Once in a Blue Moon..

It happens every 19 years. A blue moon sighting on New Year's eve; that's a long time to go between indigo drinks. If you're out celebrating or in your jammies on the couch waiting for the Times Square ball to drop, imagine where you might be standing or reclining for the next rare occurrence. Dispensing with official lists...noteworthy reads for the year were 'City of Thieves' (a book with legs..the undisputed king of the hill) by David Benioff; 'Outliers' by Malcolm Gladwell; 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' by Stieg Larsson; and 'Unaccustomed Earth' by Jumpha Lahiri. Best musical moment: Bono and the Mick torching the stage in a duet of U2's 'Stuck in a moment You can't get out of.' Yow. Same set featured the Edge warbling a couple of up scale notes. And Fergie jamming with Mick in a smoking rendition of 'Gimme Shelter' . Double yow. The christening of this past decade as the 'oughts'(my unique spelling)...who comes up with this dribble? I reacted like Homer Simpson. OMG. I'd rather have my face idling in a large plate of donuts. Lots of glaze. Substance for awhile. And then the sugar rush.. but let's think this through for a sec..ok, maybe we 'ought' to have recalled Bush. We uh, 'ought' not to have whacked Iraq. Financial collapse 'ought' not to have happened; We 'ought' to pay more attention to global warming. Katrina survivors deserved more than 'ought.' And so it went ought and ought. As I reach for my donut, fresh and warm, from the best kept secret in Temescal, that old 'Who' refrain has re-surfaced in my head...'meet the new boss'...I hope it's not true, but as we all drop kick this last decade over the blue moon tomorrow night, indulge yourself for one more day before you invoke an 'ought.'

In our cups or not...

Santa's now over South Africa. This is uh, an eggnog fact. At this rate if you don't have a lump of coal in your stocking, you can expect, the Santas (flying on boxes of nodoz) of the world to deliver to 887 children every couple of seconds just to make your rooftop by daybreak. While the presto yule log glows in the fireplace here is my list of the best movies of 2009. On top of the heap stands Kathryn Bigelow for bringing it in 'The Hurt Locker.' In no particular order after that is:
'An Education' because the Brits know complicated drama; 'Inglorious Bastards,'QT's own particular vision of a vengeful moment in WWII; 'Ponyo,' from the national treasure, Hayao Miyazaki; 'Public Enemy' by the neon one, Michael Mann, with Johnny Depp in a stylized gansta movie; 'Up in the Air' George Clooney's vehicle. Really? Vera Farmiga was Clooney's equal and brought it too; 'Broken Embraces,' film noir Spanish style by Pedro Almodovar with a ravishing Penelope Cruz (the color is sensational); 'Avatar' James Cameron's ode to the childhood matinee which left you gaping at the big screen as it swept you away to another world. Good tidings to all of you out there.

The Thanator of Hollywood...

James Cameron. He's bad ass and brilliant. Anyone who doesn't like Sci-Fi check out right now. I've just spent 3 hours with a pair of 3D glasses plastered over my face experiencing the second coming. It was pure product; it was unadulterated, and it was tasty spectacle. On every level, Avatar is rocket ship trajectory. Some movie aficionados were anticipating 'eyeball rape.' That's not exactly 'pc' lingo, but I understand it's launching point, because at the epic's end my eyeballs were numb 'gelatinous orbs' (a line from BSG). Cameron might be the only Hollywood director who consistently dishes up strong, ballsy, female characters. He gave us Ripley in Aliens who out bitched the Alien Queen; Sarah Connor, 0% body fat, wasting liquid robocops in T2; and his small box (TV) creation, Dark Angel, made Jessica Alba well, um, Jessica Alba/Max a hot genetically engineered paramilitary young woman on the lam. Yes boys and girls, it's true. Cameron loves chicks in his flicks, and on Pandora, in a pivotal anti-climatic gesture, he invokes the Great Mother and drops her smack dab in the middle of our adolescent squirming laps (WTF is going on here). The joke's on us. Nature lives through the goddess. Even on a world 125 years into the future. Blessed be! But we all knew that didn't we? Avatar is technology at it's edgiest. Every scene, every nuance was sensational. With a nod and a wink, Cameron brings back Sigourney Weaver too. This is as good as it gets. Better than the great Lord of the Rings trilogy? Uh, different. LOTR, the perfect storm, took you to the dark recesses of your mind and pushed you towards Mordor the abyss of no return. Avatar is other worldly. But familiar. There is the primordial forest; the indigenous population; corporate greed; military shock and awe; environmental issues; banshees, and love. See it in 3D, the way Cameron envisoned it. p.s. the Thanator is the donkey Kong predator on Pandora.

'Are you hungry did you eat before the show?'...

