Super

I had the pleasure of seeing Superman Returns last night.

I'm not going to give you a full-blown review here, other than to say that I liked it very much. I wasn't born when Richard Donner's original Superman came out, and must have seen that one when I was about ten, since the advent of cable and color television didn't arrive until about 1988 in our home. All I really remember about that film was Gene Hackman chewing the scenery as Lex Luthor, the fact that the closing credits lasted a ridiculously long time, and something about California being destroyed or sent into the ocean. So, hearing John Williams' familiar Superman theme before the opening credits didn't bring a flood of feeling the way hearing say, the Starwars theme does.

Of couse, I cannot let this post go without a hip hip hooray of the foxy Brandon Routh, whose more than passing resemblance to Christopher Reeve is what no doubt landed him the roll. In Levon's words he was, "too pretty." Sure Levon, I think you're just jealous. Big-eyed and ernest he was perfect as the Man of Steel, though I find it impossible to believe that Lois Lane never once recognizes Clark Kent as the man whose eyes she spends so much time staring into.

But again, back to the movie...

At times slow and characteristically sullen, it lacked the rock 'em, sock 'em-ness of Sam Rami's Spiderman movies. However, Bryan Singer, who is becoming one of my favorite filmmakers, handled the material masterfully, his verging-on-Baroque style well suited for the self-important story line.

My favorite part is when Superman stops and 747 from crashing into a baseball stadium filled with fans, instead placing it gently down onto the field. The rest of the action sequences felt less than exhilirating.

The only real disappointment I felt was that neither Singer nor his actors seemed to be having very much fun with things. Sure, they're all pros at what they do, but it's a movie based on a comic book, loosen up a little! Even Kevin Spacey, who could have infused Lex with an ounce or two of wild-eyed glee, seemed to pout his way though his scenes. C'mon Keyser Soze, let's see some crazy, man!

Is it worth $10.00? Yes. You will come out feeling not so much a sense of disappointment as you will a lack of satisfaction. And maybe not even. It's still filling enough, even for more than Brandon Routh in a body sock. I promise.

For Levon

Lover of all kinds of Jesus kitsch.

Put on the smiling face.

“Your worries and fears become your friends, and they end up smiling at you.”
--Gnarls Barkley, Smiley Faces


My current train of thought was kind of kicked off by something Larry wrote in his blog recently. I will grossly paraphrase here, but the idea is roughly the same. Larry mentioned that humans are the only species that expect their to be fruit before the branch is read to bear it. We are hard on ourselves, much harder than we are on each other. Too hard.

The other day at church, Erwin spoke about the holiness of play -- how finding and experiencing the joy of life means also finding a source of strength, as it says in Nehemiah 8: “Do not be grieved, for the joy of the Lord is your strength.” This is a concept that makes sense to me, as I think about life and the fact that I have enormous amounts of energy for getting things done that I enjoy doing. Humans then, it seems, were created for pleasure. After all, as Erwin pointed out, we were created and then placed first in a garden -- not behind the business end of a plow or even the business end of a desk.

Still then, why is play so hard for me? I so often get bogged down with two things -- sin and obligation. My own sinfulness irks me. I hate that I so often am grabbed by the heal by these things, that things are such a struggle. Yet in my near-constant fretting about sin, I miss the point of God’s grace. I will forever be sinful. It’s not an imperfection that I need to learn to overcome, it’s a condition that I need to accept is permanent, and that God, in his infinite love for me, understands this, and in turn accepts me, despite it all. So until the day I die, I will sin. There will also be plenty of heartache and disappointment and the like, but this is something that those Levites back in Nehemiah figured out upon hearing that news -- they “ate of the fat and drank of the sweet,” because they understood what it meant to celebrate.

I think part of why I’ve found it to be so difficult for me is what I like to refer to as “generational sin.” For so long it’s been the family modus operandi that “life is hard, keep your head down, grit your teeth, and it’ll be over soon. And for heaven’s sake, don’t ever smile.” True, the family has survived through some genuine struggles, upheavals and turmoil -- oppression so great that to simply smile might be too difficult a thing to do.

