of your own yet still need to ask your parents for money. If he were in college, I would understand, but this is someone who is acting like he's a grown-up.

I think this is also the one who had a long conversation in the bathroom one night about marijuana. It was about 1 a.m., and the tile does lend itself to a very clear echo through the walls. He seemed high at the time too. Perhaps he's the one who giggles uncontrollably sometimes. I do know that they keep almost all of the windows of the apartment open all the time; you can see it from the outside of the building. Perhaps they're trying to make sure that the smell doesn't linger for too long?

By the way, just like the last tenants, the Bros don't have a lot of furniture. There's still a pronounced echo coming from next door sometimes, but at least, it's quieter than before. They don't yell all the time. The only problem I've really had with them is when they get home late at night and decide to watch TV to unwind. Loudly. Until about 2 or 3 in the morning. I called to complain a couple of times, but I've been joined by a chorus of other people in the building, and the Bros have gotten better about keeping the noise level down.

You might be wondering by now who "Uncle Boo" is. This past Sunday, I was awakened at noon--who are you to judge me?--by some loud knocking. Our doors are side by side, so it isn't always easy to tell if someone is knocking on my door or on theirs. One of them has a niece who's about 6 years old or so; there was a younger nephew too, but he wasn't talking. When no one came to the door, she called on her daddy's cell phone. She kept saying, "Uncle Boo, we're right outside your door." I don't know which one is Uncle Boo because I didn't stick around to see who opened the door finally, but I have a feeling I'm likely to snicker the next time I have to get in the elevator with one of them.

Just as an aside, to the best of my knowledge, the niece is the only girl or woman who's been in that apartment. Oh, they talk a good game--and they do talk about women a lot--but there's no evidence that any of them has any game.

All in all, these guys are much better neighbors than the last set. As you may recall from previous posts, I felt like Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls were there solely to torture me. I was never so happy as when they moved out. I was initially fearful when the new guys started moving in, particularly since they chose a Saturday at midnight to begin, but after a couple of rocky patches, they've quieted down. I'm hoping that we've reached a truce of sorts. Given my luck, however, they'll probably move within the year, and I'll be stuck next to that all-night roller disco and meth lab combo that I've been dreading.

Numb

2009-05-27T18:36:00.000-07:00

I should feel angry or upset or confused, I know. The California Supreme Court has decided 6-1 to let stand an amendment to the state's constitution that singles out gays and lesbians as a distinct class of people for whom the rights of marriage are not available. I should be joining my tribe in the streets marching for equality and demanding that we be treated the same as anyone else who wants the privilege of marrying whomever we choose. However, all I feel inside is numb. I don't have the energy to march just yet; I'm still too shaken.

I understand that the court was not being asked to consider anything regarding the "rightness" of Proposition 8, a hateful, mean-spirited attempt to keep gays and lesbians as second class citizens. I know that the court could only consider whether or not the change was an amendment and not a revision to the constitution, with a revision requiring much more rigorous steps to enact. I acknowledge that it was perhaps outside the purview of the court to strike down the alleged "will of the people" when our constitution explicitly allows for ballot propositions.

Still, I had hoped that the court might decide that the public should not be granted permission to determine to which rights a group has access. I knew it was a long shot, as did almost everyone I know who had discussed this issue since November, but still we thought there might be a chance. It has, for the most part, been the court system, not the people or the legislatures, that has ensured the protection of civil rights and ensured equality and fairness for everyone. Instead, what we are left with is a court determined to let the forces of bigotry win out. How can we expect a public vote on the rights of a minority ever to result in protections for the minority?

I'm very puzzled over how the court can say, on one hand, that Proposition 8 is merely a minor change that doesn't keep gays and lesbians from enjoying all of the privileges of the state's laws and then say, on the other hand, that the 18,000 or so gay couples who managed to get married last summer have legally recognized relationships that are true marriages. The actual decision states, "Although Proposition 8 eliminates the ability of same-sex couples to enter into an official relationship designated as 'marriage,' in all other respects those couples continue to possess, under the state constitutional privacy and due process clauses, 'the core set of basic substantive legal rights and attributes traditionally associated with marriage.'... Like opposite-sex couples, same sex couples enjoy this protection not as a matter of legislative grace, but constitutional right." How is that possible without the legal designation of marriage? It is a legal term for very specific reasons and with very specific benefits. The court adds that Proposition 8 "does not otherwise affect the state's obligation to enforce the equal protection clause by protecting the 'fundamental right...of same-sex couples to have their official family relationships accorded the same dignity, respect, and stature as that accorded to all other official recognized family relationships.'" How can our relationships be considered the "same" without having the same legal status?

I've read some blogs and articles that have already compared this decision to the infamous Dred Scott case or to Plessy v. Ferguson. Those were U.S. Supreme Court decisions that let stand the cruel tyranny of slavery and that established the discriminatory practice of "separate but equal." Those rulings have since become part of the more shameful aspects of our history, and I can only hope that Tuesday's ruling joins them soon.

As I've said before, I have no one to marry. But I would still like to have the option should the opportunity arise at some point in the future. As of now, convicts are allowed to marry, but not me. People who have been married and divorced several times are allowed to marry, but not me. Horny teenagers are allowed to marry, albeit sometimes with the required permission of their parents, but tnot me. People who have chosen their spouses on a television show are allowed to marry, but not me. People who are way past the age at which they could procreate are allowed to marry, but not me. Hell, even people who get drunk on a weekend trip to Las Vegas are allowed to marry, but not me. Well, I suppose that's not entirely true. I could marry a woman. I would merely have to deny my true self and submit to a lie in order to make those so-called people of religious faith feel appeased. Then I'd have to spend the rest of my existence unhappy because I couldn't be with the kind of person to whom I am truly attracted.

Someday, perhaps during my lifetime, all of this will be over. People will write dissertations for degrees in history about the marriage debate and how it all ended with full equality across the United States. Someday. For now, though, my options are to move to Massachusetts, Connecticut, Vermont, Maine, or Iowa, where marriage is legal for my tribe, at least for now, or to continue living in a state that considers me to be a lesser citizen than its heterosexual residents or even a small group of gays and lesbians who were lucky enough to make it under the deadline. I still don't quite comprehend how there can be a right that is available only from March to November of one year. How can you take away a right that the court itself said last year should be granted in order to achieve the equal protection promised by the constitution?

So I don't yet know what I'm going to do. I will probably join the marches this weekend because, yes, there will continue to be marches and protests. I will donate what money I can to the groups trying to get a ballot proposition for 2010 or 2012 to reverse the amendment. I might eventually locate my anger (my rage, really) at the decision and at the people who are so narrow-minded that they cannot even listen to the pleas for equality, but I will certainly listen to our leaders who will have suggestions for how we should respond. I just don't know yet. I'm still too numb.

Billy G.

2009-05-10T15:16:00.000-07:00

During my first year teaching full-time at my college, I received a Valentine's Day card. I was addressed to me and was signed "Billy G." I had no idea who this was, and I didn't say anything out of fear that it might be a student who had misplaced his affections. The second time I received a card, though, I noticed that lots of other people had also gotten a card from Billy G. When I asked some of them if they know who he was, they told me it was one of my colleagues who teaches in the Reading Department. Every year since then, without fail, I have received a card on Valentine's Day from him, and so has every other employee at the college. It's a campus legend at this point.

On Friday night, we celebrated Billy G. and his 47 years of teaching at our school. He has been a full-time teacher longer than I have been alive, yet he has more energy than I do most days. He gets so excited talking about his classes and his students and the subject of opera that he literally jumps in the air. He is so beloved by his students, and I have yet to meet another teacher or staff member or administrator who doesn't have fond words to say about him.

In addition to reading classes, he has been teaching an Opera Appreciation class for many years now, and he would arrange trips to New York during Spring Break for members of his class and other interested people. One year, Partner At The Time and I went on this trip. I had never been to an opera in my life. My first was Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg (or something close to that) at the Metropolitan Opera House. Billy G. was our guide and host. We walked out after nearly four hours of opera, and he was so excited that he wanted to go clubbing or to a coffee shop and talk for hours. (He must be in his 70s, at least.) Not even a full day of sightseeing and intense Wagnerian drama could tire him out.

