Month: March 2005 (Page 1 of 2)

In addition to ten year old pictures and very liberal use of the term “curvy,” Internet dating is complicated by time and distance. Not enough and too much. Just tonight I received an email from a woman. Actually, it was a “courtesy reply,” which means you can blow someone off without actually writing a reply. This one read, “Thanks, but we live too far away from one another.”

I’m thinking I need a “teleporter” like on Star Trek. “Hey, Scotty, beam me over to “45butlook30’s” house, willya?”

Actually, in June of 2002, a team at the Australian National University managed to send a message using the same principles as the Star Trek teleporter. Now granted, I’m a little bigger than a message, but technology moves fast. They used a process called quantum entanglement, which coincidentally is just what I’m looking for.

Like any technology, this one would need a disaster recovery plan. I’ve been on several dates where I’ve wanted to be able to quickly extricate myself from the situation. This would work. I’d simply disappear. No uncomfortable chit-chat. No tab. Nothing but a sound.

Todays sunshine, warmth and disappearing snow brought me back to a happy time.

Appearing with a wanting smile and two mitts, both mine, the question was, “Dad, can I pitch some to you?” It seemed curious timing, as that morning I had begun my annual spring ritual of jogging to lose my “winter coat.” As a result, my aching legs had very little interest in the squatting position. “Yeah, sure,” I responded, and out to the street we went. The sun was bright and higher in the sky than it had been for all of that long winter when snowfall set all time records. On this day, small rivers, trickles of melting snow glistening in the sunlight, ran swift, carrying away the remains of unending winter storms. “Okay, just work on your control first,” I suggested, as the first offering sailed over my head on its way down the hill. My heavy, lifeless legs resisted the chase, but eventually carried me to the now wet, sandy ball. “Sorry Dad” was barely audible from up the street. “It’s alright,” I assured as I trudged up the hill and back into a squat. “WHAP,” the ball smacked firmly into my glove for a strike. “SKIT-WHAP,” the ball skipped low and slapped firmly into my thigh for a ball. “Sorry, Dad” again came lowly from up the street. The catch continued for awhile; the kid working on the mechanics of pitching, the old man working on leaden legs and the positive aspects of pain. Then the hurler’s throwing hand stayed in the glove too long before the ball arrived. Suddenly, the little face contorted as if every finger had been crushed. Limping toward me, I wondered why a limp was accompanying an injured finger… Anyway, after hearing just how bad it hurt and wiping away a few tears, it was back to business. To help ease the pain I advised, “It’s a good idea to wait until you catch the ball before you put the other hand in there.” The look returned indicated no amusement. The session continued. Finally, an errant pitch rolled into some bushes on the other side of the street. As I leaned down to retrive the ball, the wonderful scent of green filled my senses. The vision of fishing that ball from the bushes and smelling the season of spring brought me back years to those early spring games of catch as a youngster. Back to a time when playing catch was all that mattered. As I walked back and tossed the ball to a beautiful young lady named Jessica, I realized that at times, it’s still all that matters.

I do take requests, and this one is from my son, Kyle. He asked me to do a story about one of his favorite movies, Jaws. One of our favorite scenes is when Chief Brody (Roy Scheider) is scooping chum off the back of the boat. With the camera facing down toward the stern where the chief is working, he turns toward the bow of the “Orca” and shouts, “Hey, why don’t you come down here and chum some of this shit.” Suddenly, the massive Great White bursts up out of the water toward the Chief. He lurches back and is scared shitless.
In a classic understatement, he says, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” Thanks to Kyle for that great story idea.

While that was my sentiment earlier this week, today I’ve been thinking about the situation of Terri Schiavo apart from the maze of legal efforts and political exploitation. If she were the child who spent her first nights of life sleeping against your beating heart, could you just let her die? If she, as a toddler, ran into your arms each day you came home from work, could you just let her die? If that toddler broke down crying at hearing a song about a lion’s father dying, and blurted, “I don’t want you to die,” could you just let her die? If she sang like an angel and could elicit laughter with acting, could you just let her die? If there were even the slightest hope that someday medicine could light up her creative mind, could you just let her die? If she were your daughter, could you?

Other than watching the local sports teams occasionally, and the O’Reilly Factor more regularly, television isn’t too appealing. Exploitation and humiliation aren’t interesting to me, unless of course it’s of George Costanza, and that will hopefully be available forever in syndication. I met the short, beady-eyed actor once in an elevator at the Mandalay Bay in Las Vegas. He said he was “up for once” in the casino and went on his way. Like “the Meathead,” “Hawkeye Pierce,” and “Andy Sippowitz,” some actors achieve immortality through one character. Jason Alexander is forever “George.”

I’ve always been a fan of Denis Leary and his acerbic, biting comedy. It turns out he’s also a very good actor. In Rescue Me on FX, Leary plays Tommy Gavin, a New York City firefighter who battles inner demons that rage more furiously than the flames he’s paid to quell. Recently, I caught the last two episodes of season one late night after being woken by my own unsettled psyche. Rescue Me was on opposite much of the baseball playoffs, so unfortunately it was missed first time around. The writing is smart and sharp, and delivered at a snappy pace by a gritty cast.

In one of the most powerful TV segments I’ve ever seen, Tommy comes home to find that his wife took their kids and moved out. He completely loses it and starts destroying the house with a bat, all while “Fell On Bad Days” by Rubyhorse blares on the soundtrack. The scene fades out with Tommy standing in the middle of the destroyed living room, throwing back a bottle of vodka like it was cold water after a long firefight. The Season One DVD comes out in August.