I used to not worry about anything before I truly accepted Christ, nearly two years ago now on that sunny, windy Sunday afternoon in November. It was impressed upon me for so many years that God and all that was “pious” and “right” were matters of holy, serious business. Time to follow God and lose my sense of humor.

But now? In this time, in this place?

And that’s the shitty thing about church -- which, if I may get tangental for a moment, is something I really liked about Europe, that it was not churchy at all. There were plenty of churches, don’t get me wrong -- in Prague there was one on every corner and they were beautiful, but Europe wasn’t churchy in the sense that some places in America are, where they think that unless God’s name is evoked every other minute, that not only will you forget about him, he will cease to exist. What that has to do with losing one’s sense of humor whilst trying to follow Christ is that most churches put on the dour, pious face to the world, and in turn, are generally turned down by the world.

No. I’m now convinced, more than ever, that living life as if it were intended to be enjoyed -- laughing, being silly, connecting -- is the best way of showing hope to a fallen world. Because what else am I supposed to do? It doesn’t make sense -- reject all that God has given me to enjoy because I feel somehow that he’s asked me to? Telling God that he’s made some sort of mistake, like “look God, I’m really supposed to be sitting in a pile of ashes, mourning my fallen position in life. You must have put me in the wrong place, I need to be suffering for you,” makes my fallen position something of an idol, no?

Well yeah, and I hear God saying “no, no, no. Enjoy, take advantage of these things I’ve given you.” Whether it’s smoking a clove on the patio with Elizabeth, sharing a brew with Levon, finding new music, driving fast with the windows down, writing in this blog -- whatever it is -- I need not feel guilty about it.

‘Cause the opposite is true as well. In II Samuel, King David danced “with all his might before the Lord,”and upon seeing him, his wife Michal, Saul’s daughter, “despised him in her heart.” Quite simply, she hated his joy, she couldn’t stand to see him happy. Later in the passage, it’s mentioned that Michal also never bore children because of the bitterness that she held in her heart. She literally choked the life out of herself. This particular passage piqued my interest because I’d heard it preached in a different context last August in Auckland. I remember sitting in that old, cold church, next to Simon and Marie thinking how important it was to let go of bitterness and self-condemnation -- not for the purposes of child bearing necessarily, but because that kind of self-recrimination will, in fact, rob you of a life well-lived, a life lived at all. David rebuked Michal, telling her that because he had already taken his dignity in the sight of those watching, what else could they take from him? Instead, he would be held in high regard by those who looked on.

That reminded me of stuff my dad used to do. Silly stuff, stuff that would embarrass the rest of the family to pieces. Particularly at a camp that he and Mom used to work at, where he would regularly dres in garbage bags and a pair of goggles and battle a gaggle of eight-year-olds in a pudding fight. Sure, he may have looked foolish, but he relished it with gusto, and the kids adored him. In fact, everyone adored him for that kind of thing.

Anyway, I write of this now because it's the most freeing thing I've heard in a long time. That "wow, I can have fun? I don't have to be in this self-imposed prison? Awesome." I'm sure my logic is incomplete and a bit scattered at best, but then it's intended as a big, fat "note to self."

File Under: Bad Driving

I never know if I should talk so much about my bad driving habits. Yet as Levon once told me, "Sandra, only you can make crashing a car sound cute and innocent."

Okay then. Well, I've had my moments, and no, this post is not to tell you that I had another car accident, 'cause I haven't.

However, I did accidentally run both a stop sign AND a red light this morning on my way to work. Perhaps I was focusing too intently on my cup of coffee, or perhaps blissfully unaware as I bopped to the beats of Jamie Lidell, I know not. But I was not intentionally trying to cause problems, so the next time you see someone driving somewhat erratically -- sure, they may be a vicious asshole in need of some karmic retribution, but then again they may also just be having a good morning.

musically inspired

Jennifer just wrote a great post about the music that has meant a great deal to her over the years. It's very High Fidelity of her, and in fact, Nick Hornby wrote a similar book called 31 Songs in which he chronicles the (you guessed it) thirty-one songs that have meant the most to him over the years.

