Desertification

Once upon a time, I resolved to work on my cultural awareness. I had left my position at the Kennedy Center a couple of months earlier. I wanted to expand my horizons, my experience, and so, in the course of setting my new year's resolutions, I decided to visit at least three embassies during the year. (It wasn’t exactly a stretch goal, but it was a start.)

My first opportunity arose rather quickly.

"Do you want to go to a wine tasting?" a friend asked.

"Sure," I replied. "Where?"

"The Embassy of the Republic of Uzbekistan."

"Um, okay… But I don't know anything about Uzbekistan." These were the days before the war on terror, before the expulsion of US troops, before the invasion of Afghanistan. "Is it close to Kazakhstan?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Don't worry," she coaxed. "It will be fun."

And I didn't worry. I prepared. I wanted to know more about our host than a possible location. These were also the days before Google entered our lexicon so I searched the web in the old-fashioned way, struggling to find relevant information before remembering the CIA World Factbook.

"Doubly-landlocked, Uzbekistan includes the southern portion of the Aral Sea," I shared with my friend.

"Great," she replied. "Can you print that stuff out? We should go."

On the metro, I assaulted her with facts.

"It does border Kazakhstan as well as Afghanistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan," I informed her. "Tajikistan… That's just fun to say."

"Uh huh."

"Main environmental concerns include the shrinking of the Aral Sea leading to desert… deserti… desertification."

"Desertification."

"As in it's turning to desert. Drying up."

"Interesting."

I pestered her with facts the whole way to the Embassy and we spent the rest of the night spitting them back to each other. The world's second largest cotton exporter. Gold. Gas. Oil. Turkmenistan and Tajikistan. Desertification.

Years later, over drinks and music, a boy I knew mentioned that a friend of his had recently written a book.

"What?"

"A book! He wrote a book!"

"About what?"

"Uzbekistan!"

"Oh," I screamed over the band. "Desertification!"

"What?"

"Desertification!"

"Oh! That's what the book's about!"

During a break in the music, we lowered our voices to a barroom shout and discussed the book, the country, his friend's adventures in Central Asia. The boy was a bit surprised that I knew anything about Uzbekistan, much less the leading environmental concern at the time. He was impressed.

Desertification just stuck with me.

Desertification
n. The transformation of arable or habitable land to desert

I knew it would come in handy some day, my preparation, my cultural awareness. Years later, it strikes me as the perfect word to describe my night. A couple of drinks with a friend and the ongoing dehumidification of my bedroom led to the ultimate desertification of my body and to dreams of water bottles glistening in the night.


Tag: Desertification Dehydration Uzbekistan Friends

Confounding

In the week in which it became available on DVD, I went to see Babel in the theater. One might say that movies are better seen on the big screen but one might also say that most homes have screens larger than those at the AMC Dupont Circle.

I didn't have a reason. I wasn't desperate to see the film but a friend invited me and friends are key. (Besides, I like movies and it was one of the contenders for Best Picture.)

In thinking about it now, the lyrics to Babylon race through my head. Another friend included it on a mixed CD that found its way into permanent rotation in the Jeep. Some Etta James. Some Liz Phair. Some David Gray. A strange mix and not one I'd pick but I probably have stories for each. Babel inspires thoughts of Babylon.

"If you want it, come and get it. Crying out loud. The love that I was giving you was never in doubt. Let go your heart; let go your head and feel it now."

My mind continues to race through song and memory. Borrowing Alas, Babylon from the High School library and images of steak floating in ice cream. If only they'd thought about the freezer. Struggling through Alexander in the movie room of a Turkish cave hotel, watching him fall ill and thinking "I don't care what happens to him. Colin Farrell looks wretched as a blond and I'm going to bed." Growing up in the church and learning about the tower of Babel, the confusion of languages.

Confusion.

I didn't know what to expect of the movie. Despite the hype, I was fairly ignorant. Interweaving stories. Trekking through the desert. Confusion and sadness coming together in a movie I heard I ought to watch once and quite possible never again.

In the words of Rotten Tomatoes, "In Babel, there are no villains, only victims of fate and circumstance. Director Alejandro Gonzalez Iñarritu weaves four of their woeful stories into this mature and multidimensional film."