Whenever he sees me on campus, Billy G. always puts his hands on my shoulders and says, to anyone who happens to be nearby, "I love this guy!" If you're ever in a bit of a down mood, he's sure to make you feel better. I've never walked away from a conversation with him without feeling happier.

On Friday, we ate a lot of pasta, we had a few toasts and tributes, we sang (badly) a farewell song to the tune of "O Solo Mio," and we hugged Billy G. We also listened to one of the most gracious farewell speeches. He paid tribute to his colleagues more than anything else, and it was touching to see so many people who had retired even before I started work there in 1994 come back to honor him on this special night.

Next year, there will be no Valentine's Day card from Billy G., and I don't know who is going to grab me by the shoulders and say, "I love this guy!" any more. One of the great ones is retiring and moving to Oregon to be near his family, and our college will be all the poorer for no longer having his shining presence.

Mother's Day

2009-05-10T14:38:00.000-07:00

She was just a senior in high school when she became pregnant with me. As happens far too often in such cases, she and her boyfriend, my father, fought a lot after she found out she was pregnant, and they broke up before I was born, never to marry. She tried to hide her pregnancy as long as possible from my grandparents, but eventually, she was just too large to keep it a secret. I was born two months after she graduated from high school.

She had been a star basketball player. There had even been people from the Redheads, a national women's basketball team, who had talked to her about joining the team. My grandparents, her mother and father, objected, of course, not wanting her to leave the small town in Mississippi where they lived. She never got to go to college on a basketball scholarship or on an academic scholarship, and as a result, she never had much of a chance to obtain the kind of high-paying job that her intelligence--she graduated fourth in her class--might have warranted. She worked most of her life as a secretary for an international pharmaceutical company.

She met another man and fell in love with him a couple of years after I was born. They married and had a son, my brother, three years younger than I am. The new husband wasn't overly fond of being a parent to someone else's son, so I wound up living with my grandparents, an arrangement that lasted for the rest of my childhood. My mother and this man (the anger is still there, yes) moved to Illinois, where they both found work, and she eventually realized he was not a good husband and father. They divorced, but she and my brother stayed in Illinois. She once told me that the hardest choice she ever made in her life was leaving me with my grandparents, and it really hurt her when she asked me while I was still just a child if I wanted to move up north with her and I said that I wanted to stay with my grandparents. I had known no other life at that point, and I was scared to leave what seemed so comfortable at the time.

It was almost a decade before she found another man to marry. He's a good man, this new stepfather, incredibly patient and funny and generous. He had three kids of his own from an earlier marriage, so we made an odd "Brady Bunch" with our three boys and two girls. Family trips in the summer were an experience with everyone piled into the back seat and then two motel rooms at night to keep the peace. For the most part, though, we got along well, and eventually, we all grew up and went to work or off to college. We became adults with lives and careers and issues of our own, and they became the people we call or visit every now and then.

Both of them are retired now. She loves going to the casinos to gamble away my inheritance. He loves to golf. She's become very enamored of the first great-grandchild. He's two and spends a lot of time with Papa and Gam Ma. He was there today, in fact, when I called to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. He was sleeping at the time, so we were able to talk uninterrupted.

I sent flowers, of course, two dozen pink roses, which she loved. She stopped our conversation a couple of times to smell them again. Her favorites are wild flowers, but I couldn't find a nice enough bouquet of those to send. I had also mailed two cards, one serious and one funny, our tradition for such events. We talked for more than an hour, with her telling me about the squirrels in the backyard and then about all of the people back home who are either ill or who have died. Our conversations are very stream-of-consciousness.

I only see her about once a year if I'm lucky. I try to go back to my grandfather's house for Thanksgiving when I can so that I can be with them all, but the trip is expensive and at a very bad time of year for travel, both airplane-wise and work-wise. I also try to call when I can, but she and my stepfather have been known to hop into the car and just drive to any place they might be interested in seeing. After they retired, they took a tour of the Great Plains. No one was really told they were doing this. They just loaded up the car and drove.

I love my mother, and I tell her this whenever I talk to her. I know she hasn't always understood me. She didn't quite fathom why I majored in journalism or later in English and history. She didn't truly understand what graduate school was or why I wanted to go to it. She doesn't quite get what all I do in my current job or perhaps even what a community college is. And she certainly didn't want to deal with her elder son being gay when I chose to come out to her at the age of 30.

But you know what she did? She grew and evolved. After six months of silence, she started to ask me questions. She met my Partner At The Time and really liked him. I think she might have been even more distraught over our break-up than I was. She still tries to ask me if I'm dating anyone, so hopeful is she about my love life, but I try to avoid that disaster of a topic if I can. And she called me the day after the election last November to tell me how sorry she was that Proposition 8 passed. She kept saying she couldn't understand why it was anyone's business who her son marries.

She still brags about me to all of her friends. She used to share my grade reports with the other people at her job, and she kept pictures of my college graduation up for years after I started to get gray hair. She was so excited when I was chosen Teacher of the Year for my school that she took the program from the event to everyone's house for months after that. She asks me about events on campus that she has never attended but which she knows are important to me. She makes it clear that she supports me.

She won't read this, by the way. She and my stepfather are pretty serious technophobes, particularly him. She just knows that I did a son's duty today and called to say hello and catch up. She got her flowers and her cards, and she's happy because I remembered. She will tell my stepfather what we talked about, and she'll even share the conversation with the two-year-old great-grandchild, who only knows me by the picture that I gave her for Christmas five years ago. I hope she knows, though, that my love for her goes deeper than just the flowers and cards and phone calls. I'd see her more often if either one of us were able to do so, but I think she understands that we each have lives to lead. That's one of the most dear of lessons I learned from her and her confidence in me all these years.

The picture above is one of my favorites of her. She must have been in high school when it was taken. I have no idea whose car it was. I just look at her face and see a young girl with all of the promise of the future ahead of her. I like to think that there's still some of that optimistic young girl in her.

The Halfway Mark

2009-05-06T18:03:00.000-07:00

This is turning out to be a particularly brutal week. It's only Wednesday, and I already feel like I've put in two full weeks of work in three days.

A quick recap:

Monday was the End-of-the-Year Celebration for the Transfer Achievement Program. I managed to squeeze this in during my lunch break.

Tuesday was the Humanities Division Scholarship Tea. I presented one of the honorable mention recipients for the Creative Writing Award, and I got to present the biggie, the English Scholarship.

Wednesday was the day I promised to take my lunch hour to conduct student evaluations for a colleague. It was also the day of the Interclub Council Awards, but since I didn't get nominated for the "Advisor of the Year" Award again this year, I didn't see any point in going. The students in the club I advise can never seem to get their act together to nominate themselves for "Club of the Year," and no one ever seems to recall that I'm their advisor. Sigh.

Here's what is yet to come:

Tomorrow is the annual luncheon honoring retirees. It's a barbecue, and luckily this year, it falls during the time I'm free for lunch. That's not often the case.

Friday is the Men and Women of Distinction Banquet. I am serving once again as co-emcee for the event, and I'm presenting one of the men during the ceremony. I have to be at rehearsal at noon since I wasn't able to participate last year and now have no idea how the new venue is set up. The banquet doesn't start until 6 p.m., so I'm either going to nap in my office or go to a movie that afternoon during my break.

Saturday is a retirement party at a local restaurant for an instructor who has been working at our college longer than I've been alive. He officially retired in December but has been teaching part-time for us this semester. He's moving after the semester ends, and we're honoring his 46 (!) years of teaching with a dinner in his honor.

Did I neglect to mention that I still have classes to teach while all of this is going on? In fact, three of the classes (both sections of freshman comp and my American literature class) have submitted rough drafts that I have to read and return this week. The two developmental writing classes have individual conferences this week, so I've been spending four hours at a time sitting down with students and trying to help them get their last essay ready to be handed it.

All of this would be fine if I didn't get up at Insane O'Clock each morning to go to work. I should be going to bed at Stupid O'Clock in order to get enough sleep, but I can never seem to manage it. (Thanks to the Stephanie Miller Show for the time names.)

