Linda Lovelace For President

Part 10 of 30

Self-Abuse September

I hope the Linda Lovelace advertisement doesn’t stir up anything. I mean of a negative vibe, that kind of thing. As for stirring anything else, in a series on gratifying self-abuse, I suppose it could, although the taller you are the more farfetched it’d be. I’ll go first and say it doesn’t stir anything in me except my memories of seeing the film in a theater during its short run. And at this distance in time I needed Wikipedia to remind me what it was even about. My biggest memories of it were 1) Micky Dolenz was the bus driver; and, 2) There was a bus.

In my moments of research I made note as well that Ms. Lovelace has since passed away. I probably heard about when she died -- it’s vaguely familiar -- but my retention of who’s alive and who’s dead, unless it involves traumatic assassinations or loved ones in their last throes (Grandma or my various dogs), is faulty. Be that as it may, I didn’t mean to bring everyone down. This month, more than any month in history, September being Self-Abuse Month, I want everyone to be flying sky-high! Like in the Tom Jones album, “The Lead and How to Swing It.”

If you’d like to get off here, I would understand. Anywhere a guy can get off -- say something hits your funny bone just right -- that’s something to treasure. Here’s an assignment. Take the titles of the songs from that Tom Jones album and think of something lascivious about each one. Ready? 1) If I Only Knew; 2) A Girl Like You; 3) I Wanna Get Back With You; 4) Situation; 5) Something for Your Head; 6) Fly Away; 7) Love Is On Our Side; 8) I Don’t Think So; 9) Lift Me Up; 10) Show Me; and, 11) Changes. I think “Changes” makes a good last title, if you’re thinking of changing the sheets. And “Lift Me Up” more naturally fits either before or after “Something for Your Head.”

The lasciviousness of it writes itself. "If I Only Knew" I was going to blow out the bedroom wall I would have gone to the bathroom. "A Girl Like You" needs to find how how Grandpa used to start his car, with a crank. "I Wanna Get Back With You," that is, as soon as I doublecheck if I have a better offer. "Situation..." A situation's what we're gonna have if your dad walks in. But I'm packing heat. And it's not a gun.  "Something for Your Head," but I'll aim lower. "Fly Away" but don't mess up your landing strip. "Love Is On Our Side," rightside up, upside down... "I Don't Think So," but a couple more minutes and I'll be done. "Lift Me Up," hope it's not too heavy, I've never had complaints before. "Show Me," but don't show me up. And, "Changes," because occasionally the sheet's ... as aforementioned. 

Then examine the hand: Quality, Variety, Service, Comfort, Saving. Just to be brief, on quality at this point, personally, anything will do. As for variety, let's touch on the basics first. Service, it's that time of day. Comfort, I'll make myself at home. And Saving, pretend the world's ending tonight, let's go for the moonshot!

Going back to Linda Lovelace, the point of mentioning her is only because she was one of the more famous porn stars. Porn is one of those weird things that you don’t really need or want a long drawn out story, or even that much length to the film. Unless you plan to watch it in installments. But then the bus scenes and Micky Dolenz would be an unwelcome distraction. Certainly it’s good to have a scenario, but beyond that ... who cares? "Get down, humpa humpa, slurp slurp, eeee-yaaa, shit shit, The End."

Golden Slumbers

No. 13 of 31 - Thermometer series

The all-out effort of the thermometer drive is a massive thing, taking up most of my energy. The little I’ve got left -- dragging myself along maybe an inch or two, then resting -- I’m watching TV, vainly struggling to keep up with my movies. I recently got a super streaming service that lets me record unlimited stuff. So I’m busy recording movies all day and all night, and so many in vain. Except for the four or five a week I squeeze in.

The rest of my energy, except for taking the dog out, is focused on this all-out effort — absolutely no time for anything else! — of making this blog the most read and adored blog anywhere. And, yes, that has to include the famous Pashtun and Iraqi herdsmen, known everywhere as the best and most successful bloggers on earth. Right up there. My quest may be impossible, but, baby, I'm in the game! Driving, striving with all my might to attain those heights. And showing my progress in thermometers erupting -- bushels of thermometers! -- the mercury flowing quickly toward the top and spraying everywhere. (No visitors, please, it's taken several eyes out.)

Movies I don't have to have. One thing I have to have is sleep. Oh, I love sleeping. Which isn't hurting the thermometer drive at all; it's an essential part. Because when I get sleepy, folks, I’m not good for anything. I’m drooping, drowsing, losing focus, nodding off, then bolting upright, passing out, and virtually dead. If I’m home, I totally crash on the bed. If I’m at one of our temporary blog headquarters — and there’s people everywhere lifting my spirits — I do what I can. I crawl under a desk, I’m in a broom closet, I’ve got my head on someone’s lap. That’s a good one, because if he or she is hungry I can hear their stomach growling, and nothing puts me to sleep faster. Which must be a thing we pick up in utero, the sweet indigestion of our dear mothers.

My dreams are all sweet, too, mixed in with snatches of the movies and the confused happenings of the drive. Like having a gangster movie on, with them shooting it out for turf, I'm dreaming of thermometers blowing their tops like guns. When awake I'm more patient. But asleep, I expect instant satisfaction: Blow it off now now now! With all those eruptions representing so many people around the world liking the blog, reading it, sharing it with their fellow tribesmen, teaching it to their kids, and essentially going crazy with hog-wild delight.

The Pashtun, the Intuit peoples groups, African tribesmen, it doesn’t matter who you are or what kind of blog you run, you want to see a guy like me succeed. That’s how they got to be such respected tribesmen, attention to detail and a subtle mixture of love and hatred for their enemies. They might knife you in a second, as soon as look at you, but they're just as fast to hit the like button or subscribe. Actually very sweet guys, I consider them buds on the overall world scene.

Why Exactly Did We Forgive Japan?

I'm normally quick to forgive people their faults and sins. I know I've done a few evil things, like one Thanksgiving I ate way too much pie. I did it, I wasn't proud of it, but after a time of penance I forgave myself. I believe others deserve the same consideration.

But what about actually being at war with someone, even a World War? Is that not at least arguably worse than overeating on a holiday designed for food? I think it is. In the case of World War II, and America's war with Japan, you've got outright treachery at play, then all the sorrow and suffering that went with it. It's still something that brings a lot of grief. I saw an old guy at the memorial reliving it just this year. He didn't look reconciled.

