Sunday Slices

1. The Descendants. I learned a long time ago when a book is adapted to the screen, shit can happen. But I also came to understand that film translations are another person's canvas. I give you my recipe. You bake the cake. Where I used chocolate; you adopt vanilla. And so it goes. I went to Alexander Payne's film loaded for bear. On edge, I waited for some annoying haole slip. A faux reference; a cultural misstep; an egregious representation...white actors for Asians. Elvis' Hanauma Bay. Yup, I was laying in the weeds shamelessly. And well, when you're not mining for diamonds, but thinking of coal sometimes the cosmic joke is on you. The Descendants in a rather astonishing cultural homage moves seamlessly through the Hawaiian archipelago chain like the proverbial hot knife through butter. It doesn't miss a beat. Kamaaina's distilled through a malahini's lens accompanied by an outrageous soundtrack...nicely done, Mr. Payne. Shaka, bro.

2. Growing up, my canine hero was Rin Tin Tin. I preferred the handsome black and tan markings to the pointy nosed collie on the other telly channel. Milking the popularity of Rinty, H'wood churned out and filled the Saturday matinee screens: Rinty come home. Rinty in the wild. And Rinty at war. I'll never forget the first time that I saw a shell shocked dog in a war movie. The sweet lovable canine hero developed Cujo like instincts. Now, 50 years later, there are reports of dogs serving in Afghanistan and Iraq suffering from PTSD. Vets are treating dogs who have developed troubling changes in personality after increasing exposure to explosions and gunfire; some of the canines become hyper, and aggressive, while others become shy and timid. 'Man's' best friend...

3. More canine. Reports out of Salt Lake, Utah of a duck hunter shot in the pelvic region when his dog stepped on his 12 gauge shotgun laid across the bow of his boat.
27 pellets of bird shot were discharged. Think his safety was on? I'm just saying...

Butterball Tales

Rain on the horizon. Lots of wind leaking into the apt. Cold. Trying to make it into
December without lighting the furnace. But, I'm not holding myself to that pledge; flagellation not part of my religion. Yeah, 'that's me in the corner..' For the first time in 15 years, or is it 20, I am not making the annual sojourn up into the Sierra with my BFF, Jane and her family. The ecstatic birth of Jane's grandson, Luca, so close to thanksgiving precipitated an audible; everyone stays in the Bay Area. While walking in Mt. View the other day, I was tossing through my memories, and recalled that my T'day initiation as an adult was spent in San Francisco with the first girlfriend and the plastic wrapped butterball. We followed the printed directions. No fear. They had a hot line for rookies like us. I would have remembered burning the turkey. Or would I? I know that we had canned jellied cranberries. To this day, I still love the crimson ridged mass (some of us have our clandestine pleasures)... The 2nd significant T'day was spent with my sister at a small apartment we were sharing. We bought a butterball, was there anything else back then, and invited some friends over. I made a couple of pies. We named the turkey after a relative, and while the house filled up with delectable scents, spices, pan drippings, roasting bird, all the familiar chords, evoking past sentiments, we dropped Joni Mitchell's 'Blue'onto the turntable, fired up whatever was available and tucked in for the evening. Tomorrow, decades later, I'll be sitting down at a Thanksgiving table, for only the 2nd or 3rd time as an adult, with my sister; some things have changed. She's a vegetarian. Organic rules the roost. Ah, but, still some things remain the same. Love for the succulent dark. A private moment the following day with jellied cranberry mashed between 2 slices of bread and a mountain of left-overs. Stay warm. Good thoughts to you and yours.

'All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray....'

1. Jeeeeezuz. Last night I got Tebowed; I took the J-e-t-s to go gang green all over Denver. In the last 5 minutes, of one of the sorriest played NFL games, Tebow's passes were pitiful, and Sanchez, the J-e-t-s QB, regressing dramatically, (what do you expect he went to USC) the Denver Tebows drove 95 yards to win the game. Again. How is that possible? The legend continues.