I have a feeling that, on Saturday night, I'm going to come home and collapse face first onto the rug in the living room. I'm just hoping that I wake up in time to come back to work on Monday. I don't know when I'm expected to do my laundry or go grocery shopping, and the newspapers are beginning to pile up. Before this week is done, this apartment may look like the interior of Grey Gardens. All I'll need is a few dozen cats and maybe a raccoon or two.

Poem in Your Pocket

2009-05-01T17:16:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was the last day of National Poetry Month. It was dubbed "Poem in Your Pocket Day," a day when you're supposed to share with other people a favorite poem. (See, you carry it around in your pocket so that you're always ready to read it aloud to anyone you meet.) As in recent years, I photocopied some poems to share with my classes, and I tucked a couple of other poems into my back pocket and read them to colleagues and friends.

The first is one of my all-time favorites. It is, of course, by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

The second is a more recent poem. It's entitled "The Next Poem Could Be Your Last," and it's by the great Rafael Campo.

Imagine death. No fun. No poetry.
No further arguments with relatives.
No work to do. No boring life to live.
Imagine, death: like making pottery
Or writing eulogies, it takes some skill
To do it passably. Like argument,
It needs resistance to be shaped against.
Like relatives you fight the urge to kill,
You know you won't. Like work, there's never less
Of it. Imagine: death is almost life.
Except it's fascinating, like a knife.
You lose yourself just staring at the edge.
You lose yourself and suddenly you're not
Alive, you're dying and for fun you try
To write your eulogy. You tell some lies,
Pretend you're wry and brave. Imagine that.

The last poem I carried yesterday was not shared with everyone. Only a select few got to hear it. It's Aaron Smith's "Clarification," and it's one of the few good poems about sex and/or sexuality that I've read in recent years.

Last night I followed a man
around a bar hoping to brush
against his green T-shirt
to feel the pad of his chest
against my shoulder
or arm, but before that
he danced with his shirt
off, tucked in the white
band of his underwear, lights
marking his body, music
making him a story whispered
ear to ear through a room.

I've been thinking
how the erotic lives in
what we're denied, the object
about to be exposed, on the verge
of coming undone.

The night we met I asked
you to take your pants off.
What I really meant was
unzip them and let them
ride low on your hips.

Two other people distributed copies of poems yesterday, and a couple more had poems to share. I'm sure my friend C celebrated Poem in Your Pocket Day, but I didn't get a chance to see her. This post should have been made yesterday, I know, but I hope the sharing of poetry continues throughout the year.

Goodbye, Golden Girl

2009-04-26T11:16:00.001-07:00

Another one of my beloved Golden Girls has passed away. Bea Arthur died yesterday here in Los Angeles after a battle with cancer. We now only have Betty White and Rue McClanahan as the surviving members of the foursome who were such a part of my life during the 1980s and have remained a favorite thanks to reruns on various channels since then.

I never missed an episode of The Golden Girls when the show was airing on NBC, and a friend and I would call each other each week to talk about what had happened. I still recall vividly the show where the Dorothy, Rose, and Blanche have been arrested in a sweep of a hotel frequented by prostitutes. Rose starts talking about a possum, and Dorothy says something to the effect of how many "exploding possum stories" Rose has told lately, only to be reminded that it was a pig, not a possum, that exploded. My friend called me during the commercial, said two words, "exploding possum," collapsed into giggles, and hung up. We had to wait almost half an hour after the episode before we could talk without laughing.

You know how people like to watch shows with four female characters (Sex and the City, Designing Women, etc.) and try to determine which one they and their friends most closely resemble? Everyone thinks he/she is a Carrie, and everyone wishes they could be a Suzanne. Well, play that game with The Golden Girls, and you'll find me as a Dorothy. Ironic, isn't it, that I'm a Dorothy and a Friend of Dorothy's?

Arthur was a master of the put-down and the withering look. She could silence anyone with one glare from those intense eyes of hers. Just two words--"Shady Pines"--would be enough to freeze her mother on the show, Sophia, played by the dearly missed Estelle Getty. Arthur also had the ability to sing and dance, talents that were at times put to good use on the show, perhaps most effectively in the episode where Dorothy and Blanche are competing for the attention of the men at the Rusty Anchor. Dorothy's rendition of "What'll I Do" silences the room, and she starts to bring sheet music to the bar to sing on a regular basis. Her version of "Hard-Hearted Hannah" is a treat.

Arthur also created the memorable title character on Maude. She was best known for her line, "God'll get you for that, Walter," but my favorite episode was built around a telethon where she promised that "Mark Spitz will drink a glass of milk on this very stage." Maude was a strong feminist icon of the early 1970s, but Dorothy Zbornak from The Golden Girls was a fitting companion, a symbol of what women could do for each other and on their own.

I have to mention Arthur's most famous role on the stage and in the movies, Vera Charles from Mame. The movie version cast Lucille Ball as Mame, a horrible decision given her age and inability to carry a tune any longer. She sounded like Michigan J. Frog, and the cameraman had to shoot her through so many layers of cheesecloth you could barely recognize her. Arthur, though, was perfectly cast. Her duet with Ball (and, earlier, with Angela Lansbury, in the stage production) on "Bosom Buddies" is note-perfect. One of my favorite songs in the show, though, is her rendition of "The Man in the Moon Is a Lady." Her delivery of it is incomparable. The video clip is from a Jerry Herman tribute. Unsurprisingly, Arthur stole the show just as she often did.

One of my prized possessions--including all of the seasons of The Golden Girls on DVD--is the CD of her one-woman show, Just Between Friends. She tells stories of her career, she tells jokes, she sings, she does it all. I listened to it again this morning after reading in the newspaper about her death. I will miss you, Bea. We don't see your kind much these days, and the world is a sadder place as a result.

Happy Birthday

2009-04-24T17:34:00.000-07:00

Today is Barbra Streisand's birthday. The above picture was snapped by her brother Sheldon. I hope there's still some of that little girl inside of her today as she celebrates her 67th birthday.

Every gay man has a diva, at least one. She's someone whose work he admires and/or whose life story inspires him. I have friends who are enthralled by Judy Garland or Cher or Edith Piaf or Bette Midler or Marilyn Monroe. Even today's young gay men have divas although they're having to make do with people like Britney Spears and Taylor Swift, sadly.

My diva has been Streisand since at least 1975. That was the year my mother took me to see my first Streisand movie, Funny Lady. I enjoyed the movie, but it wasn't until the following year, with the release of the soundtrack to A Star Is Born, that I became a full-fledged fan. I bought the single and the album. Then I had to buy a second copy of the album because I wore the first one out playing it so often. To top it off, I had my grandfather drive me and a cousin to the movie theater in Corinth, almost an hour drive away, to see the movie when it opened. I was hooked, and I was only thirteen.

I own all her records. I once owned them all on vinyl, but now I have them all on CD (well, except for The Owl and the Pussycat soundtrack, which isn't available on CD). I have seen every movie she's ever made, and I own all of them on DVD now. I've seen her in concert twice, first at Arrowhead Pond when she returned to live performing and then a few years later at the Staples Center. In fact, I flew my mother out to Los Angeles so that I could take her to the Staples Center concert. It was really her love of Streisand that made me into a fan. In some small way, I hope the concert was a little bit of repayment.

I'm not an obsessive fan, just so you know. I don't have an entire wall of photographs or anything like that (the way Richard Simmons used to have). I just like her singing and her acting, and I admire the work she has done throughout her career on behalf of civil rights and the environment. She's a lifelong Democrat and so am I, so we share opinions on a lot of social issues.

What I think draws me to her is the story of how this shy, awkward girl grew up almost in poverty. Her family was lower middle class at best, and she claims they didn't even own a couch when she was growing up. She was an outsider at school, and she was frequently taunted by the other children because of her looks. She knew she wanted a career in show business, but even her mother discouraged her, telling her to learn how to type since she was going to wind up as a secretary. (That's why Streisand has always had such long nails, by the way, to spite her mother.) Despite all of the negativity that surrounded her, she made herself into a star. There's something quite remarkable about a person who decides to listen to the voice inside her head instead of all of those voices that surround her.