The overlapping stories told of a woman accidentally shot while traveling in Morocco, the young goatherds who didn't mean to shoot her, the hunter who gave the rifle away and the children left at home with the housekeeper while their parents were unexpectedly detained due to the shooting. Frankly, it was a series of unfortunate events. Sad. And true to the name, it was confusing.

Nevertheless, I found myself gripped, eager to know more of the other stories while watching each segment. As a fan of The Corrections, The Tesseract, I liked the interweaving stories.

I liked not knowing how each one related. I liked the confusion. I even liked the visceral reaction, the anxiety, the tension; though, at one point I feared that I might toss my cheap red wine from the night before.

Despite critical acclaim and seven nominations, it only won a single Academy Award: Best Achievement in Music Written for Motion Pictures, Original Score. To each, his own, but as for me, I liked it.


Tag: Babel Movies

My comedy of errors

Long story short:
I wanted to write about Babel, about Ralph Nader and An Unreasonable Man. I wanted to respond to comments, to write about the Academy Awards or brunch with friends but I am tired and I am sore. Not only that, I had to cancel my brunch with friends. My apartment flooded because of rats. I fell down a flight of stairs, bruising my ego as well as my bum and the palm of my hand, which just plain hurts. My back hurts from shoveling and my head hurts from too little sleep and too much working. I'd cry if it weren't all so funny, my comedy of errors.

I'll write about the rest of life later. For now, I have to wait for a plumber.

Short story long:
"Call a plumber," she said and hung up on me, this from my human rights activist of a landlord. Seriously. She's a human rights activist/slumlord.

I sat, in shock, for a second or two. I knew she wouldn't care; I knew that she would be singularly unhelpful but I had standing water on my bedroom floor and a damaged ceiling and the water problem hadn't been fixed.

It started Saturday night. I feel asleep on the couch watching a movie, jeans and a t-shirt, two sweaters, contacts glued to my eyes. I awoke with a start sometime around four and staggered to the bathroom to peel the plastic from my eyes. A noise from the back drew me to the bedroom.

"Is it raining out?" I wondered. I stepped into my bedroom and jumped to the cold shock of water underfoot. Again, I thought, "Is it raining?"

I wandered to the front door and peeked through the Venetian blinds. I didn't see or hear anything outside and confusion seeped through my muddled mind. I went back to the bedroom and clearly heard running water. I just couldn't figure it out.

Tentatively, I stepped into the guest bedroom and found the floor dry. I peeked outside, where a clogged drain caused flooding nearly two years ago, but the stairwell was dry. Slowly, painfully, I started to actually wake up. I went back into the cold, wet bedroom and risked electrocution by standing in water and turning on a light.

A stream, a flow of water as steady as from a faucet to a sink, poured from a vent in the ceiling and splattered against the tile floors. I emptied a trashcan, dumping the contents onto my bed and placed it under the torrent. I stood, ankle deep in sodden laundry (on the floor and sorted for a morning trip to the laundromat), and looked at the dark, bubbling ceiling. The trashcan filled rapidly.

"I… I can't deal with this," I thought. I debated waiting versus waking the neighbors upstairs. I emptied the bin once and realized that the water flowed too fast to wait. I walked up the stairs and pressed the bell. 4:07 in the morning. Nothing. I pressed again and a light flashed upstairs. Eventually, I felt vibrations inside and fingers pushed open the blinds next to the door. I waved.

"Hi. Sorry to wake you but there's water pouring into my apartment."

Befuddled, the neighbor waved me in and struggled to understand my words.

"Water, in my bedroom? It's probably coming from your bathroom or kitchen." Both of which were over my room.

The sound of running water drew the man to the back of the apartment while his wife called down the stairs.

"David?"

"It's me," I replied, relying on voice recognition in a sleep-fugued mind, but it worked. She came downstairs and I tried to explain the situation.

Experimenting, David cut off the water to the washing machine and the sound stopped. He staunched the flow. We talked for a bit and realized that the only option was to call the landlord in the morning. Over the monitor, a baby coughed, a toddler stirred. I went home and crawled under blankets for the rest of my sleepless night.

I waited until a reasonable time, in my mind at least (9 a.m.), to call the landlord. I apologized and explained the situation that something had happened, a pipe burst in the middle of the night and flooded my bedroom.

"Call a plumber," she said and hung up on me.

The shock wore off and I looked up numbers for plumbers. I didn't really know who to call – I rent. I don't deal with plumbers. On the second try, a number connected and I explained the situation.