2. The nation wide 'Occupy' movement finally got those apathetic Cal students up off their collective duffs and into Sproul. The UCPD slyly shadowing the inept political response to the 'Occupy Oakland' activists unleashed batons on students in a disturbing Bull Connorish assault. WTF? The image of the University took a nose dive, and only enraged and galvanized principles. This is....Berkeley. They do revolutions.

3. Pumpkins. Lucky devils. I baked 3 sugar pie candidates to use in breads and uh, well, pies. The affable orange squash is one of the great seasonal pleasures; in my own private idaho: Half Moon Bay, the land o'pumpkins, never gets old or storied. The magical fields run down to the ocean in slick digital orange profusions.

4. On the 30th Anniversary of Natalie Wood's death, she was the straw that stirred James Dean's drink in 'Rebel without a Cause,' the LAPD have re-opened the circumstances surrounding her death. I always thought there was something shady about her accidental drowning.

5. The 114th Big Game. Cal vs Stanford down on the Farm. Let this be swift and painless. Go Bears.

Say it ain't so...

Joe. There isn't enough institutional media spin in the known galactic world to hose, stem, or cap the stench of the colossal scandal that has settled over head football coach Joe Paterno, the former AD, and the former Vice President of Penn St. News sources this morning are now reporting that Jerry Sandusky the former Defensive coordinator of the football team, at one time considered the heir apparent to Paterno's head coaching position, who has been charged by the state Grand Jury with deviate sexual intercourse, corruption of minors, endangering the welfare of a child, and indecent assault could face further accusations; the number of known victims, currently 8, could climb as high as 20. The 2002 alleged assault of a 10 year old boy by Sandusky (already retired but who had access to the Penn St facilities) in the shower at the team's complex and the failure of then AD Tim Curley and Vice President Gary Schultz to report the incident to authorities as required by state law, reeks of the same disturbing amoral behavior repeatedly practiced by the Catholic church when confronted by priest pedophile accusations. There is nothing complex about these institutional cover-ups. It is egregious perpetuation: institution and reputation above all else; a blind eye turned, historically, to heinous acts against women and children. The adults who knowingly participated in the Penn St cover-up...talk is cheap. Remorse, just another word. And forgiveness? Not a fracking chance.

Russian Roulette...the Faultline

Last night as a joke, I emailed a friend, 'see you in 2012...Mayan.' My bad. The goddess doesn't like it when you screw around with ancient mythology. In retro, I should 'can' all doomsday references and take care of my own backyard S**t, the Hayward fault. The Hayward fault is the 'Bay Bridge' of fault lines; 2nd banana to the more powerful, publicity crazed San Andreas fault which shoots off a headline every decade or so. Everyone outside of Cali recognizes the glamorous San Andreas. The Hayward fault garners zero facial recognition. Nada. Except to the populations of Hayward, Oakland, and Berkeley, who reside smugly outside the San Fran glitz, basking in the shadow of the greatest University in the land (and I don't mean the one in Palo Alto), and harboring denial like it was a bogey man hiding under the bed until the Hayward goes off and rears. June 10, 1836, magnitude 6.7; the quake is felt as far away as Monterrey. Oct. 21, 1868, magnitude 7.0; this quake ripped fissures open and some city streets sank. For the past several weeks, the Hayward fault has been alleviating pressure, which, ok, is a good thing; several of the quakes have been centered in Berkeley close to the UC campus, and under the hills. When the epicenter is sitting beneath you, 3.9 feels damn big. And early this morning, 3.6, in the dark, felt like Godzilla was shaking the apt building. No joke. Why? Why do I continue to perpetuate my future demise by an act of nature which every single seismologist predicts is coming? The Hayward fault though, ripe for a monster shake, is not the stuff my nightmares are made of. In my dreams, it's always the same. On a beach or along the seashore. The water recedes and I'm running towards the sea wall. Sometimes I make it. And sometimes I don't. Get those earthquake kits up to date.

'There's a fog upon...'