It's a slightly lesser-known fact about me that I grew up studying music. Seven years of clarinet, three years of choir, guitar lessons for awhile and one high school musical in which I played a mime. I had one line: "A mountain?" delivered in my best Cockney accent. Early plans were to go to school to study music therapy -- a large part of why I ended up at SMU in the first place. Plans changed on that angle, and while a career in the music biz isn't "on the plate," so to speak, my appetite for music is still voracious. I love it, and it's usually always on in the background of my life, coming from the laptop or the car speakers.

My buying of new music used to be through the roof. Work study paycheck would sometimes be blown in a single sitting in those Dallas days, battling the late-Friday traffic to the local Tower Records store to troll the aisles. Well, I've gotten a little more fiscally responsible, so the frequency of music purchasing has slowed a bit. Although, just yesterday I was telling my roommates that as I listen to most of my music, I feel as if it belongs to someone else. It's the soundtrack to a past me, and not the current me. I also mentioned that for my birthday next month, all I want are iTunes gift certificates.

So anyway, here are some albums that make my world turn.

Marvin Gaye's What's Goin' On
Sure, he's most well-known for "Let's Get it On", but this album, a piece of social commentary in a time when the world was listening to disco, sounds more like a hymn than a desperate cry for help. The opening chords to "Inner City Blues" still send shivers up and down my spine.

INXS' Greatest Hits
I don't have much to say about this one, other than it's really, really spectacular. Don't be fooled -- this so-called "new" version of INXS, the INXS who play casinos in California and found their lead singer on television? That's not the real one. The real one has Michael Hutchens singing vocals and don't let anyone tell you differently. My favorite song is probably "The Stairs," but I really love all of them. I wish life would feel like the way an INXS song sounds. I'd be happy, so endlessly happy, if that were the case.

Stereo MCs' Connected
Remember these guys? Maybe not. They had a big radio hit in the early '90s, and a couple of videos on MTV. I bought this album on cassette because I thought the cover looked cool and a little exotic -- this bald white man and a bunch of black women, who I later surmised to be the lead singer and the band behind him. I took it home and quickly fell in love with its beats, a funky mixture of hip hop and dance music and some pretty informed and clever lyrics. I lost touch with it for years until last summer, upon discovering that Elizabeth was borrowing a CD copy from her brother. It felt as if I was being reunited with an old friend.

Coldplay's X & Y
Coldplay fandom is somewhat cliched, I know, but this album was a touchstone around the time that my dad was sick and dying. I first saw the video for "Fix You" in Auckland and then saw it as many times over at home. Last fall, I would spend afternoons driving around northern Oregon, listening to this album, its chilly feel sounding perfect against the late autumn air. "Swallowed in the Sea" is probably my favorite song, a beautiful look at what would seem like the ideal-yet-flawed relationship.

Ray Lamontagne's Trouble
At first I was taken in by his story -- having worked as a steel boot maker in Maine before rather suddenly realizing that he wanted to be a musician. Then I was interested because his album was produced by Ethan Johns, son of 1970s uber producer Glyn Johns -- the music nerd in my sang. But soon thereafter, I was taken in by Ray's voice, which is strong yet breathy and filled with about as much soul as a white guy can give anything. When he sings I feel everything he feels -- anger and worry and regret. "All the Wild Horses" is absolutely beautiful as well. I always felt like it could play over the final scenes of an epic drama. I also like that Ray looks a bit like he could have fought as a Union soldier in the Civil War.

Rufus Wainwright's Self Titled
I heard this by accident freshman year, but his strange, drawn-out and slightly nasal voice captivated me. I was tickled when Annelies told me she had just come back from Montreal, where apparently this Quebecois was already quite the rage. I felt like I had stumbled upon my own little secret. I still feel that way, a little.


There are many, many other albums and songs that I love. I could start a whole blog dedicated to music -- but I won't. I already have enough blogs. Besides, music shouldn't be written about, it should be listened to. Unless you're a character in a Cameron Crowe movie...then by all means...

waste

I'm trying to keep an eye on the amount of waste I put out into the environment. I'm especially aware of this at work, where breakfast and lunch are provided every single day. Paper plates and utensils are provided, but I've started using regular ceramic plates and flateware, washing it up when I'm done instead of tossing it in the trash.

However, I'm wonder what the greater resource waste is: throwing away a ton of paper and plastic or running extra water.