Tis the season. Maybe I'm just a special little freak, but I keep my gifting lists for years. I'm not saying they're stored in some tidy box alphabetically, but they're on my bureau stashed under other scraps of important data, some of which are clearly outdated, like the lunch receipt from In n Out burgers in Davis circa 2007 or the latest alcohol bill from Eddie's liquors. When my nephew and niece, Alex and Iz were younger than they are...little imps running around the playground carefree and wild, the labours of homework and exams but a tiny gleam in their undomesticated eye, I used to agonize over what to get them for the holidays. I soon learned what others had learned before me...that on Christmas morning, all unwrapped goodies became the flavor of the moment. Now that the toys of childhood are almost a distant memory, and the kids have moved to the next level, I find myself indebted to Mr. Lincoln, and Mr. Grant. It's true. Money talks. Cash is king. And I now have more more time to devote to other holiday traditions like uh, baking. In the true spirit of the season, here's a recipe for the best shortbread you'll eat all year: Jed's Shortbread...

1lb salted butter, 1 pinch salt, 1 cup sugar, 1 1/4 cup rice flour, 4 cups flour.
Cream butter, salt and sugar. Add the rice flour, then the other cups of flour
slowly to the point where the dough is not too dry. Shape with cookie cutters
on an 11x17 sheet. Bake 325 for 30-45 minutes. These rock!

'Can you picture what we'll be, so limitless and free?'...

Mountain View Cemetery. A gleaming nugget in a sluice filled basin known as Oakland. I collected fauna and foliage on the cemetery grounds for the first Thanksgiving I shared with my sister. She was an art student at CCA (C) and I was recovering from a bad break-up with my first girl friend. We lived in a small apartment, why, on the very street I now reside upon. The neighbors were suspicious of us, long haired hippies, and were always calling the cops for some piddly infraction. Did I know that Mountain View was going to be the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship? No. But, like a good thing, it began slowly. And then like the catchy theme song of an addicting show (hmmmm 'Friday Night Lights') that zaps those precious neuron crystals, the resume built. Over the years, I ran my dogs there, dodging cemetery security; I knew all the back paths and overgrown eucalyptus groves. So did they. I buried a couple of cats (why not) at the top of the hill, the one with the spectacular 180 view of Lake Merritt, and the Bay Bridge. I've eaten croissants and picnic lunches and hobnobbed with the Crockers as I was smoking and digesting. For weeks, I brought my coffee and sat alone next to Cogswell, or the Krafts balling my eyes out after breakups. I've walked the headstones pondering lives and exits. Isn't this what Frederick Law Olmstead had in mind when he landscaped the area in 1862? Not quite, I'm certain, but if one can't be in Central Park, or France, then this is the next best thing to being there. Mountain View has the scope of the Parisian monuments, and the broad avenues and hills of an old world city. It's the best kept secret in the area, except for the runners/joggers most of whom are women. On any morning just after the sun crests the eastern piedmont hills even in winter, for what is winter in Cali, Olmstead's vision quietly springs to life.

lions and Tigers and bears, oh my...

There's always something deliciously transfixing, obscenely sophomoric when the rich and famous fall head-first into uh, a big steaming pile. We don't care, but we want to know. Titillated by a flaying five iron, a Cadillac escalade's air bags which didn't deploy (huh?) after hitting a hydrant and a tree, and not one but 2 women who have surfaced as potential dalliances, there's grist for weeks. You play with the zipper, sometimes you get caught in the zipper. There isn't a suit in the world who could spin this caper.
Before el Presidente speaks this evening, word is already leaking out that 30,000 more troops are being committed to Afghanistan. I understand the concept of keeping America safe. But this military intervention is wearing thin and has all the earmarks of a borderline bust. More of our young men and women will die in a country which is unforgiving, mired in religious fervor (which we could never wrap our heads around) and a perpetual cash cow for the opiate drug trade.
Interventions. I have several friends who need them. But I know them. And I love them. Detox one person? Maybe. If you're lucky.
So, there are these 2 guys I know, maybe you heard...one of them is trying to find the yellow brick road; the other one is behind a curtain in the Emerald City.

Fourth and Two...scatter shots..

To all of you who were circling the moon; are from another planet; or a football widow, apologies for this tiny thread...Bill Belichick made me smile Sunday night. Sorry, Big John. I'm the biggest Manning groupie, Peyton and Eli, in the world, and when the Pats did not make the 1st down, I knew my man was going to win that game. It's ego, baby. Gotta check that at the door.