1. In a strange retro mood last night. Almost but not quite channeling the 60's munchies, I craved something sweet and not wanting to bust into the hand packed pint of Fenton's pumpkin ice cream (wait for it, wait...) don't ask me why, even insane reasoning has it's moments, like some sort of Catholic school girl in purgatory, I circled the kitchen opening the freezer door, closing it, slamming cupboards, even checking the sorry popcorn, trail mix drawers, until my vision latched onto the 2 plump turkey figs (from the backyard tree planted by Lana) ripening on the window sill. Figs. Never crossed my palate until I was 30 something. But, I remember being with the 1st girl friend in the middle of the day on Polk St, sitting in a theater, watching probably one of the greatest cinematic fig scenes on celluloid; Alan Bates in DH Lawrence's 'Women in Love' comparing a split fig to female anatomical parts while devouring it. Uh, yeah. My favorite way to eat figs is to heat the oven at 425, placing all the figs on a tray and roasting in the oven until the juices start to render themselves from the flesh, and the fruit begins to split. Remove from oven. Serve over a pile of vanilla ice cream. I don't know what it was about the night, but not wanting to turn the oven on, I sliced the figs in quarters and threw a gigantic nob of unsalted butter into a pan. Placing the figs face down in the butter I let them caramelize. Turned them over once onto the skin side I let them cook some more. Dribbling brown sugar (a distant cousin of ice cream) on the soft syrupy goodness sent the plated dessert over the edge.

2. Spent an entire night watching Scorsese's, 'George Harrison, Living in the Material World.' HBO documentary. I teared up in unexpected places. The first time when the great Ravi Shankar played; the other moment came as a list of all of George's songs rolled up the credit screen. George Harrison. Gifted. The Enlightened one.

3. Bengal tigers. An endangered species. Population at approximately 2500. Yesterday in rural Ohio, after the owner of a County Animal Farm freed all the captive animals (lions, tigers, bears, wolves and monkeys) into the surrounding area and then killed himself, sheriff and deputies (safari fever) bagged almost all of the predators including 18 Bengals. Gdamn. Tranquillizing darts anyone?

...'Songs are like tattoos...'

1. Drawn away by personal matters, on the flight over to the islands, Talking Heads, The Commitments, Bob Wills and the Stones masking the turbo jet drone...damn, the food
was miserable. I have been known to frequent dives for a meal, but the sammie that was served wasn't fit for a dog kennel. On the other hand, this was the airline's 1st offense. Slacking my hunger with liquids, and sleep, I woke to spangled turquoise water and Diamond Head rising over the cluttered famed shoreline like an old familiar friend, a sentinel, hovering over 'the gathering place.' 89 degrees out. Wipe that smile off your face. Where are my slippas?

2. Leaves are turning. A slight snap in the air. Fall isn't just about the vaunted NFL or Division I NCAA conferences. They're chucking the ball all over the land. After school and under Friday night lights, it's happening now, baby. Telly ratings soar as football smaks baseball out of the prime time zone. This year the 'Ripley's Believe it or Not' story spiraled out of Pinckney Community High School in Michigan. Tradition dictates that at half time the students crown their homecoming queen. This year, the queen, Brianna Amat, #12 in shoulder pads and cleats, ran out of the Pinckney locker room and was crowned with a tiara. Brianna who tried out for the football team in the spring on the recommendation of her soccer coach made the squad as the field goal kicker. On 'Coronation' night, her team trailing 7-6, playing a rival ranked 7th in the state, with five minutes left in the game...uh, No fear. Brianna, 31 yards away, split the uprights. You think they tore down the goal posts at Pinckney, and hoisted the homecoming queen off the field?

3. Alabama. Sweet home not. WTF? In effect immediately after Judge Sharon Lovelace Blackburn ruled and upheld the strongest immigration law in the country. Thousands of Hispanics have begun mass exodus to border states.

4. A penny for your thoughts after listening to Mozart's 'Requiem' in flight.