I hadn't seen Tora! Tora! Tora! since the early '70s, but saw it again the other day, the disaster now streaming on TV on demand. Japan's Original Sin against us can never go away. We're forever waking up on December 7 -- if we're in Hawaii's time zone -- to the coming of planes in a sneak attack for the ages. It's gut-wrenching. There's also the movie The Final Countdown. Kirk Douglas goes back in time, thanks to a weird storm at sea, and is about to take down the Japanese before they can attack. Unfortunately, the storm reappears and he's back in 1980, having not changed a thing. That tells me the Japanese were damned lucky.

A bigger take on it is to conclude: The only way to prevent Pearl Harbor is ... there's not a way to prevent it now that it's happened. All we can do now is what we originally did, go to war against them, destroy them, then hold a grudge forever. (We're not forgiving Al Qaeda anytime soon!) What we actually did is only half good. We went to war and destroyed them, but then we promptly forgave them. All I know is I was born within 10 years of VJ Day and my first toys were made in Japan. That's not right.

Is my argument, then, against my parents? I hadn't thought of it, but maybe so. They either bought those toys or allowed someone else to. I didn't buy them myself. These are the same parents, by the way -- speaking of my mom -- who taught me, "Once burned, twice wary." Wonder why she was such a huge hypocrite, applying that teaching to me swiping cookies from the jar but allowing the Japanese complete leeway. She and Dad are both gone now, so I'll have to work out this mystery myself.

Probably they were simply going along with the rest of society. It's hard to buck the trend. They thought, "Japan's destroyed, they're tamed, they're under control." We occupied them for a while -- my mom collected "Occupied Japan" nicknacks -- then turned them loose, to be as duplicitous as they wanted, if that's what they chose. In the '60s, Japan sent us crap. In the '70s, it improved. In the '80s, we couldn't keep up with them. Our stuff was crap, their stuff gold. "Who won this goddamned war anyway?" my grandpa might've asked, had he not died in the '70s. He talked like that.

From where I sit -- not able to see past my personal horizons -- it's only a matter of time... As far as I know, Japan's already amassed enough weaponry, force, and the will to use it to pay us back big time. I hate the thought, but in a way the comeuppance would suit us, having forgiven them and ignorantly trusted them. I never liked Reagan, but I like what he said, "Trust but verify." As it turns out, the Land of the Midnight Sun somehow has light for their path and it's us who dwell in darkness. It's all something for future generations -- if there should be any -- to contemplate.

Ma & Pa Kettle vs. Transformers

It's my guess that most fans of the Transformers have never heard of Ma & Pa Kettle. Whereas it's just the opposite with fans of the Kettles; they've heard of the Transformers. Meaning, the fans of Ma & Pa Kettle appear to be smarter.

"But," Transformer fans say, "who needs to know about--- Who'd you say?" I politely, patiently repeat the name, "Ma & Pa Kettle," sounding it out as slowly as possible. The first two words rhyme; see if you can get that much first, Ma & Pa. Then think of the old phrase, "A fine kettle of fish," and that'll help you get the rest, Kettle. If we could now move on...

I might be among the last generation to love the Kettles, having grown up watching them on TV. And I attribute many of values I learned to the Kettles. Catch the difference? My values go back to the Kettles, not the Transformers.

But not everyone was as fortunate, as one generation gave way to another, raised instead on the Transformers. As I understand the Transformers, they're involved in all kinds of sci fi, live action fighting, weaponry, and destruction. Their world is filled with enemies to destroy. How things have changed!

In some of the Kettles' films there were folks of the community who didn't approve, or felt they couldn't countenance the Kettles' homespun ways. But no one destroyed them. Instead, the Kettles proved themselves truly wise even though they seemed to be know-nothing hillbillies. Ma was the wisest with lots of smarts, while Pa in his innocence, and more limits, showed a more naive wisdom. You really couldn't go wrong with the Kettles.

As for the Transformers, I only wish they'd held off on that brand of entertainment, to give that generation a surer foothold on the threshold of maturity. But the switch, if it had to come, had to come some time. Still, how unfortunate it was, coinciding with a serious psychological crisis among youth, who suddenly were given to spray painting things and gratuitous destruction. Today's rampant tattoo craze can be traced back to the rise of the Transformers; you're no longer happy with who you are.

The Kettles weren't perfect, though. Pa smoked quite a bit, as was common then. But he and Ma stayed home a lot and found happiness there; they had 15 kids. That's sweet. The Transformers, though, being machines, didn't know the same love of two human beings for each other. And that's communicated in the overall tone of their show. The Kettles had to know each other's feelings, and mature in their outlook, and watch for opportunities along the way to enhance their relationship. Then it was necessary to nurture their kids, and send them forth with the same values.

But the Transformers, what'd they even get out of bed for? You're a machine! If you get up, it's at someone else's instigation. And if you're able to get up "by yourself," you've been programmed to do so. You have no soul, you have no good in mind, no relationships to speak of, except what else you can destroy and lay waste to. It's ridiculous. No wonder society's been coming part at the seams since we went from the Kettles to the Transformers!

The way I recall, at first, the Transformers were supposed to be semi trucks or large motorcycles. Then they opened, or unfolded out to reveal giant robots. Which then took part in destructive behavior and mayhem. At that point I pulled back, never allowing myself to become immersed in it. I do know that over the years they did this, that, and the other thing, with multiple presentations of the overall concept described above. Big whoop!

The Kettles, though, as a family, in all kinds of social settings and through many dilemmas, present a human story, with good lessons to teach that kids could proudly emulate. I remember when they won the dream home of the future. It had lots of gadgets ("transforming" life as they knew it), but, unlike the Transformers proper, their transformation did not change them from the quality folks they had always been.

The Kettles are now part of a bygone era in entertainment. And how much worse the world is for it! The Transformers, on the other hand, have arisen, and dominated entertainment in the last few decades, contributing exactly nothing, to be exact, squat. A lot of malice and the spoiling of our youth.

Note: A couple of you wondered how I know so much about the Transformers if I'm so against them. I'm a social critic. It's my job to know things.

Classic Monsters Face Environmental Crises

I've been diligently reading some very good esoterica stuff, alt literature, alt thought, alt reality, and alt non-reality. It's really done something to my thinking. Like with conspiracies. At the worst times of the day, everyone's out to get me. Then I recover and realize no one's out to get me. I get so lonely I can barely stand it. Here I am! Someone somewhere, anyone out there?

One of the things I've focused on is the reality of the classic monsters. These are the guys I grew up watching, and idolizing. Dracula, blah blah, always wants to drink your blood. And Frankenstein, the big guy, a man of few words, made of the parts of dead folk from the area. Who exactly started out with his head, I always wondered. One other classic dude is the Wolf Man, whose plea to the director had to be, "Don't forget my face," hence the closeups of him in swift transformation. I should mention the Mummy, although I hate the Mummy. My proclamation, first made at the tender age of 15, remains accurate today: "No one's yet made a decent Mummy movie!"