"Your landlord needs to call," said the man on the line.

"I know, but she won't."

"Your landlord needs to call; otherwise, we can't bill her."

"But she won't call."

I told him that I would take responsibility. I would pay. I just needed someone to fix the problem. He said that a plumber would be there by 11. I went upstairs but nobody answered. I went back down and drafted an email to my landlord, her preferred means of communication, stating that she needed to call but I'd arranged an appointment. I would pay but expected full and immediate remuneration. I expected her to come and inspect the damage, to let me know how she planned to address the standing water and damage to the ceiling.

She didn't respond. She still hasn't responded.

When I heard stirrings upstairs, I went up and explained the plan. In an attempt to double check the source, David wanted to turn the water back on, so I left to replace the trashcan under the vent. (I had emptied it when the flow stopped.) I slid and bumped down the snow and ice covered steps. The door opened.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah… I just fell down your steps."

I limped through my apartment, replaced the bin and hobbled back upstairs while my neighbor played with the water. He climbed onto the stacked machines and peered behind them while I twisted the knobs. He found the spray, a hole in the rubber hose leading to the washing machine.

"Definitely a rat. Look at the location, it's at the right level. They must have tried a different way into the house when we blocked the hole in the kitchen."

Rats. Great. A plumbing problem, water damage, mold and rats and our landlord wouldn't respond.

They, the neighbors, not the rats, handed me a key and prepared to leave. I didn't know how I ended up with responsibility for the plumber – I didn't own the house. The leak wasn't mine but I was the only one affected with sopping, molding laundry, standing water, water damage. I went back to my apartment to wait. I canceled my morning plans.

I pulled out the ShopVac, which I own due to prior flooding and unresponsiveness from my landlord and the dehumidifier, which I own due to a molding issue and unresponsiveness from my landlord, and I attempted to clean up the mess. I sorted and bagged my laundry, trying to keep running colors away from the whites. A red rug bled onto the floor, under the bed, staining the tiles and bed skirt and pooling in the shower where I draped it to dry. I cleaned hopelessly, exhaustedly.

Overwhelmed, I sank to the couch and fell asleep. When I awoke, I canceled my afternoon plans. I tried to work but I couldn't access one of the machines in my office. I sat and I waited. The neighbors didn't return. The plumber didn't come and outside, snow continued to fall.

When the plumber was officially four hours late, I called.

"We couldn’t get the trucks out."

"Okay… So, when are you coming?"

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Great."

I shoveled the walk and dug out my car. I called the laundromat to make sure they were open. I drove to Arlington to reboot a computer. That's it. To reboot a computer so I could work from home, which I'd been trying to do since Friday.

My brother joined me on the laundry run. I realized I'd have to go again. I could only carry so much of the heavy wet laundry. The sheets stored under the bed and soaking. The sheets on the bed. The other bed. They would have to wait. I think I threw out my back lifting the basket the first time.

When I got home, I made dinner for myself and my brother. I started working and worked for the next six hours, hunched over my laptop and laughing a little inanely and a little insanely at Ellen hosting the Academy Awards. I think I flipped my lid. By the time I crawled into bed, well after midnight, I could barely focus.

Now, 26 hours after my bedroom flooded, the dehumidifier continues to run. The plumbers haven't arrived. The neighbors have left, taking their keys and locking the holey pipe inside. I have work to do and eventually, I will have to leave my house. My palm is bruised as is my butt. My entire body aches from shoveling, sleeping on the couch, falling, and all I can do is laugh at my life.

Tag: Renting Plumbing Neighbors

Kristin the Great?

You are Catherine the Great. You are very intelligent and a socialist. It is very important to you that all people be treated equally in a society. You are able to fully comprehend social problems and you are outspoken when it comes to dealing with them. Take this quiz at QuizGalaxy.com

Well, I am certainly outspoken. And a little obsessed with "equality" and "fairness." Unfortunately, I know far too little about Catherine the Great. I wonder if she was the inquisitive sort, someone who'd google a historic figure to whom she was linked.

Apparently, we have more in common than [cough] intelligence and socialism, social equality and outspokenness. Interestingly insightful from a quiz of four questions. However, I did not received my education chiefly from a French governess and from tutors. I feel a bit slighted.

Cha-cha-cha-changes

In honor of his birthday, David of Draw Conclusions on the Wall created a list of the ways he's changed over the years, the ways he's stayed the same.