'Eating Animals.' I'd like to first state that my sister is a vegetarian. And I, at one point, had a girlfriend that was a vegetarian too. In other words, guilt by association probably bumped up against my dark side. But, before that when I was a smoking bra-less hippie, I decided that I would not eat anything that I couldn't kill. This cast a semi-wide net. Out were bovine, Wilbur, and rabbit. In were fish (I did catch fish) and chickens. Chickens were on the edge but fell into a murky category of the what if's: if I was lost in the woods and starving and came across a hen house, could I wring a feathered neck?' Fortunately, that never happened. But convinced that I could take care of business, chickens went on the 'what's for dinner' list. Over the years, I've lapsed into both semi veggie and altered veggie state. I've met people who make statements like: 'I don't eat anything with a face.' Or, 'I want to eat lower on the food chain.' Or, 'Eating meat will clog my arteries.' Then along came 'Fast Food Nation.' And if the chapters on the slaughter houses, and the meat packing plants didn't tweak your sensibility then, nothing will now, not even this latest commentary by Jonathan Safran Foer. Graphic. Sensational. Pukingly realistic. Who exactly is Mr Foer's audience? Who is listening to this disturbing, extreme account? Not the inner city families. Not the mid-western conservatives. Not the people on food stamps who dream about pot roast dinners. Watch dogs are the guardians of civilizations. But until the organics and the 'Upton Sinclairs' can further their out-reach and educate beyond the educated, we're all in this swill together. Pass the mashed potatoes and gravy please.

A Tale of Two Cities

Build it and they will come...Bugsy had vision while other guys were wearing bifocals. If you're keeping count, I'm 2 for 2 in pilfering Hollywood script lines. Vegas rose out of the Nevada desert like well, the Phoenix. Flying over the city during the day is so uninviting that you wonder if you're on some intergalactic flight. The landscape is bleak; brown on prefabricated brown. In the desert lawns are a luxury. The color green flourishes and resides indoors on thousands of felt tables. On Saturday, sitting in a Vegas sports book, I saw jaded men, hardcore gamblers, applaud and cheer perhaps one of the greatest feats in modern day thoroughbred racing. Zenyatta, a 5 year old mare, won the Breeder's Cup Classic championship at Santa Anita. A physically spectacular specimen at 17 hands, Zenyatta put the colts, Kentucky Derby, Travers, Belmont, and European grass champions, away in deep stretch with her trade mark rally and made history by becoming the first filly/mare to win the Classic. On site at Santa Anita people were verklempt. The crowd of 55,000 roared as Zenyattta made her winning move. And they kept roaring as she walked back to the winner's circle. Her trainer, John Sherriffs, tossed his cap to the crowd. This was, in the quarter century history of the Breeder's Cup, the greatest equine performance to grace modern day racing. Why? Because a mare won her 14th race in a row, and laid a whipping on the colts. Because, underneath this all, submerged but not forgotten is the issue of gender inequity. Beginning with the tired fable that women are too weak in the upper body to be good jockey's...and that colts should race against colts, and fillies and mares should race in their own division. In 2 minutes on thoroughbred racing's biggest stage Zenyatta shattered the glass ceiling and affirmed that the two best equine athletes in 2009 are the brilliant Rachel Alexandra in the East and the undefeated Zenyatta in the West.

Alecto, Megaero, and Tisiphone

Richmond, CA, is a snug fit between the Chevron spewing toxic refinery; an unglamourous bridge which transports one from nowhere to somewhere; and the city of San Pablo with it's wannabe Reno card casino. In two brutal weeks, Richmond with world media coverage that rivals the twinkie murders (god bless you, Harvey and George) went from podunk to infamy and now faces the relentless scrutiny of shrinks and teachers, police and politicians. The thing is I don't give a flying F about the 'why.' What happened in Richmond was a raw, unrelenting, stark, reminder that as women, our bodies, even in our homes are always at risk. Once 20 years ago I took a weapons class. I went out to a firing range and practiced shooting at targets with different calibers of hand guns. I've lived in houses where several women owned guns for protection. I'm always reminded of them when shit like this happens. I don't really want to know the answers to the following questions. Because I don't care. But for judicial sake: Who are the parents of these boys? Where exactly did they learn misogyny? Do they have sisters? And does liquored up justify gang banging? Screw (a sick pun) the trial. Give them all life sentences, even the 15 year old, toss the key, and unleash the Furies.

All the leaves are brown...

Not really! Not here in Cali yet, but they've turned back East. 'California Dreaming' was one of the defining songs from my collegiate years. Walking down the block today several houses had cobwebbed porches and skeletons hanging from lights. There is a nip in the air. Rain has been forecast. This is my favorite season. The months before the big holiday in December. It doesn't get any better than this. Time to unfold the comforter, and relight the heater pilot. Football every Saturday and Sunday. Tortilla soup, and grilled cheese sammies. Runny noses. And H1N1. Yeah, this is the season.

Pictures at 11:

ABC. They are spending mega bucks advertising their new series, 'V.' That long tall drink of water whose face is plastered in every frame better not turn into a fang dripping bug from planet X.

Da Raiders. Time for the Black Hole to man up and boycott... wear paper bags over their collective armoured heads. 8 games in and the season is a travesty.