Survey says?

stand alone

It's true...

Good is the enemy of great. As in, it's good (and really, maybe 'good' is too generous a term) to be on the internet all day, but how many times a day does one need to check their email/blog/flickr/myspace page? Once? Maybe? This little window to the world is beginning to get in the way of other, more useful and productive things -- for instance, learning how to love story editing.

I like editing other people's stuff, but have never had a knack for revising my own work. Which leaves much of my material sitting as first draft stuff, not exactly the stuff you'd want to send out to potential publishers, really. And not stuff that you'd want to send to graduate school, which is exactly where I'm setting my sights next. More specifically to Seattle Pacific University's MFA in Creative Writing. It's a distance program, which means I can go about it from wherever I am, although the weather, atmosphere, and absolutely freakin' awesome radio make that Pacific Northwestern city seem oh-so-appealing at the moment. I don't know, editing always has seemed so arduous, so tedious, that when the time comes, I'd find just about anything else to do. Yet as a writer, I need to learn to love it, or else this bird ain't never gonna get off the ground, so to speak.

So, darling worldwideweb, it's time for some time off, I think.

File Under: Absent Minded

My boss left from work eary today. On his way out the door, he comes into my office and says "Betsy's supposed to put that script back in my office by the end of the day because it's super top-secret, so I left my office door unlocked and open, just make sure that's done before you leave."

Fast forward to only slightly later, when I'm about to put his mail into his office, and I'm expecting his door to be "unlocked and open," and proceed to walk nose-first, straight into a large, blue, closed door.

Umm...

So my boss clearly suffers from short term memory loss, as he left his office door neither unlocked or open. Unless he just wanted to cause a little confusion. Here is someone who definitely needs an assistant.

Some thoughts from Mom

Mom sent an email recently, reflections of her own from our trip. I like it so much, I thought I'd post them here.

It has been a week since I arrived home from Estonia and all I can think about today is what happened last year on this day. We came home from Denver and went to the emergency room and life was never the same. I am feeling very sad, somewhat sorry for myself and very much alone - I believe I would feel alone no matter how many of you might be here. I hope this is not hard for you to hear, but it is what my feelings are today. Maybe it is partly because all the things that were on the horizon have happened and the question is "What happens next?" I don't know - it is hard to consider anything but one step and day at a time, and always and only with God's help and support from all my friends.

This first paragraph is not what I planned to share - I just thought I would like to give some of my impressions of Estonia. Some of you have read Sandra's blog and already know something about my thoughts and feelings at being in the land of my birth. First and foremost, it was strange to visit various places and constantly be aware that I could have lived here, gone to school there, grown up with this cousin or that one. Very strange - God certainly does set our path in ways we do not understand. But, had I stayed in Estonia, then no Riho, no Erik or Sandra and mostly likely none of you would be my friends; what a lose.

Estonia is alive and energetic and flexing her muscles. One of the best pictures one of us took was a skyline shot of Tallinn with an equal number of church spires (from the 15th century and up) and cranes building new apartments, hotels and businesses. The Old Town of Tallinn with it's apothecary built in 1422 (the oldest in Europe) to free wireless internet everywhere. The hoards of tourists, Finns, Germans, Swedes and who knows what else, but everywhere English is the tourist language. Ah, but what fun to answer in Estonian, to transact business, order meals, read and understand signs and listen to the Estonian TV stations. It felt so very natural; I though that maybe after all these years I could no longer make myself understood, but no problem.

The visit to Hiiumaa (my island birthplace) was the best; beautiful birch and pine forests, streams and the ocean all around. The hospital where I was born, the house where our family resided, the stretch of beach where we were anchored off shore for the final hours of daylight before sailing for Sweden in 1944. The fact that Hiiumaa was a battlefield between the Soviets and the Germans: gun emplacements, fortifications, many hundreds (thousands?) killed, many others fleeing with only the possessions they had on their backs and perhaps one suitcase; from those remaining many being deported to Siberia for no other reason than to strike fear and terror into the hearts of the people. It is difficult to take it all in. What would have become of us if we had stayed? Only God knows.