This one got me thinking. At first, all I could picture were the changes, but as I started to write, my words failed me. I struggled a little. All I could see where the ways I've stayed the same, and then I ended up with a longer list than intended. I have the feeling I'll be thinking about it for a while, actually.

Changes

• As a child, I cried when strangers talked to me. As a teen, I went days without saying a word. At some point, I gained a little confidence. I talk to strangers. I'm positively wordy now. Entirely too much so really.
• I appreciate editing: writing something, letting it sit for a while and coming back to it, editing, rewriting, re-editing and ending up with something better. I'm not that good. I'm getting better with practice. I guess I appreciate practice a little more.
• On weekends, I get up early(ish). I no longer see the merits of laying about all day, wallowing in sleep. Even if I crawl into bed after the break of day, I get up by 10, 11 at the latest. There's too much to do, too much to see. Life's too short to sleep through it.
• I know there are some things I just can't do. I'm never going to get an Academy Award or perform brain surgery. I'm never going to win a Grammy. I can't even carry a tune, but I am okay with that. I used to think I could be anything I wanted, I could do anything I wanted. For the most part, I still think it. I've just revised my wish list a little. I am better at figuring out what I want and how to get it.

Constants

• I love Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Of course, I don't buy them (or any other junk food that I love) but I think about it, in the grocery store, standing there looking at the display of brightly colored boxes, almost feeling the waxy snack cake residue on the roof of my mouth. I love 'em.
• I escape through books, learning and wrapping myself in the lives and experiences of others. I'm never going to live the life of a black man growing up in the South, but I can read Richard Wright and learn something, maybe even be a better person because of it.
• I read the comics first, even in the daily paper. Eventually, I get to the news but I always start with the funny pages.
• I stay up past my bedtime and struggle to get out of bed every single morning.
• I still believe in true love, magic, and God. Not necessarily in that order. I also believe in myself.

Of course, I'd love to see the same from, well, everyone. It really made me think.

Tag: Changes Tags

Illustrious illustrator

On Tuesday night, Art Speigelman, Pulitzer Prize winner, renowned graphic artist and creator of Maus, a pair of books that used comic form, mice and cats to portray the horrors of the Holocaust, addressed a crowd of hundreds at the Washington DC Jewish Community Center.

Speigelman began drawing professionally at age 16 and during the course of his illustrious career, his work has been featured in a range of media, from Wacky Packages and Garbage Pail Kids to the cover of The New Yorker. His newest book, In the Shadow of No Towers, describes his experiences during and after the September 11 attack on the World Trade Center.

All of these experience plus his role as teacher of history and the aesthetics of comics at the School for Visual Arts in New York melded into his presentation on Tuesday night. The lecture was an well-orchestrated mix of visual images, history and personal accounts.

The slides started accidentally during the introduction and he walked out from the wings of the stage.

"Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain," he quipped as he fixed the computer.

Moments later, he came back, cigarette in hand. In black jeans and graying hair, he took the stage with confidence and comfort. He talked about the history of comics in general and his interest in comics in particular, saying he learned to read from Batman, about sex from Betty and Veronica, about feminism from Little Lulu, about politics from Little Pogo. He said he sacrificed his own (rather valuable) comic book series in teaching his children to read.

The slides complemented his stories and his stories, the slides. When a technical glitch cut the connection between the podium and the projector, the presentation ended rather abruptly and Speigelman struggled to describe the pictures only he could see. Fortunately, it didn't happen until near the end of the lecture.

Unfortunately, it happened at all. Speigelman was an engaging and entertaining speaker, easily offering "I was reading an old issue of Playboy" as part of the inspiration for one strip and showing how words, font and timing choreographed a sex scene with only text and word stems in black boxes.

He flashed an illustration from an old German children's book and talked about stereotypes, the Aryan worker, a Jewish man.

"Which one's a Jew?" he asked the audience at the DCJCC. The crowd laughed. "I rest my case."

Some of the images were offensive, the "types of man," the stereotypes used to establish characters. He talked about the recent controversy surrounding the comic featuring the Prophet Mohammed and the call in Iran for comics on the Holocaust.

Through his own work in The New Yorker, in RAW, in the Maus books, Speigelman has shown comics as something more than entertainment, that they can be used to communicate strong sentiments through images and limited text. Some of his images have generated controversy, with readers reacting almost violently, certainly verbally, to their own interpretation of images.