I don't think it's that much of a stretch to see the connection to a shy, awkward kid growing up in rural Mississippi who manages, despite his family's poverty, to get a college education, move to California, and become a relative success as a teacher despite all of the people along the way who said it would be too difficult. I was told by a lot of people along the way that I wouldn't be able to make it at the university level, that I would miss my family if I moved away to go to school, that I wouldn't like California, that I'd never get a job teaching at the college level. So you see I can somewhat empathize when I read Streisand's biography even though I'm not an entertainer.

It isn't as if you have to accept wholeheartedly every move that your diva makes, by the way. She really does have poor taste in song selection sometimes, particularly since the 1980's. She has made some very oddball choices in films too (e.g., All Night Long, Nuts). She can be infuriatingly stubborn too, supporting some politicians and/or candidates who are just not exceptional choices.

Yet I'm willing to forgive every misstep whenever I hear her sing "Evergreen." I still cry each time I watch The Way We Were. I can still vividly recall that moment when the curtain was pulled back to reveal her at the top of the staircase in The Concert. That's what it means to have a diva, that unconditional love for her talent and her drive and her accomplishments.

Happy Birthday, Barbra.

Going Up

2009-04-21T18:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the folks who have been working on the elevators in my apartment building finally finished. It's been five months (actually, almost six now) of having only one elevator in service at a time. You're probably wondering why having just one would be a problem. There are thirteen floors to my building and twelve apartments on each floor (eight of them are two-bedroom apartments). That's 156 apartments, most of them occupied, many of them by more than one person, sometimes by entire families. One that I know of on the first floor has eight people living in it. (And the bottom floor is called the Main Floor, not the first floor. How very cosmopolitan and vaguely European of us.)

During peak times, like the morning and afternoon rush, those elevators get very full. Everyone is trying to go to work or trying to come home. Many times over the past few months, the door to the elevator has opened to reveal a dozen people crammed inside and no room to add just one more. I have climbed six flights of stairs more than I care to remember, including a very memorable day when I had to make the trek three times with my laundry. And you probably just shouldn't ask how much fun we've had on the days that people moved in or moved out. Imagine trying to squeeze in between the mattress, box springs, bedside tables, lamps, boxes, and everything else someone has crammed into that small enclosed space. It's a good thing I'm not claustrophobic. And no one is in a very welcoming mood, frankly.

The repairs have been necessary, I suppose. The elevators haven't been upgraded, pretty much, since they were installed in the late 1940s-early 1950s. They needed to be modernized. They are far more sleek looking inside, compared to the carpeted walls we had before that always made me think of a rumpus room. We now have a lovely voice telling us in gentle tones which floor we have stopped on, no doubt for those who are visually impaired. And the buttons are easier to read, thanks to the larger size. Yeah, I know I'm getting older when I appreciate "large print" elevator buttons.

Not everyone has caught on yet, by the way. We all still wait beside the one that's been working the past couple of months by itself. When the "new" one opens up, people are reluctant to step inside because they aren't sure it's truly fixed. I've been in it twice now, and I have to say it's a smooth ride up to my floor now.

Just as an aside, I should mention that a couple of the guys working on the elevators the past couple of months were model-handsome, well built young men with attractive faces. We get some of the hottest people here to take care of and fix stuff. When the rewiring project was going on last summer, one of the crew members stopped traffic when he walked around the hallways. He was just that good looking. Even the two young guys who haul out the garbage bins from the basement each Friday could be working the runways. I don't know why that is. I'm just grateful for it.

I'm also very grateful to have both elevators working again. I've been hoping they'd get finished in time for me to buy a new set of living room furniture before summer school starts in mid-June. The current set is very shabby, having been used now for the past thirteen years. It's white-ish (white adjacent?) and shows dirt far too easily. I'm ready for a change, but I wouldn't have dared to have any furniture delivered when we had only one elevator in service. So it looks like I'll be shopping in the next few weeks for a new, smaller, darker couch or sofa (still don't know the difference) and chairs. It's going to look like a whole new apartment when I'm done, hopefully, and now I have brand new elevators to ride to get to it too. Such small pleasures in life, sometimes, I know, but aren't they worth it?

Too Hot to Fish

2009-04-21T18:14:00.001-07:00

When I was growing up in the South, on days like the ones we've been having so far this week, my grandfather would sometimes remark, "It's too hot to fish." If you don't know much about older Southern gentlemen like my grandfather, let me enlighten you. It has to be mighty hot to be too hot to fish. They love going to a creek bank or a pond somewhere and spending all afternoon in the sun waiting for that tug on the fishing line. For it to be too hot to do that is saying something.

I went to see the movie Adventureland on Sunday (good movie, by the way), and when I got in my car to go home, the temperature gauge inside the car read 109 degrees. It was 3 p.m. I immediately cranked up the air conditioning and rolled down every window in hopes that I would not burn to a crisp immediately. Of course, the gauge is a reflection of more than just the actual temperature; it also is heavily influenced by the amount of sun, so I know it wasn't truly 109 degrees. However, we did go over the 100-degree mark on Sunday.

And in the city where I work, we topped out at 100 degrees on both Sunday and Monday. Monday was a particular delight because I got to walk from my office to class several times during the day. Then, on the drive home, between 7 and 8 p.m. or so, the gauge in the care consistently read more than 90 degrees. For most of the ride, it hovered around 95 or 96 degrees. This was after the sun had gone down, a time when the temperature usually drops to something more comfortable.

This morning it was already 71 degrees when I got up at 4:15 a.m. It never cooled down last night, and today was still near the top of the thermometer. I don't know if we set another record today like we have the past couple of days, but I wouldn't be at all surprised.

I'm realizing more and more that these extremes of temperature (way too hot or way too cold) are what truly bother me, and it gets particularly bad if the temperature rises and falls a lot during the same week (wich is apparently going to be the case here this week). If it stays relatively consistent, I'm fine with the weather in California. However, it's April and we've already hit 100 degrees a couple of times. I'm coming home exhausted and sweaty and more than a little smelly, I'd imagine. (Sorry for anyone who's had to stand or sit close to me the past couple of days.) I need more moderate weather.

Yes, I know I grew up in the South where the temperatures are even higher and the humidity creates another charming factor. But I've not lived in the South for 19 years now, and I know I wouldn't survive a full summer there. A week in New Orleans one May a couple of years ago almost killed me. It was already 100 degrees with 90 percent humidity at 8 a.m. How anyone lives through that is beyond me. (Well, I know how they do it. They stay indoors where the air conditioning is working.) I have all of the windows open here and a fan going, and I still think it's too hot.

Relief is on the way, according to the weather forecast. I'm hoping the cold spell we're about to face (dropping to a frigid 78 degrees tomorrow) will be more permanent than this 90-100+ stuff we've endured recently.

Blue Monday

2009-04-13T21:27:00.001-07:00

Today was an exhausting day. The first day back from Spring Break is never easy, but today was more brutal than similar days in years past. I was already tired from having spent much of the previous week grading student papers, so I needed the students to take on their share of the burden. I wasn't too lucky in getting that to happen.

By the way, what you see above is the stack of essays that I graded during my "week off." (I put it next to my briefcase to give you a sense of scale and/or proportion.) Anyone who thinks that all teachers have the luxury of Spring Break never had to lug 186 essays home and try to parcel them out so that you can enjoy yourself a little bit during your alleged "vacation." I managed to finish them all, though, at about 9:30 last night. I even returned four of the eight stacks today, so I'm already halfway done with letting students know where they stand in my class at this (late) point in the semester. That, at least, has been a success so far.

The trouble with today was that the students in myfirst two classes were not ready to come back from Spring Break. A lot of people were absent, and only 17 of the students in the first class submitted their final drafts today, and only about three people had done the assigned reading for the quiz. The second class was even worse. Only 12 papers submitted, but at least five people had done some reading. These are both developmental writing classes, and I'm starting to get worried (more than they are, obviously) that a lot of them will have to repeat the class because they just aren't doing the work. Yes, I know it was cruel of me to expect them to do work during Spring Break. Have I drawn your attention to the picture above yet?