Zombieland. The most fun I've had at a grade B movie since...Plan 9 from Outer Space.

Mad Men is the best series on the tele now. Matthew Weiner is a genius.

Obama. We know you got game. And next at the White House. While you're lobbing those fade- aways. Think about this, bro. Lots of world class women out there... Lisa Leslie, Sheryl Swoopes, and Diana Taurasi who can ball too.

Anyone flying Northwest airlines in the future?

Dakine Sugar Shack

Hawaii is always referred to as the melting pot of the Pacific. Why? Because the islands are comprised of the many cultures which settled there...the Hawaiians, first. Followed in no particular order by the different ethnic races, Asians who came over to labor under the haole, (that's whitey to you), in the sugar cane and pineapple fields, along with the assortment of smaller waves of immigrants as word of the islands flew around the sailing nations. With each arrival came the defining foods of the migrating cultures. In 1876, the first band of Portuguese arrived from the Azores. Never mind their linguisa. Or the sweet bread. The 'Portugees' (the locals never EVA call them by any other name) brought with them a small doughy fried bread product which leap frogged right into Hawaiian legend lore: the malasada. In 1952 Leonard's Bakery of Kapahulu started frying up those golden balls of deliciousness. It was like, well, the 2nd coming. Pink boxes filled with the round pastry (no hole) nuggets flew off the shelves. You can take the motley donut, and the other malasada wannabe, the benet and stuff it. Eaten warm or hot, the malasada is a little spongy, a bit chewy and covered in granules and granules of sugar which coats your car seat, your favorite t-shirt, or your tutu's (grandmother) kitchen table. It's the one of the first places locals go to sweeten up their day. I always return to the malasada whenever I'm in the islands. Like Proust's madeline, it's deja vu all over again.

Whip It Good

I remember when I got my first pair of roller skates. A 50's Christmas present. They had a red leather saddle toe which I had to lace up and a turn key lock that crimped the skate to the shoe. The skate slid in and out, heel to toe, for sizing. The ball bearing wheels were loud and grinding as my brother and I skated up and down the block, back and forth, in no particular rhythm; I fell a lot but never really minded. It was one step removed from a scooter. There was something poetic about the swaying arms and the semi- gliding legs. The other night, I went to the movie, Whip It. A tidal wave of memories seized my tiny brain...yeah, roller derby, in black and white on the Admiral tele! The Bay Bombers! Ann Calvello and those wild 'do's.' Women stroking the board on skates and gouging each other for position. You had to be into your 4th cold one, a wrestling fan watching the wrong (maybe not) channel, or an adolescent waiting for the mouse club to come on. Who knew that this was cult? Even back then. Roller Derby is the sport that never dies. It's part hard scrabble. Part cheese. And lots of moxie. Women who hold day jobs, strap on the pads, boil mouth pieces and stride out onto the hardwood slapping on bad ass names like, 'Iron Maven, and 'Smashley.' Well, ok, maybe that's Hollywood. I digress though. Whip It is entertaining. And Drew's first film behind the lens. Ellen Page. The rocknroller, Julliete Lewis and the great Marcia Gay Harden. What's not to like?

Turning the page

While health care holds center stage nationwide, a disturbing, troubling and emotionally devastating drama is being played out in families that I profess to be part of through decades of deep friendships. The media hasn't quite recognized the impact of this medical crisis; it's not the sexy factoid that the baby boomers are clustering around the 'golden years' campfire (come together now) pressing social security into extinction,uh, it's the other little secret that doesn't quite seem to get up enough steam for headlines: aging parents and the management of their health care issues..more frequently than not, accompanied by the insidious, ravaging dementia. If you're lucky, a parent drops unexpectedly. But, if you're like the majority of us, flower power children who, well, never saw this curve ball coming, and didn't know shit about aging before it beaned us...we know something now. Learning on the fly is painful. Judgement becomes clouded. The med that looked good today might belong in the loo tomorrow. Daughters and sons grope their way to first base. Questions of dementia care are fraught with anxiety as parents slip further and further into the abyss. No one has ever said that this was going to be easy. But, the more disturbing issue is that hardly anyone has said anything about this publicly before. If knowledge is power, share the wealth, educate your children. It's time to take the gloves off and lift the shroud because we're almost on deck.

All Along the Watchtower...

Mario Savio is doing back flips from the grave. The apathy of the 80's and the 90's which hung like a pall over the Berkeley campus is receiving a swift kick in the pants from students, faculty and staff as a statewide walkout on all 10 UC campuses lurches forward today. It's a sobering fact, but unless the powerful Academic Senate is involved, protests usually crawl off into a corner to whimper and die. However, this has been a perfect storm brewing for months; Mark Yudof, the face of UC, the reigning SI Hayakawa of 2009, has taken a flying header with his constituents. Implementation of 11-26 furlough days; 30% increase in student tuition fees, and prohibiting the faculty to take furlough on their instructional days conjured up images of shoulders to the cogs and burning squad cars. It's one thing to screw staff and students, it's another, however to screw the faculty. When there is faculty inclusion, there is validation. It's a rank equation, but it's true. Some one told me that the walkout wouldn't accomplish or change anything. In some countries of the world, a gathering of 2 people on a corner is considered a protest. Gulags are filled with men and women who spoke out about inequality. I'm a child of the 60's. I've seen the impossible become possible...power to the people.