Speigelman spoke as part of the Nextbook series, "A Gateway to Jewish literature, culture and ideas." The event had long since sold out by the time we sought tickets but my brother and I took the advice of the website and showed up just in case seats became available. We joined the queue at the door and were lucky enough to not only get seats but to get free seats as an unknown benefactor donated tickets.


Tag: Art Speigelman Authors Books

Juxtapositions

"Can I get a veggie burger?" I asked.

"Do you want cheese on that? Bacon? Anything?"

I paused for a second. "Bacon?" I wondered and ordered bleu cheese. I'd actually never had anything but cheddar on a veggie burger but I thought I'd branch out. People seemed to enjoy it on burgers and as a rule, I enjoyed the cheese of azul. I was a bit thrown off by the bacon, however.

Meat on a veggie burger.

Fortunately, I was not alone in noting the oddity. (Sometimes I wonder if oddities exist only inside my head.)

"Bacon?" Ross asked. "On a veggie burger?"

Andrew laughed and John noted that he'd been a vegetarian for 12 years and had never been offered bacon on a veggie burger. Ross said he'd actually done it, topped a vegetarian friend's burger with bacon. The friend was not amused but the thought made me laugh.

I laughed hard and often at RFD as we debated blogs and ads, the merits of frozen food and substitute meat products. I was not much of a fan, but Abi, a microwave meal maven, had positive things to say about Morningstar Farms buffalo chicken-less wings, other than the whole puking thing.

She recommended the wings in moderation.

For me, the February Blogger Meetup consisted of discussion and laughter, a bacon-less veggie burger and time with friends old and new. I ran into Valerie and Matt, bloggers and friends, outside. I enjoyed my time with the people at the north end of the table plus Nikolas. Martin. Rob, the delayed host. Jamy, for a little while and from a distance.

It struck me as funny on the way home, this random group to which I belonged. My brother and friends from home. Friends from here, people I met before I read and people I read before I met. The group talked Section 508 compliance as easily as wrap dresses and Target sales and our blogs were just as varied.

Strangely enough, we continued to find ourselves together, making conversations and making connections. Laughing. Honestly, we couldn't be any stranger than a veggie burger with bacon.


Tag: Blogger Meetup Washington DC

The Supreme Court

According to the local news, it was the first morning with temperatures above freezing in 36 days, but it was still cold. The ground was covered in ice and snow. I stomped my feet, trying to improve my circulation, trying to regain feeling. I wore a hat, a scarf, gloves, but I longed for the warmth of the heater in my office.

It was a workday and I had several meetings scheduled. Even though I'd called my client (twice) about missing work, I considered leaving, going to work, skipping the whole thing. Just off a three-day weekend, I had much to do. Just off any weekend, I always had much to do and I wasn't even sure I'd be admitted.

I looked at the time on my phone, debating whether to just go to work or to wait it out. I jumped around a bit, working on the circulation.

"If I leave now, I could make my meetings," I thought. "If I leave now, I'll warm up."

Strangely enough, I stayed. I pulled my book from my bag and focused on Richard Wright.

"She was just saying she wished she had a book," observed a woman in front of me. She motioned to a girl who was obviously her daughter.

"I always have a book with me," I replied. "You never know when you're going to have to wait."

I read a little, listening to their conversation. She wished herself a cup of coffee and I looked up. I offered directions to the nearest coffee shop and we started talking, about coffee, books, vacation. The mother left in search of coffee. The girl and I talked about family and school, travel and work. When her mother returned, we continued to talk.

Every time the line shifted, when the police officers approached, when the quarter hour approached, we hoped for admission or information. Something. Anything. The line divided and people queued for a chance at three to five minutes in the courtroom. We waited in the line to stay.

Over the hours, friendships formed. The boys behind us were first-year law students. The woman and her daughter were on a two-week history trek, visiting from North Carolina, from Boone.

"I've been to Boone before," I said, in surprise. "It's beautiful there."

My friend's mother and stepfather had a mountain house in Boone. My friend was actually the reason I was there, in line for court that day. Her father took second chair in the first argument of the day. The Supreme Court. I told my new friends that and they were almost as excited as I.

Eventually, we made it into the courthouse, through the first round of security and into the coat check. We shed our overcoats, hats and scarves. We left our phones, cameras, notepads and pens. We checked our reading materials and formed a quiet line in the Great Hall, in front of busts of the former Chief Justices and under medallions of lawgivers and heraldic devices.