I'm not afraid of what anyone says about me when it comes to monsters. I not only believe they're real, I know they're real (except for the Mummy). They have to be real, they're so monumental, you might say Universal. I'll make another proclamation: "If they're not real, show me the proof. I'll never believe it!" So you can see, I fit right in ... in the esoterica subculture.

What I'm writing about today has been a growing concern of mine ever since I heard of the world's various environmental crises. My first question is, How will all this affect the classic monsters? There's terrible things happening. The melting of glaciers, the collapse of ice shelves, enormous volcanoes, La Nina (El Nino), near-miss asteroids, tectonic shifting and earthquakes, tsunamis, rising tides, Antarctica calving in half, a thinning ozone, sunspots, higher bacon prices, solar flares, and the alternating of night and day in unpredictable ways. I'm very concerned, in a panic. If I had one wish, it'd be that the Industrial Revolution had never happened! If not for my own safety, then the monsters'. I have a feeling they're screwed.

Part of my concern finds its roots in daily meditation. When I started meditating, the intention was to enhance my life, make me a little more clearheaded. Well, to say it worked is a huge understatement, because I'm so clearheaded now it's ridiculous! It's come to my clearheaded attention that the monsters aren't handling it well. They're like us, only more so; they need a predictable constancy in life. One big constant, as far as they're concerned, has to be the regularity of day and night. Instead of what we've witnessed in recent years, the sun and moon unable to maintain themselves in their circuits. With the coming and going of day and night being unpredictable.

It's too much. Dracula, to cite one obvious problem, can't even come out but at night. A few more slip-ups and he's a goner. He shows up, let's say, he's about to bite someone, drink their blood, trying to keep body and soul together (nothing wrong there), when the plates of the earth shift, the sun pops back to life and drives away the dark. It scares the devil out of him. He can't cope. He has to take cover. In the transition he loses massive mojo. No one benefits. As for Frankenstein, with his monstrous shape and need to be hidden, he prefers night. And the Wolf Man, it's hard to know you've got 5 o'clock shadow when you go directly from noon to midnight. The Mummy? Who cares...

All the old fashioned things of nature, if scientists can somehow get them back, we will be so grateful. I myself need regular biorhythms, dependable sleep cycles, breakfast at the same time every morning, and all the rest. I'd guess you do too. If that's so, doesn't it stand to reason that it's ten times worse for monsters?

Welcome to Ida Lupino Theatre

What did I know about Ida Lupino? Nothing. Except she's the answer in crossword puzzles to the clue "Miss Lupino." When you have a name like Ida, you can achieve crossword immortality.

But then, in wanting to watch old movies, and suddenly, through the miracle of watching YouTube on your TV, I've discovered a movie sensation, whom I would immediately sign to a long-term contract were that possible, by the name of Miss Ida Lupino.

I guess I've only seen three movies so far, but all of them were ones where Ida was heavily involved in making them. In fact, she was the director. And starred in one of them. They are, in the order of me seeing them, The Hitch-Hiker, The Bigamist, and Not Wanted. And guess what, they're fantastic.

The Hitch-Hiker is about two guys who happen to pick up a particularly noxious hitchhiker. He's already killed others along the way, and now it's their turn. He manages to keep them under his terrible control for virtually the whole movie. It's very atmospheric. They're out in the wilderness, the mountains, the blowing dust, desert rocks, and little out of the way roads. I know this much, even if you're not a violent person, before the movie's over you'll want to strangle that bastard with your bare hands and send his soul somewhere worse than hell. It just so happens, the guy is the same guy who played the hapless prosecutor on Perry Mason.

The Bigamist follows the sad life of a salesman. He and his wife want to adopt a baby. But adopting a baby isn't like having your own; it requires a background check. The old man doing the background check on our salesman friend uncovers a whole double life, which is then presented to us in a long flashback. It's interesting as can be. I thought it was gripping, the whole sad story that you know it's going to be ... thanks to the title. Ida Lupino played the part of the wife in Los Angeles. His other wife was in San Francisco.

Not Wanted is about a young woman who becomes an unwed mother. It happens all the time now and it's usually OK. But in 1949, not so much. It's a very cool movie. We have a wild-eyed, yet in some sense reserved, night club piano player. I really liked his controlled histrionics at the keyboard. He and the young woman start up a thing. Too bad it wasn't coitus interruptus, or better yet abstinence, since his career, dismal to this point, means he has to go to South America. We never see him again, although he leaves something behind. Then there's the true man, a one-legged guy who definitely, heroically stumbles the extra mile to show he does actually love her. In between, there's the hospital for unwed mothers and some of the agonizing issues of adoption. Nice movie.

I was thinking, enjoying Ida Lupino as I've been, that it'd be cool to have my own TV show. Sort of like the guys on Turner Classic Movies. I could be sitting there in my easy chair. Then I realize I'm on. I perk up, go to the bookcase for a huge volume, titled after the Ida Lupino movie that I'm presenting. Of course I open the book and give a few bits of history about the film, who wrote it, etc. Then I pull out a pipe and go through all the gyrations it takes to get one lit, then I'm smoking it, and talking about Miss Lupino and some of the issues she addressed.

Ida was in a bunch of movies, way before she started directing, so this could be a show that went on for maybe close to a year. In the course of the year, I could have all sorts of cool things that I'm messing with. Like my slippers in the winter, poking at the fire, cleaning my bookcase, having my chair reupholstered, interviewing one-legged men, talking to hitchhikers, playing the piano, and sexing up young women (not on the air, of course) ... we'd just show the afterglow. Also, I'd be getting ready my passport for South America.

My recommendation to you is this: Don't wait for my show. The bastards on TV don't want me, I'm not commercial enough or something. I haven't scratched the right person's back, I don't know. I haven't slept with any producers, which is probably the actual truth. No, instead of waiting for my show, check out the list of Ida Lupino films on her Wikipedia page, then hightail it over to YouTube and check out some of these films. They're great.

NBA Justice - Live In Peace or Face Obliteration

I like NBA justice, very swift and certain. The replays don't lie. A muscle-headed jock says something, he can't unsay it. It's a quick suspension or thousands of dollars in fines, just like that!

I really haven't followed basketball at all till just recently. And even now I'm not diehard to the point that I know very many people, their careers, their records, etc. But now that I've dipped at least my toe into the clear waters of major league competition, over the last year or so, I'm starting to hear the news. Had you heard Michael Jordan retired? Me either!