It is what it is

Tennis is a sport that is steeped in tradition and protocol and reserved boxes for the Royals when it's Grand Slamming in England. One needs money to take tennis lessons. It's not as if you can get 6 guys together and toss the ball around in a vacant lot and begin to learn the game.

So it's news when the woman who was probably 9-5 in Vegas to win it all, went "off" in the semi's of the US Open last week. Serena Williams who, later publicly acknowledged past issues with her temper, slammed her racket to the ground and broke it in the first set over a line call, and then after a disputed foot fault in the final set walked over to the line judge and ripped her a new one. If you haven't seen it you need to 'you tube' that display. It was boorish and embarrassing. Reminiscent of those male whiners: Nastase, Connors and McEnroe. In sports, in the heat of the battle, with s'loads of adrenaline pumping, sometimes athletes just can't help themselves. But, there are written and unwritten 'no-no's. In baseball, you never discuss balls and strikes with an umpire face to face. You never ever touch an ump on the gridiron and you don't come off the bench in basketball altercations. In tennis, though, the crustiest of all sports, there's ample room for a public free fall.

Chris Evert who won 18 Grand Slam titles was nicknamed 'the ice maiden.' She was the epitome of cool on the court, and calculating when serving up a dose of that artic chill. When disputing calls, Evert, stared down the judge with a glacial gaze that was withering. Sometimes, but evidently not lately, that's all you need in your arsenal.

The Boys of Autumn

This is my favorite time of year. I grew up in a football family. My father, a small man, was on his high school football team. My brother played on the junior varsity until his knee failed him. In our pre-adolescent years while my father went to college and law school he worked for the SF 49ers. It was a good part time job for a man who had to support his family while grunting through torts. The job was really an 'inside' hire. My Godfather, a big cigar chomping Irishman, Dan McGuire was the reigning publicity director of the 49ers. The Morabito brothers Tony and Vic owned the club then. My brother and I went to all the training camps which were held at St. Mary's in Moraga. We amused ourselves in the 100 degree heat while the players expired mentally on their field of dreams. It was the 50's. I couldn't do Math in school but I memorized every number on the team. 39? Hugh McElhenny. 79? Bob St. Clair. For six years we went to every home game. While my father paced the sidelines, my mother watched us from the press box. My brother and I sat on the 30 yard line. My sister was home with the babysitter. But she would soon become a devoted fan of ol' number 14. YA Tittle. That's Yelberton Abraham to you. The 49ers weren't very good in those years. With the seagulls circling over Kezar stadium (you had to see the place to believe it) as the game wound down we would hang our heads and run out onto the field as the teams left for the locker room. Afterwards, as a ritual, the team would go to the Leopard cafe for their steak dinner. We'd go home and pretend the 49ers had won. It would be a long time between drinks; several decades, new ownership, change of venue, before San Francisco started filling their trophy case. Today, I can almost feel the autumn snap in the air. I'll be digging out sometime in late January.

Scatter Shots

1. The State of Hawaii. 50 years annexed to the Union. Not. That is to say, a very muted celebration by the island citizens in respect to Hawaiian Sovereignty and the remembrance of events that transpired in 1893 when Queen Lili'uokalini was overthrown, by (thieving land barons) European/American men who had quasi business interests, and kept prisoner in Iolani Palace. This was the beginning of the end of the monarchy. But it really didn't start here or with Captain Cook who received his comeuppance, or with the whalers who introduced new world disease and pestilence. One of the most poignant photos I remember was of a group of Hawaiian's cloaked in long dresses and suits sweltering in the tropical heat. The missionaries from Boston had arrived.

2. All hail the University of California, Berkeley police, Lisa Campbell and Ally Jacobs, who cracked the Garrido case. A keen eye, experience, and strong women's intuition...well done.

3. Woodstock. Woodstock. Reality check: Monterey Pop happened 2 years before that. Jimi was there, and so were The Who. Ravi Shankar too. Best shot of the night: Cass Elliot's hanging jaw as Janis belted Ball n' Chain.

4. 1964. My high school class picnic. Dallas. The assassination. With the burial of the last brother an old classmate of mine said: 'the 60's are over."

5. Greatest Woodstock commemorative: The song, 'Woodstock' by Joni Mitchell who wasn't even there. She walks on water.

Brothers

From 1988, a few verses by Dire Straits...