Police officers patrolled the line and hushed us. "Shhhhhhhh!" A young woman in a gray suit and high heels clattered her way past us, running to an echoing "clickety clack." We whispered quietly, nervously awaiting our entrance.

Finally, a man in a suit motioned us to the metal detectors. I sounded the alarm – twice – and a man waved a wand halfheartedly over my chest, arms and legs. I turned and he scanned the air four inches from my back. He nodded and I walked toward the doors. The woman and the girl, my friends from line, joined me.

We crammed into seats in the back, pressed against one another and straining to see, straining to hear. The heat and steady drone of voices lulled me into a daze as I lost time staring at the angry man with an earpiece. I shook myself out of it. I listened intently to the arguments, to the questions. Justice Breyer asked so many. Scalia. Ginsburg. I wondered if they were particularly interested in sentencing or if they were always so vocal.

I recognized a man behind the bench, a friend of a friend. I knew he worked at the court but I didn't know his role. I definitely didn't realize that he sat right behind the justices. I consulted my brochure. Later, I consulted the website. Marshal's Aide, I think.

I saw my friend's father from a distance. Later, I saw my friend and her husband as they left between arguments; I stayed. Suddenly, it was over. All of it. Over. The pound of a gavel and we were dismissed. I met my friend's father in the hall and talked to him for a minute or two. I retrieved my things from the locker and said "goodbye" to my friends from line. I headed out through the doors and into the bright, midday sun.

As I walked down the steps, I turned and snapped a few pictures of the building with "equal justice under law" emblazoned across the front. I felt a rush of excitement and headed back to work.


Tag: Justice Supreme Court Washington DC

Dirty old man

Ages ago, I studied mythology. Actually, we studied Edith Hamilton's Mythology. I could never quite say why it appeared in our English class, other than the fact that Miss Conway followed the beat of her own drum or syllabus as the case may be.

The goddess Venus figured prominently in my adolescent mind. Her story told of fertility, love and pleasure. Of course, I also valued Athena, born of Zeus's head and the Goddess of Wisdom. I was a bit of a nerd, but Venus. Venus was beauty and love itself.

Often seen as the bright, silvery morning or evening star, Venus is the brightest object in the sky after the sun and the moon.

On Friday, I saw a modern Venus, the film starring Peter O'Toole, the film for which he has received his eighth Oscar nomination.

The aging actor portrays an aging actor, content in nearing the end of life and whiling away his days with friends. Suddenly their worlds are turned upside down by a brash 20-something-year-old. She was intended to take care of her uncle but spent more time tramping about in short skirts, drinking his beer and eating everything in sight.

Jessie brought something to life for O'Toole's Maurice. She made him feel again – hope, sadness, desire, life. It was a strange juxtaposition, the charming, despicable septuagenarian and the bawdy, callow young woman. The sexual interest should have been obscene, with a 50-year age gap.

"I'm impotent, of course, but I can still take theoretical interest," Maurice professed but his interest was anything but theoretical. He was a dirty old man, for all intents and purposes, but then, again, he wasn't.

The movie was beautiful. Funny. Raw. It made me laugh and broke my heart. I'd say it streaked my cheeks with tears, but I seem to be getting a reputation as a crier. It made me think on beauty and love. It made me think on aging and mortality. It made me think of Dylan Thomas, someone we should have studied in Conway's English class.

Do not go gentle into that good night
by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.


Tag: Venus Movies Peter O'Toole

A snowy Sunday in February

It might have been the beer or the wine, possibly the jäger or Crown or Jack.

I showed up at a half past 11 with an 8-pack of Gatorade in one hand, coffee and doughnuts in the other. I knocked but there was no answer. I used my keys.

"Hey! Coffee!" I called. From the back of the apartment a low grunt rumbled. "Gatorade. Drink this; you'll feel better."

With his eyes closed, he held out his hand for the bottle. I put the coffee on the nightstand and returned to the living room.

"How are you?" I asked the girl in jeans, the girl wearing clothes from the night before plus slippers.

"Pretty good, but this place in a mess."

Beer bottles. Trays and platters and plates of food. Napkins. Chairs. Stools in disarray.

"What happened to the couch?"

"I don't know. It wasn't like this before, was it?"