The freshman composition class this afternoon was also filled with too many people who hadn't done the reading. This is a book we're going to talk about for the next two weeks, and many of them haven't started it yet. It's going to be the focus of their final research paper of the semester, and a few of them didn't even have it with them today. Sigh. Trying to get them to talk about the book--the ones who had read, anyway--was almost a futile effort until I forced them to sit in a circle and confront each other. Surprisingly, they did better once they had to face each other. I may have them sit in a circle for the rest of the semester.

A good night's sleep will, undoubtedly, make me feel better. I'm hopeful that Tuesday's classes will run more smoothly. The students tomorrow will, at least, have had an additional day to prepare themselves for the return to work. Otherwise, these last four weeks of classes are going to be quite an excruciating ordeal for them and for me. Wish me and them both luck.

Reading List

2009-04-10T23:20:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to read for pleasure at times during the past couple of years. I have so many books on my shelves that have been waiting for me to find the time to tackle them. Two weeks ago, I started Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart. J actually looked at me funny when I brought it to class during the midterms and tried to read a bit of it while the students were writing. Turns out he had read it in high school, so that means I'm already behind someone almost half my age in terms of my reading lists. I'll never catch up at this rate.

I finished it last Tuesday while my car was getting an oil change and brake job. It was an interesting book, but I think it probably is better suited to a high school level reader in terms of its plot. Not to say that it isn't a worthy work of literature, but the ending is one that would more likely guarantee a discussion in a high school English class. A college class would probably be a bit too jaded to be surprised.

Lest you think my pleasure reading is taken up solely by works of so-called "great literature," my current book is John Grisham's A Time to Kill. I picked up Grisham's The Firm during my first week at USC back in 1990. (They were selling "real" books in the college bookstore, not just textbooks. What a strange concept that seemed to me at the time.) Grisham went to my alma mater in Mississippi, and I had met him there not too long after he signed his first movie deal for the rights to The Firm (which would star Tom Cruise and feature a horribly butchered, completely implausible ending). A Time to Kill was his first book, and it too would later become a film (starring Matthew McConaughey in his first major role, as the crusading lawyer even Grisham admits he wanted to be but never was). It has all of the failings of a first novel--too much exposition, too much love of the odd characteristics of the central figures, too much "telling" instead of "showing"--yet there is something compulsively readable about it.

This is an incredibly long novel, 500+ pages in paperback, and I'm only about 170 pages in so far. I only get to read for pleasure while doing laundry on Fridays these days, so it might take a while to get through this one. I remember it took several months to make it through Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All, but that was worth the journey. I don't think A Time to Kill is anywhere near as good a book as Allan Gurganus's epic (700+ pages), but so far I am enjoying it immensely. It is a pleasure to be able to read a book without having to think about how you would write a paper on it or how you would assign it to a class for discussion.

The Lone Holdout

2009-04-06T13:17:00.000-07:00

I think I may be the only person left who just doesn't understand Taylor Swift's popularity. Of course, I don't fully understand the popularity of Mylie Cyrus (who sings through her nose) and the Jonas Brothers (the less said, the better), either, but maybe that's a post for another day.

I watched the Academy of Country Music Awards last night while grading papers. Swift made several appearances throughout the show, but given how successful she has been this past year, I guess that's really no surprise. She's appeared on almost every music awards show in recent memory, always performing some variation of a "woe is me" song. She even won two awards last night, including Album of the Year over such musical stalwarts as George Strait and Montgomery Gentry.

I had confirmed for me last night what I have believed all along. She cannot sing live. At least, not on key. Each time she has sung on an awards show, I am left wondering how anyone can stand to listen to her for an entire concert. Her voice must benefit a great deal of the work done in the studio. Is this another one of those instances where the performance is made by skilled technicians rather than the singer? I think that must be the case.

I also imagine that the look she sported last night and that she tends to favor--a short dress with cowboy boots--is going to be a popular look for a while now. More's the pity.

Look, I get it on some level. Young people need role models and idols too. They should have someone who is much like themselves in terms of emotional development (those overwrought emotions!) but far more talented than themselves in order feel like they have something to aspire to become. And I'm okay with that. I don't begrudge Swift or Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers their success. I just wish they weren't touted as being skilled musicians, and I wish the airwaves weren't always filled with their music or with music by performers like them.

Several years ago, one of the managers for one of the boy bands that was popular at the time (I usually can't tell them apart, to be honest) was asked why such bands continue to be popular. His reply: "Because they keep making teenage girls." I think that might account for all of these young people who keep appearing on the music charts and on awards shows and even on the big screen--in 3-D, no less.

I'm earning my old fogie credentials in saying this, I know, but if this is the future of music, I'll be listening to oldies for the rest of my life. And I don't think that will be such a bad thing, after all.

Dreaming of Anderson Cooper

2009-04-04T19:51:00.000-07:00

Twice this week, I've had dreams about Anderson Cooper, the silver-haired CNN host. I'll admit that he is a handsome fellow, and the gray-white hair does make him look awfully distinguished (even if I'm four years older than he is), and those eyes are lovely. I don't know why my dreams have been focusing on him, though. I'm usually very good at "interpreting" other people's dreams, but when I dream about Andy, I'm at a bit of a loss. The first dream was a bit frustrating, admittedly, because I woke up just as I had gotten him down to either Speedos or Underoos--I don't recall which. (He's pretty much fish-belly white all over, in case you're wondering.) Two nights later, we were just talking, nothing sexual going on at all. I'm beginning to think this is some sort of metaphor for my love life, but why it's being expressed through his repeated appearances is beyond my comprehension.

Nutty Neighbors: Here We Go Again

2009-04-04T18:00:00.000-07:00

You will see from the picture above that I, once again, am living next door to a vacant apartment. This last group was here for a torturous six months. I can't say that I was particularly sad to see them go. I do realize that my fears of the exploding crystal meth lab that becomes an all-night roller disco may be realized with the next set of tenants, but I'm very happy that Mr. Echo and the Woo Girls are no longer around.

I know I haven't shared all of the details of their brief time in the building. Perhaps you'd be interested to know why I nicknamed one of the girls Sasquatch? She managed to stomp around the apartment so loudly that everyone knew where she was at every moment. You'd know when she was headed for the door or when she was walking through the short corridor to the master bedroom or when she was in the kitchen on the rare occasions when they cooked. The funny thing is that their apartment is carpeted, unlike mine, which has hardwood floors. How do you make that much noise walking around on a carpeted floor?

And they didn't even own a vacuum cleaner until about two months ago. I happened to ride up in the elevator with one of them when she brought it home. They then proceeded to vacuum for the next two hours. Each time they got the urge to clean, you could count on two hours of that sucking sound. How filthy must that carpet have been to have gone four months without being vacuumed?

After about a month or so, I got tired of knocking on the door to ask them to turn down their music. They loved anything with that annoying Auto-Tuner sound. I just decided to call the security patrol each time. That way, there would at least be a record of their disturbances. Some weeks, I had to call four or five times. They never seemed to learn that other people lived in the building and didn't want to hear their music. And it wasn't just me. I know security stopped by a couple of times when I hadn't yet called, so other people were annoyed with the neighbors and their music. (And it wasn't only music. You should have heard the ruckus the night a friend brought a videogame player. Oy.)

We also kept getting notices about their smoking on the balcony. They did try to help, I suppose, by putting a two-liter Sprite bottle out there so they could douse their cigarettes when they finished smoking. I guess they should be applauded for the ingenuity and generosity, but I'm not feeling particularly charitable toward them these days.

I never did figure out how many people lived there. They were late in paying the rent last month, perhaps one reason they moved out so quickly. Only two names--both female--were listed on the letter, which was taped to the door of the apartment so that everyone could see. (Hey, the apartment management company doesn't fool around with delinquent tenants.) However, I know at least three guys lived there at various times. Mr. Echo was a frequent presence, and so was this guy with short hair who tended to call people up late at night to ask if they wanted to go clubbing. Yes, I could always hear their conversations through the wall. They were just that loud. I'll never forget one of his last conversations when he kept yelling into the phone about how untalented so many people in this town are. (Pot? It's Kettle calling for you. Thanks.)