'Brothers in Arms'

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And you'll no longer burn
To be brothers in arm

Through these fields of destruction
Baptism of fire
I've watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

There's so many different worlds
So many different suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the sun's gone to hell
And the moon's riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die...

You take the High road and I'll take the Low road...

We all like to think of ourselves as humanitarians. Scotland with the release of Megrahi, the only convicted man of the Lockerbie bombing, stepped on it, into it and is now afloat in a sea of excrement. A news pundit analyzed that Megrahi had served approximately 11 days for each of the 270 people who were on the Pan Am flight when it exploded. Originally sentenced to a minimum of 27 years, Megrahi was released (after 8 years) because he has terminal cancer. The Brits initially on the sideline, denied any involvement in the decision, but Friday the BBC reported that the Brits had re-established oil talks with Libya. Oil. Hmmm. Sound familiar? Meanwhile, reports circulated that Megrahi was given a hero's welcome by Libyans waving both Libya and Scottish flags while tossing flower petals at the dis-embarking criminal. This set off another wave of criticism. It was like throwing gasoline onto a fire. What exactly was Edinburgh (London too) thinking? That they were taking the 'high road?' And the release of Megrahi would be viewed as the mother of all humanitarian acts? Speaking from personal experience, 'the high road' works only when the other party or parties are ignorant of the effort involved. It's satisfying and immensely private. There are no ulterior motives.

Cane Mutiny

The scourging at the pillar (Catholic or Christian) is not quite Station of the Cross material, but it's an event that is dramatized around the world during Easter.
Excluding the Singapore caning of the American teen who was found guilty of vandalism in 1994, the recent headlines have publicized the story of Lubna Hussein and 12 of her gal pals who have all been sentenced to 40 lashes for wearing pants to a cafe in Sudan. Most of the women were flogged several days later at the police station. Lubna is taking her case to court in an effort to strike down this law, which is arbitrarily enforced. After some digging I found that the Roman courts deemed 40 lashes the undertaker's ticket in flogging. Christ received 39 lashes from Pilate. The belief was that 40 was reserved for well you know, serious crimes, (flashing forward) like wearing pants in public. Away from prying eyes, women are traditionally doled out their lashes in private. Gender inflicted punishment under the guise of a religion or a culture is unacceptable and barbaric; when the world out there gets this right, women will be able to freely choose the burka or pants, and to walk unshackled in public. Don't hold your breath, though.

Contention

I'm in no hurry to rip through my current summer read; in fact, I limit myself to navigating several stories a night. It's called the 'pace' train. I'm drawing out the pages for as long as I can. The book I'm reading is not on any current best seller list; it's an unfashionable genre and topic. I picked up the book after reading an article on the author, screenwriter, Elmore Leonard. I was intrigued that the same man who wrote novels, 'Get Shorty,' 'Out of Sight,' and 'Rum Punch' (became the great cult film Jackie Brown) and a slew of other pulp fiction also wrote material which were made into some classic westerns like, 'Three-ten to Yuma' 'Hombre' and 'Valdez is Coming.' So one of my last errands while working the old job was to collect 'The Complete Western Stories' of Elmore Leonard from the shelf of the Main Library. The book was too good to give a pass to. I wanted to know how a writer went from point A, old Southwestern towns like Nogales, San Carlos, Yuma, and Contention to Point B, the streets of Los Angeles, Hollywood, Florida etc. The inside jacket of the book is plastered with retro covers of magazines that published the 30 short stories of the collection. Trade names like, 'Argosy,' 'Zane Gray's Western' 'Saturday Evening Post' and 'Western' jump off the page. I'm about two thirds through the book and love the style. Several weeks ago, TCM showed the original 1957 version of 'Three-ten to Yuma.' Glenn ford called it one of his favorite roles. I'm not sure just yet how Mr. Leonard morphed from those 2 points but I'm beginning to understand that characters of interest and depth can survey whatever landscape they're framed in and move on from there. It's the journey. And what a journey those westerns portray.