Now, if a guy like Roy Hibbert, who I hadn't even heard of before a couple weeks ago, says something stupid and immediately gets a $75,000 fine, actually before I even heard of the fact that he made the remark(!), that's registering with me. Or if Chris "The Birdman" Andersen pushes a guy to the floor and proceeds as if nothing happened, then gets a suspension, I'm noticing. I've been listening to some of the commentary on the games, although I've usually got the sound down and my iPod on, and the guys are weighing whether the fines and suspensions are adequate to the various offenses. Only to a certain extent are they questioning whether the NBA should be able to go back and look at replays, then come up with charges beyond what the refs called. Essentially, they're OK with the system.

And I'm OK with it, too. That's the way it was when we were kids. If we had a pact and someone ratted out on us, it wasn't even a formalized process, you'd be immediately suspended from club activities. I'm happy to say, I was a pretty faithful club member. My clubs were The Bee Club and The Spy Club. I'm a little ashamed of the bee club, but I guess it had scientific value. We'd get a few bees in a jar, keep them till they were very worn out, then let them crawl on us. The fact that they never stung us was amazing to people. As for the Spy Club, we investigated things and thought we had an enemy club, although there were never any actual confrontations. We did a lot of sneaking around. In both clubs, as I've mentioned before, I was the baton twirler.

Clubs and teams -- sports leagues -- have it better than the normal justice system. Like the justice system in Kafka's "The Trial" has it better than the normal justice system. They're able to make their own rules, and no matter how inscrutable they are, you either abide by them or pay the price. With sports leagues, maybe they're somewhat scrutable; I'm only speaking in ignorance of their rules; it's hard to believe they're entirely arbitrary. If Roy Hibbert says something that is currently socially-unacceptable, though, it's different than if he would've said it several years ago. So there's a varying standard, no doubt. Whereas flagrantly pushing a guy to the floor would've always been frowned on.

It must be a big responsibility for those in charge. Because how do you decide precisely what the penalty's going to be? $75,000 is probably nothing to someone with tens of millions of dollars. But it's immediate cash flow, rather than something tied up, and maybe he needed it for daily expenses, dinners out. Suspending someone from a game where he might make a difference in the series, that's a pretty big penalty. But it had to be something like that. It'd be sad if basketball went full hockey.

I like the old movie "The Day the Earth Stood Still." We used to see it all the time as kids and it terrified me. Klaatu came to Earth and made it stand still to give us a message from the other planets. It seems they all formed a big league, the major league of planets, the National Planet Association, and put their own created robots in charge of the law. And now we have to adhere to the same law ... or else! Klaatu says, "It is no concern of ours how you run your own planet, but if you threaten to extend your violence, this Earth of yours will be reduced to a burned-out cinder. Your choice is simple: Join us and live in peace, or pursue your present course and face obliteration. We shall be waiting for your answer. The decision rests with you." So far we've done OK, having not found life. But I'm sure if we ever do find life out there, we'll ruin it.

Obliteration! Couldn't they just suspend the Earth's rotation around the Sun a few years? That way we'd behave ourselves and never grow old. 

My Great Memories Of Buckets

To me, the bucket is more than a bucket. It's like a picture of the fullness of humanity, or existence period, androgynous, at once receptive and able to pour forth. How complete, and how interesting to point out.

Other than that, I like the bucket's functionality. And all the great memories I have of buckets.

The first example is the classic pail. How often I remember, and this is back in the old days, when we would go to the hand pump to get a bucket of water. We then had a ladle, itself a miniature bucket, that we would drink from, and communally at that!

I suppose I may owe some of my immunity to disease now to my ignorantly taking in other people's germs all those years ago. Today, of course, I'd never drink from a pail that's been within 50 feet of someone else. Which means I might drop dead at any moment.

I also remember pans and things that do pretty much the same thing a bucket does. You pour water from one to the other and obviously the water doesn't know any difference. For water, anything that impedes its flow, from a drinking glass to the Hoover Dam is just a bucket or, more accurately, a bucket-like thing.

Grandma used to boil water in a pan like this. And next thing you knew, she'd be putting food in it, like macaroni or spaghetti. You can probably guess what came next: She'd cook it and we'd end up eating whatever it was.

This kind of little pan, again with some of the same qualities of a bucket proper was always good for making something like Jello. The way I remember it, it was silver in color, and there were also some that were white. I like the silver best, because it seems to me like silver gets cold faster than white. But I'm open, seriously, to being corrected on that belief, if anyone thinks they know better.

Then there's the flat pan without handles. This is a good one if handles aren't your thing. And if you're not using it for hot water. If you're putting cold water in it, it's no problem at all. It makes for a nice pan, indeed, the presentation being very spiffy and refreshing as well to the eye. But why you wouldn't want handles, who knows. It'd make a good water dish for the dog.

OK, now we're back on terra firma, because I do prefer handles on a bucket or a pan, anything of the bucket family. It gives you that extra portability. And if you're open to using hot water in addition to cold, you don't have to plan in advance. You simply may as well have handles. My memory of a pan like this is it was good for filling with water to soak your feet in. If your feet felt like soaking. A little bit of Epsom salts in there and it does the trick.

This one is a little more complicated. It's like a double bubble thing. You've got a bucket within a bucket, maybe a Chinese invention, going along with their box in a box theme. You're boiling water down below, then putting the top pan in the bottom, so it's very cool. You do eggs in it. Just looking at it, it's like a duplex apartment; everyone knows someone else is there, but you get used to it. Frankly, I'd much rather live in a horizontal duplex than a vertical one. But a double pan simply doesn't work if you orient it horizontally. Heat has one direction, straight up.


For tea kettles, which the double bubble pot also could be, I prefer the single. It's easy to use and easy to understand. You're not getting tangled up in all the handles, jutting out like a bull's horns. You've got one pot, one handle; it's all very clean and efficient, like a single bed as opposed to bunks. You put the water in it, boil it, and pour it on your teabag. Or you could use an infuser and make your tea in a more zen-like way, which I like to do sometimes. I find that doing things in slow motion and very intentionally sometimes brings me back to basic sanity. Sometimes.

This looks like a camping pail. It's small enough to fit on a camp stove. It seems like Charlie Chaplin had one like this in The Gold Rush, so we're talking a very old design here. You've got a guy in the silent movies, in a ramshackle cabin, boiling his shoe (to eat) in one of the bigger pans, probably the second from the top, then making his coffee in a little pail like this. I know people aren't near as finicky about how their coffee is cooked when they're camping or in a ramshackle cabin. Because out there if you get grounds in it, you just spit them out.

I hope you enjoyed my bucket list and my personal memories.