Those who did stay: persecution, privation, hardships and the constant knowledge that all could be taken away at a moment's notice. Now sixty years later not willing to spend much time talking about those times. "Yes, it was hard, but that is all behind us know - God took care of us." Yes, but how would any us feel if we were told we could not graduate or perhaps not even go to college since we were professing Christians? We could not work at the profession we wanted so schoolteachers became farm workers, engineers became factory workers, artists and composers became??? Maybe the hardest for them because creativity was not tolerated, unless it followed the "party line."

But they survived and now live quiet, peaceful lives, raising families and going to work, worrying about material things, but seemingly happy with much less than what we feel is necessary to the "good life." However, they all have cell phones (Estonia has the highest use of cell phones in the world) and don't forget the free wireless internet - it is everywhere, even in the smallest villages. My cousins (who are all somewhat older) were only know by name before this trip, now I can picture them in my mind and see their faces. They were extremely welcoming, showing us the places we wanted to see, taking us to their homes, giving us good Estonian food. The herring was wonderful! couldn't get enough!

People are friendly but reserved - strangers tend not to talk to each other (in buses, ferries,etc). In Tallinn the public transportation is very good; I even learned which bus took me to my cousin's and one day I went by myself - what an accomplishment. On the island, there is bus service, but bicycles are a favorite way of getting around (besides walking - everyone walks). One of the cutest pictures I have in my mind (and on the computer) are my cousin and his wife, both over 70 years old, bicycling home from church on Sunday morning. The children seem to be better behaved - maybe they are or maybe it was just the strange people from far away.

Going to two different cemetaries: one for my father's side of the family, the other my mother's. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, they were all there, with one tombstone showing the year of my great-grandfather's death: 1918. And so many stories about this cousin and this great-aunt; I could have listened forever. And maybe that is what will draw me back: there is so much more to learn about the country, the family tree (all the branches), the island, the people.

Am I glad I went? Yes, absolutely! But, oh how I wish that Riho and I had gone; he would have loved it. And it would have been so wonderful to be able to share every day, all the funny, strange, beautiful things that happened. Would I go back? definitely! Would I go there to live? need to think about that one, don't know. I realize this has gone on for a while, but it could have been much longer.

"Hey Take it Easy"

I'm really supposed to be working on something for my writing group right now, but in truth, this is more fun.

Summer has arrived to Southern California finally. One could say that it's perpetually summer in this place, but we're headed into the proper summer season when the thermometer goes up another ten points on the fahrenheit scale and it's just a tad too hot to sit in the car without air conditioning, though even typing that last part "sitting in a car without air conditioning" makes me want to run back to Europe faster than you can even say "Southern California."

Anyway. So I've been back about a week, and am still holding a particular disdain for this place. Although, much like being in the middle of a difficult relationship, or having a hard time working something out with someone, it's still possible to have good moments in the midst of the trials. Last night was one such evening, full of small moments that remind me of why I chose to live here in the first place.

Corey and I planned to see Nacho Libre last night, and decided to go to Govinda's beforehand, a vegetarian buffet owned and operated by the local Hare Krishna temple. As usual, Corey was late and I was a little early, so I waited outside the temple, enjoying the late evening sun and listening to the sound of the drums and chanting coming from inside. While I waited, a man named Shasi approached me and struck up a conversation. He was plesant enough and we talked about writing for a little while, as he told me about a twelve-volume health encyclopedia he's working on. As I waited longer for Corey, silently imploring his arrival, Shasi came up with the brilliant (please note intended sarcasm) idea that if Corey didn't show, that he'd take me to dinner and the movie instead. Later when Corey did show up, he asked if Shasi wanted to come with us (d'oh), and he replies, "what are you going to do, just sit there while I hold her hand?"

Now, I'm not dogging on dear Shasi. I'm sure that he would have made a decent and perhaps even sublime date, but this incident highlights a phenomenon that bothers me a bit. As a human being, I want to be able to engage with people, to talk to them, to learn what makes them tick. However, as a woman, I realize that I possess particular qualities that the male gender might find appealing. So, on one hand I don't want to walk around thinking that every man who speaks to me wants to hold my hand, I don't want to keep my head down and avoid folks, 'cause imagine all that I would lose out on that way. However, am I to construe that every smile or friendly gesture on my part is an open invitation to whoever is talking to me at the time? Do I need to quash parts of my personality and not be friendly to people because they might take it as a come on? May it never be!