…that’s where the answers have gone.” Those words were written and sung by Jay Farrar with his band Son Volt. At times in life, answers seem completely elusive, like true love, common courtesy and “the integrity of the game.” When it comes to matters of the heart, the search is further clouded by love or hate, fear, protective detachment, or a flesh and blood sense of responsibility. Accepting the fact there are sometimes no right answers, the decision making process is often comprised of asking and answering many questions. Am I enabling? Will he/she die if I don’t act? How will any decision affect others? If a serious negative affect(s) is possible or even probable, is it worth the risk? What else is being put at risk? What is my responsibility? How will any decision affect me? Is this just part of a “slow, sad end?”

Pain and pleasure. Shoveling snow and it’s a bright, sunny day, leaving no doubt that baseballs and golf balls will soon replace the snow filling our sky. During the evening of the storm, I snapped a few pictures, not knowing if the light would be sufficient. It was a quiet and beautiful scene. Once downloaded, I played around a bit with Microsoft Photo Editor to see if I could clean them up a bit. The color photo is raw, not altered at all, yet it seems to depict warmth on what was a cold winter night.

In contrast, this photo was “balanced” using the Autobalance feature, and then converted to monochrome. It appears cold, barren and lifeless.

We see the world through our own lenses. Even clear lenses can sometimes become foggy, unbalanced, or even splattered with rain. Experience helps us know when to clean the lens. Emotions can completely obscure the view or blur our perception to seeing things that aren’t really there. In that case, it’s good to have a friend with the patience help you see by wiping your lens clean.

After a trip to the big city two weeks ago, a Manhattan hangover still lingers. Following the remedy of “the hair of the dog that bit me,” I rented “Manhattan” (1979).

The colorless imagery captures the glory of the city from countless perspectives: the art museums, restaurants, city streets, Central Park at night from a horse drawn carriage, and the magnificent skyline. The signature image is the bridge shot, a scene that captures moments of intimacy just before dawn. Dwarfing the cinematography is the script. “Manhattan” was nominated for a best screenplay Oscar in 1980, and has one great Woody Allen one-liner after another. After he quits his job as a TV writer, Isaac (Woody Allen) describes his financial plight. One of my favorite lines occurs in a scene where Isaac and Mary (Diane Keaton) are strolling at night getting to know each other after an art opening. After Isaac tells Mary his ex-wife left him for another woman, she asks if he has any children.

Isaac – “Yeah, I have a kid. He’s being raised by two women.”
Mary – “Two mothers are absolutely fine.”
Isaac – “I always feel very few people survive one mother.”

Toward the end of the film, Isaac is laying on a couch dictating writing ideas…

“Why is life worth living? It’s a very good question. Um…Well, There are certain things I guess that make it worthwhile. uh…Like what… okay…um…For me, uh… ooh… I would say … what, Groucho Marx, to name one thing… uh…um… and Willie Mays… and um … the 2nd movement of the Jupiter Symphony … and um… Louis Armstrong, recording of Potato Head Blues … um … Swedish movies, naturally … Sentimental Education by Flaubert … uh… Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra … um … those incredible Apples and Pears by Cezanne… uh…the crabs at Sam Wo’s… uh… Tracy‘s face …”

What makes your life worth living?

This space was created after having great fun writing on my friend Jeff’s blog. He’s a gifted writer, he’s funny, and he’s quite insane. The combination makes for a very entertaining read. About a week ago, his site received a makeover and is now sporting an exquisite polka-dot motif, Jeff’s adoring homage to an icon of design.

The new look has me doing some heavy thinking about the polka-dot. What are the origins of the polka-dot? Did God create the polka-dot, or did they evolve as descendants of the square after millions of years of perfecting evolution? Some questions will remain unanswered.

Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, has a small mention of the polka-dot, but it doesn’t contain much on what can only be a rich and glorious history.

The polka-dot was thought to be extinct until sightings in London’s Carnaby Street neighborhood in the 60’s. The spot was the home of mod fashion, and the place where Bob Dylan likely began his abuse of the polka-dot after 1965.

In recent history, the polka-dot has become more used and exploited than ever. On ebay there are page after page of items that would be considered worthless kitsch except for one thing: They’re sporting the polka-dot.

Yeah, just slap some polka-dots on it and sell it. It sickens me. People protect the rain forests, but no one rises to defend the polka-dot. Thanks Jeff.

Lou Reed’s Rock n’ Roll Animal is one of my favorite live records of all time. “Heroin” is the second song and actually was on the Velvet Undergrounds first record, recorded in 1966. Turns out a couple chords even opened a TV commercial for the Nissan Xterra in 2003… Hey, heroin has come a long way.

I remember back when I was 7 or 8 at my grandmothers triple-decker in East Boston. Uncle Mitch was cool. He had a drum kit and all the Beatles records. He also had Jimi Hendrix records and a heroin addiction to match. Heroin killed Uncle Mitch and it’s now killing two other members of my family. One of them left a treatment center yesterday after over 90 days of sobriety. I guess she couldn’t fight the craving any longer. That decision, combined with many other bad ones before it, will now likely result in her losing her young children. How can anyone choose a drug over their own children?

Well I guess I just don’t know.