Death Is Always The Answer

I know it sounds terrible to say it, but my answer to most fictional dilemmas is death.

I need to qualify this statement in a couple ways. One, to emphasize fictional. My answer to most non-fictional dilemmas is not death, but working through things in a reasonable way. Two, I'm specifically dealing with fictional dilemmas that are already touching on a theme of deadly force, such as a shoot-out or a mortal threat to the good guy.

In real life, death is a nasty business, thinking of murder in particular, or even killing in self defense, although this is obviously more justifiable. If you've done wrong, you've got an army of investigators who are likely to catch you. Then you end up in prison for four consecutive life sentences, and that's surely never easy to deal with. Plus, there was probably an alternative way to deal with your problems, such as putting distance between yourself and the enemy of the moment. You might report them or get a restraining order, or move away. Every little thing doesn't demand death.

But in movies or TV shows and books, I really can't think of a tidier way of getting things squared away. Good versus evil, good kills evil.

This conviction came to me years ago when Batman was on TV. You might remember, they had two episodes every week. The first night, Batman was always in mortal danger in a cliffhanger. The next night, he escaped through some tricky maneuvers, usually involving something he had packed in his utility belt. When the villains had him tied up, or dangling over boiling poison, whatever it was, they invariably left the scene, assuming Batman would be killed. I was saying then, and I'll say it now, if you want to kill Batman, you need to stay and make sure you do.

Then, reversing the roles, with Batman capturing the bad guys, I always said the same thing. If the Joker tried to kill you, you kill him. Meaning he doesn't come back three weeks from now, because he is absolutely and completely, certifiably and reliably, dead. The Penguin ... if I'm Batman, Penguin gets one crack at it, then he's offed. Not a warning, not winged, but completely snuffed out. We'd spend the entire second episode toying with him, maybe, and he'd be thinking Batman is going to leave so he can escape, but it just wouldn't happen. Penguin would literally die.

There's a problem I've seen in some movies, even if no titles come to me now, where the bad guy is shot. But the shooter leaves the scene and the enemy eventually wakes up and is able to crawl away. No, no, no. You empty the clip, you run to Walmart and buy more ammo if you need it, and you finish him off. It might not make for a very suspenseful movie, but that's not my problem. Evil must die!

How about this scene that we've seen repeated a million times? You're the good guy, and you've got your gun on the bad guy, and the bad guy's talking, getting near you, then knocks the gun out of your hand? That should never happen. If you're the good guy and you've got the bad guy where you want him, bang bang bang bang, he's dead. No farting around about it. I roll my eyes when I see one of these situations, thinking, How dumb can you be? Just kill the guy!

I just watched a movie starring Edward G. Robinson, "The Woman in the Window." I'm going to leave out the ending because it kind of negates what came before. But let's take everything that came before as absolute fact. In self defense, he kills the guy who comes barging in the door attacking him. Then he goes to call the police, but thinks better of it. He's in another woman's apartment, his wife is out of town, etc., so it could be embarrassing. I would've never done that. Once I've killed the guy in self defense, we immediately call the police and deal with the wife as well as I can.

It goes on from there. He's disposed of the body and thinks no one else knows. But there is a blackmailer who has it all figured out. Edward G. Robinson says there's three ways to deal with the blackmailer: 1) Pay him and know he'll always be back. 2) Report the whole thing to the police, negating the guy. Or, 3) Kill him. In the movie you think, he's already in serious trouble, down for one apparent murder, he may as well kill him. And it almost happens, with meds mixed in a drink, a good plan if the guy had been thirsty. Otherwise, the first guy died easily enough with a few scissors stabs, and you've still got the scissors... I personally would've gone for No. 2, confessing the whole thing (but that's what I would've done originally.)

Just killing to be killing is of course nothing I like in movies. People who do that I call the bad guy. I'm always for the good guy, or the lesser of two evils. I like to see good prevail. I like that in real life, too. The answer in real life is to work through your problems. Killing someone is usually going to make your life worse. For that and other reasons, I say, Don't do it! Death is not always the answer.

Hey, Aren't You Bela Lugosi?

I'm watching a movie starring Bela Lugosi, called "Bowery at Midnight." I'm roughly a third of the way, midway somewhere.

Like it says on the graphic, he's in a dual role. He plays Professor Frederick Brenner, a professor of psychology. There's a good scene where a student stands and gives a few answers on paranoia that, unbeknownst to him, stands as a description of his professor's other life. By night he portrays a kindly soup kitchen boss, generous to a fault. But it's a front for a criminal operation in which he uses some poor slob's criminal talents to help him along, then kills him.

When it comes to Bela Lugosi, I'm a big fan. So I'm always rooting for him to win -- whether it's taking over the world or whatever -- all the while knowing the conventions of film-making dictate that he has to lose and good prevail. Very disappointing.

But my beef tonight isn't that evil never gets a fair shake, but that the actual Bela Lugosi makes an appearance in this film, by way of movie poster. The cops are walking by a theater, which just happens to be showing Bela Lugosi's "The Corpse Vanishes"! Meaning Bela exists as the actual Bela, then this other guy, who just happens to look and sound precisely like Bela Lugosi.

In my opinion, such things should not be. Bela shouldn't be existing in a world where his characters are running around. What would happen were they to meet? Would they fuse and become a super villain, who couldn't be stopped despite film conventions? In that case, it'd be all right. But I imagine a bad scenario, like the actual Bela vanishing and therefore all his despicable characters too.

Look at the problem this would be for Brenner/Wagner. Not only does he always have to be on the lookout for the cops, but Lugosi fans as well. Because in fact he's going to get it everyday, "Aren't you Bela Lugosi? You look exactly like him. Your accent is precisely the same!" In short, the poster should not have been in the movie!

One other case of this happening that I can think of is in Elvis Presley's "G.I. Blues," where Tulsa McLean (Elvis' character) plays a song on the jukebox ("Blue Suede Shoes") by "Elvis Presley." How can this be? What does that make Tulsa, an Elvis impersonator? The actual Elvis impersonating a guy impersonating Elvis? If Elvis actually exists in Tulsa's world, isn't it strange that people aren't coming around saying "Aren't you Elvis Presley? You look like him right down to the DNA!" But that doesn't happen in the movie, for some strange reason.

You can't exist as two separate entities in the movies or TV. It doesn't work. You never watch "All My Children" and see them watching "All My Children".

Triumph Of The Will

I finally got the opportunity (and took it) to watch the old Nazi film, "Triumph of the Will." I saw a documentary about Leni Riefenstahl 12-15 years ago, so I knew about the film from then. But it's always been one thing or another that kept me from getting it. But seeing it on Netflix as a streaming selection simplified it, so I wouldn't have to actually buy my own copy and have it on the shelf forever.