Stay Frosty

War is a drug. Those compelling words are the steppingstone for Kathryn Bigelow's film, 'The Hurt Locker.' Do yourself a favor, see this movie on the the big screen. It would be an injustice to confine the film to a 40 inch viewing. Shot on location in Jordan, 'The Hurt Locker' is a treatment of reporter, Mark Boal's script, and this is where parallel universes start to become eerily twilighty. In 2008, HBO rolled out a series, 'Generation Kill.' This was adapted by the 'Wire' duo, David Simon and Ed Burns from a book by Evan Wright who was embedded in Iraq (2003) with the 1st battalion Marine corps. Mark Boal the 'Hurt Locker' author was embedded in Iraq with a bomb disposal unit. 'Generation Kill' captures the first phase of the Iraq war in 2003. 'The Hurt Locker' is present day. Both stories are true and filmed in a stylized documentary mode. Who knew that the 21st century word, 'embedded' would provide the world with two stark hellish reports of invasion and war. Evan Wright's Marines are alpha; the bulls in your high school; the nightmare swagger of your worst dreams. Boal's Ordnance unit are glaciers in a crumbling deranged arena. One of the many points of interest is that 'The Hurt Locker' already garnering a s'load of awards is directed by the aforementioned, Kathryn Bigelow. I can't ever recall seeing a film of this genre carved out by a woman. However, interestingly, four of the seven episodes of 'Generation Kill' were directed by Susanna White. Can these women strap it on? Yes they can. Can they bring it? Indeed. I was watching a Western the other night, and the lead postulates to his sidekick that he is never going to be a quick draw, a good gunslinger because he had feelings. And that was the quintessential difference between them. Well, the 2 directors, Bigelow and White, redefine the psychological landscape of war with all it's crippling associations; they show us the claustrophobic world, the Humvee journey; it's their opera (s) and in their desert backdrop, there is crying allowed. Two powerful visions with classic range. Keep the glasses on them, boyz.

Thunder and Lightening on the track

Racing before a roaring crowd of 35,000 at Monmouth in Jersey, many of them(shamelessly swept up in Rachelmania) holding signs with her name, the filly, Rachel Alexandra won the Haskell on a sloppy surface, crushing the colts by 6 lengths and winning 2 ticks under the track record. In May, Rachel became the first filly in 85 years to beat the boys in the 2nd jewel of the triple crown, the Preakness. Why is this a phenomena? Because as in many sports, the sport of kings (ironically today it takes a king's ransom to breed and purchase a champion) is traditionally male dominated. Before the Breeder's Cup, there is and always will be the Triple Crown (the Almighty said that)! And the Triple Crown belongs to the colts unless your name is Regret (1915), Genuine Risk (1980) or Winning Colors (1988) all fillies, all Kentucky Derby winners...or Rags to Riches, first filly in more than a century to win the Belmont. By the time colts are 3, they begin to muscle out; they are significantly taller than fillies. Racing tradition segregates the colts and the fillies. Competition is gender based. And 95% of the time that's a good thing. Thirty four years ago, I remember sitting in a house in Cali balling my eyes out after the great Ruffian, a monster of a filly standing 17 hands high, broke down in a match race against the colt Foolish Pleasure. That was a cruel cold day dictated by the racing gods. Those of us who carry that memory, recognize that this year something very special has been happening. Rachel Alexandra is torching thoroughbred racing. And, like her namesake, Alexander the Great, who after conquering much of the known world cried out for more worlds to vanquish, Rachel Alexandra and her connections may look around and perhaps see themselves in that unique position. With one exception. On the West coast waiting in the weeds is a 5 year old mare, Zenyatta. Thunder on the track. She has won 10 races in a row.

The 'Snoop'

You know how some people are addicted to chocolate? I'm addicted to Anthony Bourdain's show, 'No Reservations.' There's something so ridiculously obscene, so voyeuristic in watching the foodie guru partake of the cuisine of distant countries and familiar cities. Sometimes, it's like a religious epiphany. But as he would say, I digress. I was couched out the other evening watching him render what he could from the 'rust belt' environs of our country..when he began the Baltimore section by referencing and paying homage to the 'greatest television series of all time,The Wire.' I perked up! There was the lucky bastard with Felicia 'Snoop' Pearson who showed up to tuck in with him along the way. Uh, the same 'Snoop' who was called by Stephen King the most chilling female assassin to ever air on a television series. Yeah, that, 'Snoop' Pearson. Eavesdropping, we learn that 'Snoop' at the age of 14 was convicted of 2nd degree murder, and sent to the slammer; she earned her GED and was released in 2000. Michael K Williams who plays Omar Little was pivotal in her landing the role on the Wire. 'Snoop' is a rapper, and a writer, and she is active in helping to prevent youth violence by working through her own youth drama organization, 'Moving Mountains.' I remember talking to my sister after Snoop's character made her sensational debut on the show. My sister was convinced she was a boy. I however knew differently. Beneath the baggies and the hoody...after years of practiced recognition in public places, and darkened bars, I knew that tribal look. Sometimes, it takes one to know one...

Moon Shots

For reasons having more to do with life-style than anything else I don't quite have that bulletproof recollection of where exactly I was when Armstrong and Aldrin landed. I don't think I gave the event more than a passing thought because I was on my own trajectory somewhere in Europe arguing with my first girl friend in every major city we put our footprint on. It wasn't pretty. The other night TCM showed 'The Right Stuff.' I had never seen the film (when it first came out I thought it would be hokey, cornball Americana) and of course I sat there mesmerized and enthralled by the story. The next day archived newspaper coverage of the moon landing made for good reading; 'brothers on earth, and brothers in space' kept cycling through the media...circa 1969/1970...ah, in a city far far away, on the West coast, I recall now that my friends and I were engaged in the struggle to remind the world that 'women hold up half the sky.'