Speaking of loud, you'd perhaps be happy to know that Mr. Echo had an active sex life. He "plays on my team," as the saying goes, and he and his current boyfriend/partner/trick would sometimes wake me up at 3 a.m. with their "love sounds." I mean, I have to admire anyone with the stamina to have sex at 3 a.m these days, but some of us have work to go to. I need my beauty sleep, as much of it as I can get.

I also managed to discover, somewhat accidentally, what two of them did to make a living. Mr. Echo and I got on the elevator at the same time one day, and he was carrying one of those fruit arrangements--you know, the kind made to look like a bouquet of flowers (not really, but go with me here). Turns out that was his job, making fruit into party centerpieces. Sasquatch is apparently an actress. Obviously, not a very talented one, since she didn't manage to find an acting job during the six months that she lived in Los Angeles. I don't know what she plans to do next, but judging from the conversation she had with a stringy-haired new boy on the Saturday of the move, she's going to be in Long Beach. God help all of you who live there if she becomes your neighbor. No, I don't know if Mr. Echo is moving with her. Oddly enough, I didn't ask.

The move actually started two weeks ago. A couple of friends stopped by to help Sasquatch pack up her clothes. Well, "pack" is a bit generous for what they did. It was more like stuffing clothes into shopping bags. No suitcases, no wardrobes, no boxes, just old Nordstrom and Abercrombie bags. They took clothes out of the apartment for a couple of hours, and then the place sat quiet for a couple of days. I actually thought they had already moved out Mr. Echo and Telephone Man came back in the middle of the week.

This past weekend, Mama Sasquatch showed up, as he had when Sasquatch had moved in last fall. (And, yes, now I know where Sasquatch gets her charming personality. These people would have to work on improving themselves just to become white trash.) I managed to see Mama walking out with a couple of lamps, with Sasquatch following behind her with a microwave in tow. Piece by piece, they moved stuff out, rugs, cushions from the floor, a box of dishes (yes, one box). It didn't take that long since, as I mentioned before, they had so little in the apartment. I was right, by the way, about the lack of bedroom furniture. I was here when the Great Mattress Removal began. Only mattresses left that apartment, no beds. How can anyone stand to sleep on a mattress on the floor? I know they're young, but that's just asking too much. And there was no couch either, just the aforementioned cushions.

It wasn't official, of course, until the magic white keyhole (although it's actually more yellow than white) appeared this past Monday. I did another little dance in the hallway when I realized that they were gone for good. I know it probably won't be long until another set of tenants moves in. I just hope the new folks are more respectful and quiet. It would be nice if they were also people who had jobs, so then they'd go to bed before 3 or 4 in the morning. Of course, with my luck, they'll probably be elephant trainers who bring their charges home with them in order to make the pachyderms more comfortable.

A Discovery

2009-04-03T18:55:00.000-07:00

For the past couple of weeks, I've been fighting a sinus infection. I've had good days and bad days, a lot of sniffling and sneezing, and a scratchy throat for much of those two weeks.

You might remember that last year at this time, on the Friday before Spring Break, I was undergoing surgery to have a skin cancer removed from my nose. I was left with a little scar where the graft didn't quite completely work, close to the top on the right side of my nose. I thought it was just a small indention that I'd have for the rest of my life, barring some sort of cosmetic procedure.

I was shaving one day last week when I needed to sneeze. I grabbed my nose to try to contain as much of it as I could, yet when I sneezed some of "it" escaped from the scar left from my surgery. That's right. I have a hole that goes all the way through. Yes, I have a blowhole.

I'm going to try to restrain myself from showing off this new talent to everyone I meet. However, I'm sure it would be a hit at birthday parties and bar mitzvahs.

Perhaps It's Just Me

2009-04-03T18:41:00.000-07:00

All this week, I've been having students write impromptu, or in-class, essays. Every one of my four writing classes did this, and my literature class had an essay exam. I require students to bring a "blue book" to class to write in on those days, and I allow them to submit the blue books early, so I can check them and put a copy of the prompt inside. Everyone knows this. I remind them of it endlessly in the weeks leading up to the actual day of the impromptu.

So on Wednesday, I went to the second of my developmental writing classes to administer the impromptu. I handed out the blue books that had already been checked, and I collected the ones brought that day, checked them, and returned them with an assignment sheet inside. I took attendance, and then I realized that one student in the room was not writing. She was just sitting in the back of the room looking at her notebook. I made a gesture as if to ask, "What's going on?" She just looked down at her notebook again.

I took her into the hallway outside the classroom. Here's basically what was said...

"Do you have a blue book?"

"I bought one, but I forgot it."

"Well, you need one for today's impromptu, so maybe you should go to the bookstore and get another one."

"I already bought one. I just forgot it."

"I understand that, but all we're doing today is in-class writing and you have to have a blue book for that. Do you understand?"

"I know."

"Do you not have any money?"

"No, I have money."

"Okay, then, you should get your money and go to the bookstore and come back as quickly as you can, so you can start writing."

She walked back into the classroom, picked up her stuff, and left. The bookstore is just across the street from the building we were in at the time, a few hundred yards away. A blue book costs about 30 cents, hardly a bank-breaker. Do I even need to tell you that she never returned to class? She just left.

This student has yet to submit a paper for grading this semester. She's done some prewriting activities and even managed to write a rough draft for one of them, but I've never gotten a final draft from her. She also has a perfect "0" on her reading quizzes. She simply folds them in half and puts them away in her notebook. She never answers any of the questions or turns them in.

I don't know what to make of this. Perhaps I just don't understand students. I expect them to submit papers in a writing class. I expect them to do a little writing in class from time to time. Even my assigning some reading shouldn't be all that shocking. And, yet, I'm still getting nothing from her.

No, she didn't drop the class. I know that's what some of you are thinking. I do believe she's hoping that if she just comes to class every day--and she's only missed the one day that I sent her to the bookstore--she'll pass. Of course, that's never going to happen, but perhaps that's my hang-up as well.

Not What I Meant at All

2009-03-28T16:16:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my participation in a program designed to help students transfer faster, I have to attend a monthly meeting with other faculty in the program, people from the math department and counselers and other English teachers and (this time around) a sociology professor. We share how the students, who are rigorously tracked for their performance, are doing, particuarly those who are doing well and those who might be in danger of failing. You learn a great deal about what's going on in your students' lives, and it does give you a better context for understanding why sometimes they are having difficulty in your class. It usually turns out that they're having difficulties in all of their classes.

On Thursday, when it was my turn to share, I talked about only three students who are having difficulty. One is passing but barely, mostly because she can't shut up talking long enough to pay attention. Another is earning a low "D" right now, and I think it's because of her limited proficiency in the English language. The third student has had one problem after another this semester, causing her to miss 11 class sessions. We've met 22 times as a class so far, so you can do the math yourself to figure out why she's not doing well.

When I shared this with the group, several people jumped in to tell me that I should drop this student from the class. (They're usually very good about telling you how you should run your classes, by the way.) In theory, I understand and even accept their rationale for doing so. However, this student keeps e-mailing me to tell me what's been happening--the latest is the death of her grandmother--and asking me not to drop her from the class. I've told her how she's doing in the class. I've explained to her what she's missed so far and how much work it will take for her to make all of that up in the very few weeks we have remaining. I have, in other words, kept in contact with her and not dropped her. I shared with the group that I think the student, as an adult, has to make the decision, not me. She still thinks she can come back to the class and be successful after everything that's happened. I know that the odds are against her, but if she wants to try, that's her call to make. And I said something to the effect that a student who knows that she/he is going to fail has as much right to stay in a class as one who knows that she/he is going to succeed.

When the next teacher started to give his report, he commented on who was doing well and who wasn't, and he said that he was going to drop a student who had missed fewer classes than my student had because, as he put it, "I don't want my students to fail." Naturally, he glanced quickly in my direction, accusing me nonverbally of wanting mine to do that very thing. Now, I ask you, is that what I said?