In case you don't know about this movie, it documents the Nazis' 1934 Party Congress, a big get-together they had. They had just taken total power in Germany in 1933, so this is close to the beginning of them. And it definitely seems to record that they had total power by this time.

When I was watching it, I was also thinking of my parents, since my dad was born in '33 and mom in '34. I could picture them back here in the States, little babies, at that point oblivious to Hitler and his madness, but of course they would soon enough have his negative influence in their lives growing up.

Meanwhile, back in Germany ... The movie is usually praised for a bunch of technical reasons, all the super camera angles and interesting film perspectives the director got. She seemed to have carte blanche, since she was personally taken on by Hitler to do the film and he was the dictator at the time. There are indeed some great shots, like when the Nazis are packed in there thicker than jam and Hitler's up at the podium talking. There's some great symmetry.

To me, though, mostly it's a very sad film, because of the craziness of Hitler and the Nazis. And if I'm actually there, I'm definitely seeing it as an essentially hopeless situation, because you figure once these guys get entrenched, there's nothing that's going to get rid of them. So there's swastikas and militaristic bullshit everywhere. Even the labor corps are marching around with their shovels over their backs like guns.

I'm currently reading a book on "The Coming of the Third Reich," by Evans. It's got some extensively boring sections, although of course it's important history detailing the personalities, groups, and stats before Hitler took power. It's boring to me, because I can't remember that. But it definitely lays out the case that the time and circumstances were right for Hitler in Germany, although it wasn't all foreordained. But he and the others took advantage of the circumstances and so there they ended up.

On the positive side, in the film when Hitler's rhapsodizing about the Nazis being in power for thousands of years, it's nice to know in hindsight that they've got about another 11 years. It's still unbelievable to me that the world was somehow able to get rid of Hitler in a few short years, when the guy had an army, navy, air force, etc. By contrast, it's taken us forever with Iraq and Afghanistan, and the folks over there had nothing, comparatively speaking.

One of the most famous things about Nazi Germany is their straight armed salute. You keep watching it, as I did, and it becomes farcical. You'd think a few thousand years of jutting our arm out at every whip stitch, Germany's going to have the strongest right arms in the world! Fortunately they were defeated and so spared the horrendousness of big arms that would make them tip over. It was a crazy looking custom! But they all did it with such earnestness, with Hitler leading the way. By the way, the guy was no bundle of laughs. What a sourpuss.

The whole thing is a big praise fest for him. A couple of times the speakers, of course being a bunch of suck ups, say, "Germany is Hitler, Hitler is Germany."

For the most part, the film is fascinating. It wouldn't bear repeated viewings. There are some boring bits, as in the continuous parades and marching bands. But it holds your interest because you realize this was all true. A nation really did give itself over to this monstrosity and his henchmen.

There would be some cautionary tales in it for us today. By and large, just looking around, people still seem to be easily led and quickly deceived. I'm thinking of the whole Fox News mentality, where you have (otherwise) intelligent people parroting talking points and believing lies. My mom used to say things about us having the truth and not letting the things of Hitler ever happen again. But you can see the Germans weren't people so different from us as to be alien. The same psychology they had is in the rest of us. Just look how the Tea Party movement is so easily swayed by corporate interests, and they think they're just doing the good work of common folk!

Can't We Just Let The Snake Eat Us?

I'm really not in a mood to fight tonight. Good grief, is that all anyone can think of, fighting?

I was just walking through the other room and the TV was on. Whatever I was watching earlier today was off and there was a movie on about an anaconda snake trying to eat everyone. I didn't watch much of it but I got the impression it was gigantic, maybe with a head as big as a couch. It certainly filled the TV, a 46" screen.

I heard just a piece of the dialogue, which was a guy yelling to everyone else, "Only shoot at the head! It can't be killed any other way." I was on my way through the room going to take Underbrush out for a pee and poop.

Since that's the last thing I heard, I was outside thinking about the other possible ways to kill this big snake. The guy said it had to be shot in the head, but I was thinking, "You mean to tell me, if I somehow lured it up on the railroad tracks and the train rolled over it, that wouldn't basically solve the problem?" Wouldn't it be bleeding out the back hole? Or was it too big even for a train to handle? I never saw it in relation to anyone, just in relation to my TV's size.

In my continuing thinking, I was thinking of the few basic scenarios for fiction that there are, like Man Vs. Man, Man Vs. Nature, Man Vs. Godzilla, etc. And this one obviously would fit in the Man Vs. Nature category, with the extra twist we always get, that the animals are way bigger than normal nature makes them. They've always been affected by radiation, pollution, or something. The isotopes go straight to the pituitary, and next thing you know it hulks out and is bigger than anything. That's how the Loch Ness monster got started. He was just a mouse, or some kind of mouse/dragon hybrid, then he bloated up when he consumed something dangerous, like a Big Mac.

Anyway, the imagination -- mine anyway -- stumbles over some of this stuff. It makes me tired just to think about sitting there watching a movie like this. Because you know the exact sequence it has to go. This thing doesn't work, that thing doesn't work, it's hopeless, then, miraculously, we stumble on the exact thing needed, only it's very doubtful -- everything has to go just right -- that we can make it happen before the last 10 seconds allowed for it ticks down.

It makes me think, Why don't we just let the snake eat us? Snakes need to eat too, especially snakes that big. Why are our lives so precious? We're killing things to eat them, why shouldn't the snake get in on the action?

That'd be great. You're a schoolmaster in a little village where this snake has been attacking. All the villagers come to get their children and you're like, "They're not here, the snake ate them." All very calmly. Then you explain, "The world's had enough fighting and bloodshed. Your children lived good lives, but this snake has a good life going too. Frankly, I'd like to see how big we can fatten him up to be. If we keep him well fed, it's less likely he'll want to eat us." So you can see the movie's taken a different turn. Now it's me and the snake against a bunch of murderous villagers.

Homage To An Anti-Industrialist

(This post is inspired by the "extras" on the "North By Northwest" DVD, the film by Alfred Hitchcock. In the various "Making of" and "Appreciation of" features, everyone kisses Hitch's butt royally, time after time. He was a lucky guy, in that he could speak softly and lethargically yet depend on everyone else to praise him manically at 100 mph. Of course he deserved it. If I was there I'd be kissing his butt too, so it's all good.)

Lately it seems I've been expressing a great deal of paranoia about the industrialists, the bosses and brains, those blasted powers behind the industrial sections of our cities and towns.