Well, we and Shasi went our seperate ways there on that sidewalk last night.

Amidst the tasty vegetarian food and getting caught up after my trip, Corey and I were late to the movie, so we bought tickets to the 10:20 show and invited his Polish friend Tomas to meet us. Culver City is one of the few places in town that has a large plaza area sans cars where there's a lot of foot traffic. Because of this, and on particularly busy movie nights, residents come out in droves. While we waited, we sat in the long, lingering suset and played around in a nearby water sculpture, getting splashed by a little girl in a tutu. Corey chatted up a young couple who were walking a trio of very friendly dogs, and by that I mean they were humping each other. Embarrassed by their small pups' exploits, they left after only a brief time. The balmy air and the laughter of all the people on the street gave a feeling of aliveness. It's those moments that the soul feels as light as the western sky.

Later Tomas called to say that the bus he was waiting for wasn't coming, so Corey and I drove up to meet him, the windows down and the Beastie Boys blasting from the speakers. Corey is the master of the illegal u-turn, but last night the law finally caught up with him, and Johnny Law pulled him over after a particularly blatant false move. Johnny Law also turned out to be very gracious, as he let Mr. Jones off with a warning. Tomas, who saw the whole episode from the curb climbed into the car, a mild lashing on his tongue. I had met Tomas once before at a cafe that he and Corey both frequent. He's an interesting chap, a painter and writer who moved here after a rough time in Chicago.

Nacho Libre was cute. From the same minds who brought you Napoleon Dynamite. It had a similar feel as Dynamite, but Jared Hess was finally given like, a real budget. It's not the kind of movie that you should expect too much insight from, just an occassional dose of feel-good. Kind of like Los Angeles.

Ha! How's that for tying it all together!

Short-Term Nostalgia

Three weeks ago, I was here.

Watching the Spectrum

I'm not sure you could watch two such diametrically opposed films in the span of about 24 hours than "A History of Violence," and "A Prairie Home Companion." In fact, I nearly defy you to come up with a pair more disparate (good naturedly, of course).

Elizabeth and I saw both of these this weekend. "A History of Violence" had come on our Netflix cue and was waiting as a perfect "welcome back to America" present. A cynical viewpoint perhaps, but then I had spent the afternoon navigating the boom and doom of stores like BestBuy and Target -- thing that are, in my opinion, the worst that America has to offer the world.

The film had come out during those months I was in Oregon last year, and I'd missed it in theaters -- not sure Mom would have enjoyed that one. I'd been curious to see it, not least of all because I nearly bumped into Viggo Mortensen once at a RiteAid in Venice, and it's since been recommended to me as well, not least of all because of David Cronenberg's eccentricities as a filmmaker -- though the best ones always are. Still it was one of those films that I wasn't sure I wanted to watch alone. I'm not sure how the experience was enhanced by watching the film with Eliz, except for the occasional exclamation of "did they really have to show that?" In fact, her commentary reached comic proportions when Michelle and Grandizer started imitating her with loud groans and shouts from the other room.

Wait, not to make you think that the film is all unnecessary blood and gore. In fact, the violence in it is quite necessary to the plot, highlighted to throw doubt into the viewers' minds about the true identity of the main character, played by Mortensen. But before I go all Ebert on you, let me tell you about my favorite thing Cronenberg did, which was to focus so intently on the eyes of his characters. Some were downright creepy, as there's a grifter who one could best, and perhaps only describe as "crazy eyes," and Ed Harris' character walks around with an eye clouded over after an attempted gouging with barbed wire. You can't help but look at these men's eyes. But more often, Cronenberg conveys a subtle shift in knowledge or personality with a glance or a glint that often leaves one to wonder, "what is going on?" The effect as a whole is unsettling, almost deliciously so. And just when things are about to get overwrought between Mortensen and his counterpart Maria Bello, William Hurt comes in at the nick of time to provide some much needed scenery chewing. The term brilliant is thrown around like a limp rag in movie reviews, but it applies aptly to his brand of scene stealing.