Am I wrong for letting a student make up her own mind about her classes? It's not as if she doesn't know how much difficulty she's going to face because I have told her. I've even given her a printed grade report that shows her the grade she's currently earning. So why should I tell her that her grandmother's death and the other problems she's faced make her ineligible to stay in my class now? I don't want her to fail, but I also don't want to treat her like she's a child with no ability to make a choice on her own.

This is my last semester working in this program. I've been involved in it, off and on, for about eight of the fifteen years I've been at my college. I've enjoyed it, for the most part, and I know that it's a very successful program for the students who participate in it. But I'm feeling very burned out by it. I just want to teach "regular" classes for a while, classes where I don't have to act like some sort of substitute parent for a student who's a grown-up. I'm weary of being asked to do what I think amounts to coddling students a bit too much, maybe I'm not that good of a fit for it any longer. Apparently, some of my colleagues would agree.

A Memory

2009-03-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

In the spring of 1998, Partner At The Time and I went to New York for Spring Break. Ostensibly, we were going with a group of opera students from my college. They were going to spend the week going to various operas and museums. PATT and I were going to see just one opera, Der Meisterzinger von Nuremberg (or something close to that), four hours of Wagner at the Metropolitan Opera House. What we wanted to do instead of seeing a lot of opera was to see a lot of Broadway shows. So we did tourist things during the daytime, and in the early afternoons, we made our way to the TKTS booth in Times Square and selected a show for the evening. It was a great week.

The hottest show in town that spring was a revival of Cabaret starting Alan Cumming and Natasha Richardson. I thought we should take a chance on tickets, so we stopped at the office for the Roundabout Theatre Company and stood in a very long line. Most people were walking away disappointed because the only seats left were what were dubbed "obstructed view." The other tickets you could purchase were for weeks or months in advance. I asked what views were obstructed and was told that some dancers would be above us at certain points in the show. I figured it was worth the risk and bought two.

What an excellent decision it turned out to be. The front rows of the show were set up as tables at a cabaret itself, so we had one all to ourselves. We were about 10-15 feet away from the stage itself, and members of the cast frequently walked by us on the way to the stage. In fact, at one point, Alan Cumming (as the Emcee) stood next to us while waiting for his cue. He turned and looked at us and winked. Hey, it's always nice to acknowledge the gay members of the audience, I'd imagine. The only part of the show we couldn't see was the dancing done by a couple of people above us on a metal walkway; in all, we missed about 30 seconds of something that wasn't integral to the plot.

The show was spectacular, an amazing recreation of Berlin's night life between the two World Wars. Cumming was great, a real scene-stealer. And Natasha Richardson was so beautiful and fragile as Sally Bowles, the singer who can't seem to make good decisions in her life. It's a part that allows actresses to show quite a range of talent, and Richardson did not disappoint. PATT and I both jumped to our feet at the end of the show to applaud her and the rest of the cast. Later that year, when she won the Tony Award for Best Actress in a Musical, we cheered again (this time in our living room, though).

This past week, Richardson passed away after suffering a head injury in a skiing accident. I've thought several times then of that magical night in New York more than a decade ago. It's a special relationship that theater performers have with the audience. They know when they are loved, and they can sense when the crowd is on their side. Richardson was a gifted performer: a great actress with astonishing depth and a talented singer as well.

Richardson comes from a long line of actors and performers. Her mother is the always amazing Vanessa Redgrave, and her father is famed director Tony Richardson. Her aunt is Lynn Redgrave, and her grandfather was Sir Michael Redgrave. Her sister is Joely Richardson, perhaps best known for her performance as Julia on Nip/Tuck. Natasha was also married to another great actor, Liam Neeson. She was surrounded by so many talented people throughout her life. It was perhaps inevitable that should would demonstrate the same skills as an actor that they possessed; it was in her blood.

Natasha Richardson didn't have the traditional career of a movie star, perhaps, but she really didn't need to when she could perform on stage and in the movies with equal ease. She always brought to her roles a sensitivity that made you care about her character. I will always treasure having seen her work as Sally Bowles, particularly her performance of "Maybe This Time," one of my favorite songs from that show. Its words have haunted me since hearing of her passing.

5600+

2009-03-13T23:15:00.000-07:00

At about 8:30 a.m. on Thursday, I reached a milestone. You may recall that last fall I started listening to all of the songs on my iPod in alphabetical order by song title. I finished on Thursday morning. What had started with Ella Fitzgerald's "A-Tisket, A-Tasket" ended with Dolly Parton's "9 to 5" (preceded by Alison Kraus' lovely version of the same song from a tribute album). So 5600 plus songs later, I've managed to go through my entire catalog of songs.

I managed to discover that I had two copies of several songs, so that means I could clear out my playlist a little bit. I also found out that some songs had not downloaded properly and would not play the way they are supposed to play. Those also get deleted. It isn't that I need space or anything. I bought an iPod that has a capacity of 160GB. I have a long way to go before I fill that up.

As I've stated in previous posts, sometimes you realize just how many different versions you have of a particular song when you listen to them this way. I have, for example, four singers doing their take on "You Don't Have to Say You Love Me": Dusty Springfield (of course), Elvis Presley, John Barrowman (courtesy of his biggest fan, my friend N), and Shelby Lynne (courtesy of my friend C). Listening to Dusty and Shelby sing the song almost back-to-back just heightens the intensity of Lynne's tribute album to Springfield's greatest songs. And there are four versions of "You Go to My Head" as well: Billie Holiday, Judy Garland, Keely Smith, and Rufus Wainwright. Does it get any better than this?

I think after I've deleted the duplicate songs and found some more "stable" versions of the songs that are currently unplayable (like "Young Hearts Run Free" by Candi Staton, which I love but which I have yet to be able to download successfully), I might start the process all over again. Of course, I have a few "new" songs I want to add first, but this has been a pleasurable journey, one I'm anxious to take again.

Saying Goodbye

2009-03-13T22:49:00.000-07:00

I had to get a haircut today, so I went a bit early in order to see what was left of the inventory at A Different Light Bookstore in West Hollywood. For a number of reasons, the store will be closing in April, leaving Los Angeles without any gay bookstore other than ones that specialize in porn. There will be no more browsing for titles of new and old books by favorite authors, no rummaging through the shelves of used books at remarkable prices, no readings by gay and lesbian authors. All gone now.

I can still recall many of the trips that I've taken over the years to A Different Light. I've purchased many books there, all in the name of supporting our community. It's where, for example, I purchased all of the Tales of the City books (seven of them so far) by Armistead Maupin, an author whose work has been such a fond part of my life. I know I could probably find the same books cheaper on Amazon, but it was important to me to feel what a friend of mine in college used to call "all that great queer energy" you found in a bookstore like A Different Light. I can also recall most of the readings I've attended, and I still have signed books as my souvenirs of those days. One of my most prized possessions is a signed copy of Afterlife by Paul Monette, another of my favorite writers, that I got at a reading there only a few years before his passing.

The store was almost empty this morning. Only two other customers came in while I was browsing. Most of the books are gone, sold already to other people who want to take advantage of their last chance to own an item from the store. I still managed to pick up about a dozen books, some of which I had thought about buying for years. I know it's too late to make a difference, but I hope my purchase is a somewhat appropriate way to honor the legacy of A Different Light. I might go back just once more to look around and see if there's any way I can retain a sense of what the store once meant to the community. Even the fixtures are on sale, but I have no place to put a display rack in my living room.

Ironically, today I read in Out magazine that the Oscar Wilde Memorial Bookshop in New York City is also closing. That was one of my first destinations when I visited New York. It was the oldest gay bookstore in the United States, and it too had a strong sense of history to it. Now it and A Different Light will be gone, and our community will probably never have spaces like them again. (Yes, I still have the books I purchased in New York as well. I do keep books, perhaps longer than I ever need them.)