I think paranoia is a pretty good response to their ways and their wiles, in that they wield a great deal of power, of sway, for their interests. And if their interests conflict with the interests of society as a whole, and if someone dares to stand up to them, to take them to task for it, their position of power allows them to respond with a heavy arsenal.

So what we would have in that daring person is a person who has at least partly set aside his fear and self-interest, except the self-interest of doing the right thing, of speaking for the others who aren't speaking for themselves. You've got the millions, then you have the one. The one raises his fist, maybe. The one dares to take a stand against the powers that be.

Since I am that man, and since no one else seems to be doing an homage to me, the local man who is an anti-industrialist, I'd like to offer one myself.

It seems that in my stand against the industrialists, the industrial powers, that I've done all things well. These things include my descriptions of the industrialists, the industrial sections of our cities and towns, and the sprawling blight that is the result. Like the great movie director, let's say, I've illustrated these things with the very big -- as we think of industrial sections as being very big. I've featured the giant smokestack of the monster tire factory. You'll remember those terrible scenes. Then I've gone with the very small -- which also is part of the whole mosaic of the sprawling blight and just as essential as the very big. The scenes have included things like the grass and weeds sucked down into the mud by the speeding trucks.

It's been a brilliant production, I'll say so myself. I'm very moved by the intrinsic, such as the obvious factories, conveyor belts, garages, the weird lighting, the steam vents, etc., that would have to be part of the picture. Then I'm equally moved by the seemingly incidental details, like the deer I wrote about a few weeks ago. If you look back, you'll notice there was an unresolved tension, whether the deer was real or decorative, whether it moved itself out of the scene or some nefarious force moved it, and whether, if it was real if it ever found water to drink.

When you start thinking of those scenes you can see a larger framing, as we're portraying even nature itself as threatened by industrialism and those powerful interests. The mud, the weeds, the grass, the unresolved questions about the deer, all these things contribute toward making the interests more nefarious than if we just saw them (the interests) isolated in their immediate environment. It's quite a stunning set of images. It seems I can do more with just a few mundane images -- weaving them into a grand metaphorical tapestry -- than most people could do with a cast of thousands.

Then behind all this, getting beyond the techniques per se, you have a mind, a purpose, something at stake, such as the well being of the whole world against these forces. The way it's presented, it seems like the rest of the world is oblivious to the danger, willing to accept industrialism as an ongoing reality, but you have the one who recognizes the danger and stands up to it. That makes me seem very heroic, yet with an edge, because it shows me facing scorn and even ridicule for my stand. I really have to be made of something to go on with my purpose. It suggests something like we see in the crucifixion scenes of the Bible, big stuff. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Someday, then, one has to assume that whether I actually prevail against the industrialists, or I die trying, that I will have a vindication, and ultimately the acclaim of the world. Even the industrialists, who have no soul and no hope, I could almost picture as coming around, giving me in the end at least a grudging respect, that I was a worthy opponent. They may not respect me today, but one day ... they will!

How To Undress In Front Of Your Husband

Prepare to be stimulated!

Since I don't run anything "blue," I'm going to have to be extra careful with this post. So I'll say what I can, then try to leave the rest to your imagination.

Here's an interesting movie ad:

 

In this particular ad it was the first feature of a triple bill. The ad is from The Evening Journal, Lubbock, Texas, April 4, 1939, p. 10. 

The movie stars beautiful Elaine Barrie Barrymore "and that comedy favorite" Trixie Friganza. In the course of the film Elaine shows us the intriguing and proper way to disrobe in the boudoir, while Trixie has a bad time of it in her room.

It's mostly narration by a male narrator and silence from the two stars, but Trixie emits a few discouraging groans and a few words of frustration with her presentation.

The narrator has a lot of admiration for Elaine, but nothing but jokes for Trixie.

About Trixie, he says, "That other celebrated taker-offer may be able to show us a few other wrinkles ... These ladies are all here to learn how to undress, they're not interested in how to take down an awning ... Isn't that awful. The S.S. Normandy is in ... Really ladies, I'm terribly sorry. This sequence has turned out to be a perfect bust. Well, anyway, a bust."

Then when we see the lovely Miss Barrie she's taking off and rolling her stockings. The announcer says something is coming off, "Oh yes, of course, the stockings. She has lovely eyes, don't you think? Well, to tell you the truth, I hadn't noticed them myself. There's a delightful nonchalance about this little lady. A studied indifference that is certainly effective. Invariably she keeps you guessing as to what she'll do next. A trick which never fails to intrigue the average husband. When Elaine rolls them, they stay rolled." Then with a laugh, "I mean the stockings, of course."

The film is a short film, and someone has it at YouTube, in two parts:





Part 1 has a few skips in it, but it's still pretty good.

White Christmas -- The Whole Movie!

I watched a whole movie tonight, in one sitting, which is almost unheard of. It was "White Christmas," with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen.

I'm probably the only person who hasn't seen this movie before. I'd only seen a couple minutes of it. All this time! And we even had it on VHS for years. But movies and me don't always mix.

It showed up today on DVD, and it being the day before Christmas Eve and all, I decided to sit there while it was playing, and pretty soon two hours had passed and it was over. So that's how it happened.

It's a very nice movie. I only have one complaint. The whole time Rosemary Clooney was mad at Bing Crosby sucked. And I thought it was especially bad that he never learned why she was so mad. Come on. Someone could've said, "Hey, why are you so mad? Let's work this out." But it was an intrinsic part of the plot, I guess, although it seems like it could've been worked out somehow.

Anyway, other than that, I loved it. Vera Ellen must've been a big time dancer. She had very muscular legs. And the singing was very good too for everyone.

It looked great on a big screen TV. The widescreen thing was just right to fill out the TV, no black bars at the top and bottom.

P.S. So George Chakiris was in the movie. From "West Side Story." I recognized him in one place and was thinking it had to be him.

Take A Jolt From My Electrode

I watched "Frankenstein" the other day, the old one with Boris Karloff. For some reason, I guess so he can be shocked into life, he has those electrodes in his neck. You'd almost thing the doctor would make them detachable, so that he didn't have to walk around with them after he was living. But it'd come in handy, like a port that people have, in case he ever needed another jolt.

The movie's simple and short. Man makes monster, man loses monster, monster presumably dies in a burning windmill. Obviously he died, but who knows, we didn't see the body. There may have been a back way or an underground passage. That's what they could've done, then had him back for "Frankenstein II."

I keep forgetting the name of the monster isn't meant to be Frankenstein. That's just the name of the guy who made him. But I've had that habit ever since I was a kid, and it's hard to break now.