'Undead, undead...'

Last night I went to see the latest Harry. Groups of adolescents descended into the Grand Lake, their bags of popcorn (free), candy and sodas easily exceeding their paid admission, parents in tow or not. The screams started when the lights went down, and the velvet curtain drifted up. And then, the decibel meter rose like it was 1964...Elvis center stage...a trailer of Twilight, the 2nd installment, crawled across the screen. A strange phenomenon. Vampires are in vogue now. And kiddies, they don't need no stinking movie reel or big screen to flap their capes; one of the best series on cable is Alan Ball's, 'True Blood,' based on Charlaine Harris' novel. 'True Blood' is major league vampire delivered by a big league screenwriter. It's alternative (not quite goth) quirky, cult 21st century, slam-'fang banger's' snapshot of tribe, Vamp, smack dab in the middle of the hot, sticky, Bayou. It's got everything. Anna Paquin in the role of her life. Stephen Moyer as the lead vampire, Bill Compton. And the irresistible, Alexander Skarsgard as Eric, the Nordic vampire (made in 1097) sheriff. Mr. Skarsgard stole every scene in 'Generation Kill,' and can we have more of him? This is season 2. Somewhere, someplace Bela Lugosi might be rolling over. This is not your father's vampire. Uh, this is truly one big tasty evolution.

Vatican Shenanigans

Sunday, the NY Times reported that the Sisters of St. Joseph were under an official sweeping investigation by the Vatican. The Sisters raised eyebrows in Rome by helping women in prison stay close to their children and infants while serving time; once paroled the women can find sanctuary for a year in one of 9 convents no longer in use by the nuns. For these acts of charity, the Vatican is questioning whether the Sisters are 'living in fidelity' to the religious life. Having been raised Catholic, and educated in the system for 16 years, this article reminded me of how sexist, chauvinistic, and completely out of touch Rome is. 1. This is still a religion which denies women the right to priesthood. 2. This is a religion that whacks the 'FE' from your gender and obliges you to kneel and kiss the ring, and confess everything! There's a scene in the play/film, 'Doubt' (the author got it right) where the priests dine on hunks of beef, toss back glasses of red wine and fire up post whatever cigarettes and cigars. Cut to the next scene of the nuns in their refectory modestly supping on what can only, charitably, be called cafeteria food. I've seen that inequity all my life. And now this? Rome needs to clean it's house of botched and bungled priest pedophilia investigations before it casts a stone towards these good NYC nuns.

Stones...Deja Vued all over again

So, there I was hunkered down for the afternoon shuffling through my piles of CD's, searching for that one shining disc which would send me some melodic euphoria when...tada...ah, lookie here, a compilation of Stones from the 60's caught my eye. Holy Crap! Old, old Rolling Stones. Before the twins became glitter. Two back to back albums in '65. Who has time like that today?? No one. Out of our Heads hit the streets in July...'I can't get no Satisfaction,' and 'The last Time' were chart busters, but the absolute genius of that album were the covers the boyz did. 'Mercy, Mercy,' Hitch Hike,' and 'Good Times' by Sam Cooke for crisake. That was good stuff. It couldn't get much better could it? Yes it did. In the late fall of '65, December's Children crossed the Atlantic. Track 5, 'The Singer not the Song,' and track 9, 'As tears go By,' are seminal early Stones. You know, sometimes an unexpected visit from old friends can work a bit of magic back into the day.

P-Town county fair

"Summer time, summer time, sum, sum, summer time.." Time to wander out into the backyard and inspect the tomatoes, zuchs, basil and beans. Nothing too radical altering the fruiting, so it's off to the county fair today! Somewhere in the past there was always the tradition of county fairs, but we were adolescents made grumpy by the heat and the lines for a gawk at the exotic tattooed lady, the lizard man, or the bearded lady. In Cali, foodstands and livestock reign; the hot malasadas, and meat sticks morph to funnel cakes and corn dogs. Large outdoor pavilions holding sheep, and pigs, and goats, and bovine, all aglow from arduous brushing by their youthful attendants, proud 4H owners; it was good to see that. Later I wandered through the fareway rides appreciating the G-force as a spectator.

Pyrotechnics

Ah, yes, the explosions began late last night...who has time to ferret out a launch pad in the dark, away from the city's finest and slumbering boroughs?
Missing the point, man. On the 4th, after the 'que, the carbs, and the booze, gather up the family on the front porch; break out those cigars and just after the last slivers of the day have been knocked from view, break open the stash of, 'pink diamonds,' 'mighty man glo-fuze,' purple rain' and 'thunder candles.' Light up the sky with star showers. The glitter will trail sweet memories long after we're gone.