I realize that it's perhaps better that gay books are available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble and Borders. That way, people in cities and towns without strong gay communities still have access to literature about themselves. Somehow, though, it's just not going to be the same for me to go browsing "the gay shelf" at Barnes & Noble. I won't find a copy of an out-of-print novel like Butterflies in Heat or Franny, the Queen of Provincetown or the campy novels of Joe Keenan (who later wrote for Frasier) or the "Buddies" series by Ethan Mordden or the hardcover version of Jeff Hobbs' The Tourists. I picked up all of these and a few more today. That's not likely to happen again any time soon outside of a used book sale somewhere.

Maybe we're too technologically advanced to need bookstores any longer. Or maybe we don't read as much as we used to, and books are going the way of the dodo bird and I'm going to be the only (gay?) dinosaur with a library. Perhaps gay people would just rather congregate in bars and clubs; there's actually one on either side of the ADL site in West Hollywood. Whatever the reason, I will miss A Different Light. It was like saying goodbye to an old friend today, one whose equal I'll likely never see again in this town.

Brief Encounter

2009-03-13T22:38:00.001-07:00

I know I tell too many stories like this, but I really do love living in Los Angeles when I can have "sightings" like this one.

Today, I went to pick up my dry cleaning in West Hollywood. When I walked in, I noticed there were only two other customers there, one man and one woman. I handed my ticket to the guy behind the counter and glanced up at the large screen TV that was playing some E! program about celebrities or something. I happened to notice the woman was also watching, and then I realized who the woman was.

Jane Lynch.

Most people probably know here from such movies as A Mighty Wind or Best in Show or The 40-Year-Old Virgin, or perhaps you know her as Charlie Sheen's therapist on Two and a Half Men. She has dozens of credits, and she's instantly recognizable. And, just to let you know, she's just as beautiful in person as she is on the screen.

I think Jane Lynch is fantastic in every movie she's in. Even if the movie itself is bad, she never disappoints. She reminds me in many ways of those great character actresses like Thelma Ritter and Agnes Moorehead and Gladys Cooper, who always shined even in bit parts. They almost always transcended the material they were given. And she carries on that tradition proudly. She was one of the best things about Role Models last year, and I really enjoyed that movie immensely anyway.

After she picked up her dry cleaning (drapes, I think), she took them to her car; I don't know, something white and expensive looking. I managed to get my clothes back and had just put them in my car when I glanced her way. She smiled and waved. Jane Lynch smiled and waved at me.

Man, I love this town.

Another Short Story about Another Student

2009-03-13T22:31:00.001-07:00

It's been quite a week for student stories. This one isn't quite as funny as the first, perhaps, but I think it is indicative of a certain "type" of student out there.

On Thursday, I had to give a make-up exam to a student. He would definitely fall under the "fourth time's the charm" rule since he's missed every chance so far to take this exam. He injured himself the day before the test, and he had to hobble around on crutches for a few weeks. Each time he said he'd come by during office hours, he never made it. He told me last week that he would show up that Thursday, but the young lady who was assisting him with carrying his books that day apparently "distracted" (his word) him when they went to lunch together.

So I put him at a table out in the hallway and let him work. Near the end of my office hour, a student stopped by to have me look at her rough draft. Again. This is actually the third time I've talked to her about her paper. She should be in ESL classes, not regular English classes, because her comprehension is very limited. She's only been in the U.S. a couple of years and would definitely benefit from having the more specific guidance that the ESL program offers. However, she won't switch, and I expect that she will keep needing to see her teachers as she progresses through the sequence.

Anyway, after she and I talked, she apparently went out to the hallway and sat down at the table to write down what she could remember of what I said. She started to talking to the guy who was taking his test, and he actually wound up asking her for her number. Not only did he get it (both home and cell), he also got her e-mail address.

Now, I ask you, how many guys do you know who can manage to score a girl's phone number while trying to take an American literature exam? That's got to be a rare fellow indeed.

A Short Story about a Student

2009-03-11T20:18:00.000-07:00

I'm usually pretty generous if a student comes to class late and wants to take a quiz even though the rest of the class is finished and ready to move on. It happens often enough, believe me.

Today, I handed a copy of the quiz to a late student and told him he'd have to go outside to complete it since the rest of the class was about to start talking about the essays that were the subject of the quiz. After he left, another student walked in late and wanted to take the quiz too. So I sent him outside as well. The second student left, answered the questions (mostly correctly, I might add), and returned to class within a couple of minutes. The first student stayed gone for more than 15 minutes. When he finally did return, I asked what had taken him so long. He told me that he had gone outside like I had told him, but he couldn't find a place to sit down because all of the benches were taken. Apparently, he thought I meant he had to go outside of the building to take his quiz, not just outside the classroom.

And all of his answers were wrong.

Sigh.

I have to keep reminding myself that the future of America is dependent upon a lot of people of that generation, not just one of them.

Guys and Dolls

2009-03-07T11:47:00.000-08:00

N and I went on Thursday night to see the college's production of Guys and Dolls. I know it's an old-fashioned show, but perhaps, like Minsky's, which recently played at the Ahmanson, what we need right now in these troubled times is comfort, something familiar and fun, something without a deep message. I've only ever seen the film version of Guys and Dolls, never a theatrical production, and even that experience with the movie has been a long time ago now. I had forgotten just how many good songs there are in the show and how many opportunities it presents to showcase singing and dancing and acting.

The story should be familiar to a lot of people. A group of hustlers and crooks and two-bit criminals in New York City are trying to find a place to host a floating crap game. The folks of the Save-A-Soul Mission are trying to convert these lowlifes to a life of religion. One of the con artists, Nathan Detroit, makes a bet with another, Sky Masterson, that he can't get the head of the missionaries, Sarah Brown, to go with him to Cuba. Nathan has his own difficulties, of course, what with being engaged for 14 years to Miss Adelaide, one of the performers at the Hot Box. (Yes, I'm surprised they were able to get away with that back in the 1950s, too.) He's also having little luck in finding a location for the crap game. You should know that there's a happy ending in store, given the time period in which it was first written and performed.

This being a student production, you might not think that the quality of the production would be very high, but you'd be wrong in this case. Our college does a fantastic job with sets and costumes and staging. And the casting is usually first-rate as well. The students in Guys and Dolls on Thursday were great dancers, good singers, and talented performers all around. I have to say, in particular, how impressed I was by the guys in the cast. The two numbers that are really showcases for the men in the ensemble--"The Oldest Established" and "Luck Be a Lady"--were breathtaking and received loud applause from the audience. Of course, the showstopper was the performance of "Sit Down, You're Rockin' the Boat." The young man playing Nicely-Nicely Johnson wowed the audience. I did think for a moment that he and the rest of the cast wouldn't be able to continue after the crowd started to roar its approval.

And I loved hearing Frank Loesser's songs again. Just a few of the highlights:

"I'll Know," a lovely duet between Sky and Sarah about the ways we fall in love
"Adelaide's Lament," surely one of the funniest numbers ever written for a Broadway show, the story of how waiting for love can make us sick
"I've Never Been in Love Before," an incredibly romantic song that just becomes more resonant each time I hear it
"Take Back Your Mink," a real showcase for the Hot Box Dancers
"More I Cannot Wish You," which was not performed particularly well Thursday night, but which has some lovely sentiments to it

With songs like that, how can you go wrong?

Not everything was perfect, of course. The young woman playing Sarah has an operatic voice that didn't gel with the singing of the rest of the cast too well at times. There were several problems with microphones losing sound, and I noticed a dancer or two lost a shoe now and then. Still, it was a fun evening at the theater. I had been working very hard all week, grading papers and doing lesson plans and teaching, and I was afraid I would fall asleep during the show. No danger there, though, given the quality of the production and of the performers in it. N and I saw the dean of the division and the faculty member who worked with the students on the ensemble vocal numbers, and they both had as much fun as we did. Sometimes, an evening of escapist entertainment is just what you need.

Nutty Neighbors: A Lesson in Irony

2009-03-07T11:45:00.000-08:00

When you are talking loudly enough on your cell phone--and doing so in the bathroom--that your next door neighbor can hear you as clearly as if you were standing next to him, you probably shouldn't yell into the phone: "WHY DO YOU ALWAYS ACCUSE ME OF OVERREACTING?!" That would be ironic.