Like I said, it's a simple movie. The creator of the monster, Henry, I believe his name was, doesn't forsake his beloved and go running back, obsessive about working on the monster. You'd almost think he'd be so compelled that he'd have a relapse.

I like the part where the old doctor, the scientist, the brain specialist, is working with the monster. And he doesn't take the precaution of tying down the monster's hands. So, la la la, oops, he's got me by the throat! Bye bye, doctor!

And I'd forgotten the part about the monster throwing the little girl in the water and having her drown. Totally forgotten. Maybe I haven't ever seen this movie before. I wouldn't have forgotten that. Strange.

Pull Of Fiss And Vinegar (Tweets)

I was pull of fiss and vinegar tonight when I got home from the dance. So I think unfortunately I might've overdone it on the silliness.

You be the judge [opening the curtain and with a wave of the hand stepping back]:

-------------------------

I love the great director, Alfred Hitchpeepee.

Even though he was born in a different peepeetry.

He made a great movie called "The Birds," that included crows, sparrows, finches, and the tufted mammarymouse.

The critics gave him two thumbs up, with rubber gloves of course.

Which of his movies is the best has been a BONE of contention with movie buffs for years.

Save The Last Hiatus For Me

Here I sit, my heart filled with pride that I endured so much and survived. If anyone has a right to shake his fist triumphantly and shout the words "I did it," any fair gauging of the issue would have to reveal that that person would have to be me.

But while my heart has that pride, I need to confess that I'm also suffering a little bit of lethargy, the feeling I get when something is finished. So I essentially staggered out of bed, stumbled going to the bathroom, and slipped when I sat down to write this. I've had numerous false starts. Abraham Lincoln never had a worse day.

But ending something's like in the movies, the last night at Porky's, the end of the American Graffiti gang, Curly's last film as one of the Three Stooges. You sit and run the film back and forth and say "That's it." There might be a reason to go on, but you need serious counseling and a prayer retreat with a houseful of sincere monks to figure out what it is.

I was going to use this last day of July for last minute chronicling of my hiatus. But really there's not much left to say. It was a run. Now I'm taking my final bow. I'm looking straight ahead, not expecting a lot of pats on the back. But it would be gratifying if the others -- here they come! -- came from the wings to lift hands with me in a solid row and do a few Rockette kicks. There's a little girl and an enormous armload of roses coming down the center aisle.

In my Mind's Eye, I'm here at the house, my hiatus ended. And I'm standing on a little stage. There's a few of my closest friends off to my left. An unseen orchestra starts playing something softly with feeling, which swells, and I sing of the things I've come to realize. There's no place like home.

But just as I end the song, from the back of the room, Garrett Al breaks through with a big laser gun, and, with him, my sexy cousin Jill Bob has her hair done up like the Bride of Frankenstein. (Picture this. It's a lot like the ending of "The Rocky Horror Picture Show.") Geritol sings in this weird, wavery metallic voice, "D.B. Kundalini! The party is all over. Your hiatus was a failure, your lifestyle too extreme. I'm your new commander, you now are my prisoner. We return to Transylvania and Grandma will be mine!"

I struggle to retreat but Geritol is on me. I'm climbing the curtains in our living room when he zaps me from behind with the laser. This is a cue for Cousin Roto to come out of our freezer on a motorcycle. Grandma screams, "Roto!"

We all join for an incredible '50s dance, kicking out the jams. Then we're in a pool singing, "Don't be it, dream it." Then we're on the stage again, me singing happily, "My, my, my, my, my, my, my hiatus was a wild and an untamed thing..."

Finally, a terrific red/pink slimy blob crawls in from the North, envelopes the house, everything crashes around us, the house is lifted off its foundation, and I see it all flying toward space. I am left writhing in a big hole with my sexy cousin Jill Bob. Proudly writhing, crawling, pusillanimous creatures, she and I will inhabit a new Eden. Which will mean us being occasionally nude and partaking of forbidden fruit.

A puppet master, an criminologist kind of guy, shakes his head and leaves the room.

Gramma Mia!

You'll recall yesterday, I was concerned about Grandma's health, sort of. I was monitoring her breathing, which was very shallow. I looked it up at WebMD and it turns out three or four breaths a minute is not normal. I say I was "concerned," which might not be entirely accurate, for the simple fact that when you're 104 anything other than a death rattle is good news.

I've been doing my best around the place to look after her. It's getting to the point, though, where I'm experiencing cabin fever. I feel like I deserve a life, too, yet here I sit, night after night, while the rest of the world whoops it up. Sometimes I look out and see a car speeding by. There's someone out there living the fast life! And it's not too hard to imagine that maybe it's a mixed party, you know. Maybe a guy in a car with a few girls, a convertible, and their hair is flying loose in the wind. And the guy's laughing and glancing in the rear view mirror at one of them, knowing that he's cutting a fine figure for anyone who happens to see him speed by. It's debauched, of course, but not without a trace of desirability.

OK, enough sitting here stewing in our own juices! I've made a decision! I wake her up, "Grandma, Grandma..." And I suggest we go to the movies!

I've been wanting to see the new chick flick, "Mamma Mia!" And probably it'd be something she'd enjoy as well, being something of a chick. So I went to all the work of getting her up -- a labor of love -- getting her dressed, getting her and her walker and wheelchair to the car, and we went to the theater. We're right on time, and I know it's going to take some doing to get her in, but thankfully it's just the previews showing.

She being in a wheelchair we had no choice but to go all the way down front. I don't mind the front but I know it's going to be bad for her neck. But I shouldn't have worried, because right away she dozed off. Just as well because I'd hate to have her asking me all the time, "What'd they say?" Or worse, eating all the popcorn and spitting out the hulls...

So, how was the movie? Great! ABBA songs, some of the greatest songs of all time. I'm loving every minute of it! I'm tapping my toe. But I have to confess it had such a sense of abandon and of fulfilling your dreams -- an exotic locale, redeeming the past, true love winning out -- that I had the temptation to run away. I started thinking about my life and what else might be possible. (Spoiler alert:) When Sophie sails off with her boyfriend, I'm thinking, I need a boat and a chick like her or Meryl Streep. But, getting back to reality, I'm very very concerned because they didn't do the song "Waterloo," and the movie's obviously winding down. And then, a welcome surprise for me, the cast was out on stage (in the film) doing it as a closing number! Yea!

Pushing Grandma and her chair out to the ordinary world after that was a completely letdown. There's the car, there's the same old street, and then later, the same old house. But she was none the worse for the wear, and in fact it may have helped her. Maybe some of the lively tunes sank into her consciousness, her reverie. Once I got her back in bed her breathing had picked up and she was doing pretty well. Also it could've just been the movement, the exercise.