The film provides no easy answers, as it ends on a hopeful yet loose-ended note. You're not sure what the future will hold for this family, but it's pretty certain that they'll face it together, despite the lies and half-truths that have shaken the core of their knowledge of one another. In that way, the film becomes an unexpected commentary on forgiveness and redemption.

If "A History of Violence" portrays a dark night of the cinematic soul, "A prairie Home Companion" comes in to welcome the dawn. Based on the long-running radio show of the same name, created by the silken-voiced Garrison Keillor, who plays himself in the film. Who am I kidding. This is a Altman film, a filmmaker I cannot say I'm fond of in any way. "What about 'M.A.S.H.,'" you may ask. "Or 'Gosford Park?'" Didn't like them. There's something about the wordiness of an Altman film that I've never been able to stomach, especially in such overblown fare as "Short Cuts."

But I digress. When Eliz offered to take me to an Academy screening last night, memories flooded my mind of laying on my parents bed as a child, listening to the slightly daft and very dry humor of Keillor and company, the quintessential Midwestern American attitudes and bluegrass music...well, I got nostalgic and said yes.

What we ended up seeing was a film that was a sweet, slightly sad imagining of the program's final broadcast. When I say "sweet," I don't mean sappy, either. It still carried the trademarks of old man Altman. Long scenes crept lackadaisically, filled with dialogue that makes one feel at first as if you're watching nothing, yet suddenly one realizes that a rare glimpse into an unguarded soul is being offered. The events surrounding the central plot are near irrelevant, they often felt like devices to get from one place to another, but the real highlight of this film was the musical numbers.

Now, it wasn't a musical in the strictest terms, but each of the actors -- including the likes of Meryl Streep, Lily Tomlin, and improbably, Woody Harrelson -- all perform their own singing, their own guitar picking, and all the musical numbers were performed live on stage instead of rerecorded in a recording studio. What comes across on camera is the sheer joy that they felt on being able to really perform. I've always thought that every actor really wants to be a singer, and maybe vice versa. So, for these actors to be able to stretch their vocal talents for several weeks or months of shooting probably didn't seem like a job, and it shows.

In fact, it reflected Altman himself in a way. A filmmaker who is reaching what is probably the tail end of his career. He's aging, and it shows. You can feel it in the movie's bones, and I mean that in a good way. It's slow paced and gentle, strong and sturdy and never showy, yet always, always with a twinkle in its eye. Much like the radio show itself or Keillor's own writings -- which if you're able to get your hands on, do so, you'll be glad you did.

Two films, very different, yet highly recommended.

All I'm sayin' is...

Despite the inprobability and general uncouthness of such things, I'm still a little jealous that women are not physically capable of doing this.

An hour a day

Hello blog, it's (kind of) good to be back. In case you missed it, as if you could have, I've been away for awhile, to paraphrase RuPaul, "going back, back, back to my roots." It was a good trip, altogether, but more than that it was a trip that changed me. Doesn't that sound nice and cliched, sure, but there's truth in it, the uncliched kind. The kind of change that doesn't necessarily show itself right away but that causes your sails to catch a different breeze, to head a different direction. It was an opportunity to see life outside the small container I keep it in. To see two countries that are just coming out of an oppressive regime, where distinct parts of their heritage and personalities were forcibly stuffed under the proverbial couch for sixty -plus years. Walking through the Museum of Communism in Prague, I was struck to think that someone like myself, a writer, would probably have been very unpopular during those times. It makes being able to be a writer now all the more important, since the exchange of the "free idea" isn't a reality everywhere in the world.

Being home for a little over fifteen hours has brought on a whole wave of discontent. Everything here has that lackadaisical drowsiness of being (cue dramatic organ music) the same.

Yet, things are not really the same for some here. The brother of a friend died after falling from a third story window. The same brother who recently graduated from college, whose whole life was ahead of him. Clee has been given the opportunity to produce two independent films, in addition to keeping her job -- a decision that has been weighing heavily on her heart and mind for some time.

So for the time being, and probably until I get some decent sleep, I remain in the hazy fog of jetlag. My boss told me today that the body only really changes one hour a day. So by that estimation, I'll be landing sometime next week.