White fuzz covered the purplish brown sofa, balling in places and blanketing the pillows.

"Was someone wearing a white sweater?"

"I don't remember... I don't remember a lot about last night."

We cleaned up the remnants of the party, washing dishes, emptying bottles, wiping down tables. We sat in the living room, looking at the fuzz and drinking Gatorade. All was silent in the back of the apartment.

"So, what are you doing today?"

"I don't know."

She'd come to town for the long weekend, a mini-vacation in the Nation's capitol. Thus far, she'd navigated the slippery sidewalks of Georgetown with a friend from home, freezing, shopping and picking up a couple of knockoff purses. She'd gone out for dinner and drinks. She'd gone out for party supplies. She partied and she cleaned.

We talked about the party a bit, about the boy hitting on me. In the middle of the night, he crawled into bed with them. He rolled over and fell off the bed; he awoke when his head bounced off the floor. He said he sleepwalked.

"Was he sleeping on the couch?"

"No. I think he was in the apartment next door."

"Nice. Brunch?"

She changed out of her party clothes while I played on the computer, trying to project Spaced onto the wall across the room. She checked on the boy and found him sleeping with the Gatorade bottle tucked under his head. He moved at the sound of our voices.

"You should drink that."

"I think it will make me puke."

"Want a doughnut?" He shuddered. I giggled.

"Want us to leave?" He nodded.

We went to brunch. Huevos rancheros. An omelet. Bloody Mary. We drove through the city, snapping pictures through the salt- and snow-streaked windows. Parking, we braved the wind to take pictures of the frozen Tidal Basin, the Jefferson, the World War II memorial. We drove past the Lincoln, across the Memorial Bridge into Virginia and toward the cemetery and back into the District. We planned to park and visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial but a sudden mini-blizzard kept us in the car.

We drove through Potomac Park and onto Hains Point in 4-wheel drive and suddenly, the sun broke free and the snow stopped for The Awakening.

"Wow," she said of the sculpture.

We decided to brave the west end of the mall, given the break in weather, but the snow started again as soon as we'd parked. Whipping wind and horizontal snow reddened our cheeks and ran our noses, but we visited the Korean War Memorial, the Lincoln, and we found her great uncle's name on the wall of black granite. Photos and a rubbing, courtesy of a volunteer. Both of us lost feeling in our fingers and our legs numbed.

She could barely walk in her high-heeled boots, but we continued the day, heading to the National Portrait Gallery, winding our way around and up, up and around through floor after floor of paintings and photographs, posters and busts. He called when we were on the top floor. He'd just gotten out of bed, ready to start his day. The museum closed a few minutes later.

The sun had long since set.

I barely knew this girl, a girl from my hometown. We had friends in common, places in common but not much overlap. She was in town for the weekend and I didn't have plans. I didn't want her experience in DC to consist of waiting, cleaning, shopping. We had a great day.


Tag: Washington DC Snow Friends Tourism

Amazing Grace

"I feel like I just sat through a two-hour history lesson. I know so much more now than I did before."

Doubt crept into her voice, the woman walking out of the theater before me. I couldn't quite tell if she enjoyed the film or not. Then, again, I couldn't quite tell if I enjoyed the film or not.

Elected to the House of Commons at the age of 21, and on his way to a successful political career, William Wilberforce, over the course of two decades, took on the English establishment and persuaded those in power to end the inhumane trade of slavery. (From the Offical Website)

Michael Apted (The World is Not Enough, Coal Miner's Daughter) directed Amazing Grace from an original screenplay written by Academy Award® nominee Steven Knight (Dirty Pretty Things). The film starred Ioan Gruffudd (Black Hawk Down, Fantastic Four) as Wilberforce.

The story was one well-worth telling – informative, inspirational and moving. Unfortunately, it was also slow. For much of the film, I found myself focusing on the ridiculously wrong shade on Romola Garai's lips (did the makeup artist not realize how it would compete with those auburn curls?) or Rufus Sewell's shoulder-length locks.

"His hair looks terrible," I thought. "I wonder if it would look better with glossing spray... or maybe a different part."

Definitely not appropriate thoughts for such a serious movie. I found myself wondering when something might happen. Of course, that might have been the point.

Wilberforce fought "tirelessly" for decades to convince Parliament, and the film covered all of the stages of his progress, from young Parliamentarian to social reformer, touching lightly on his inspiration in John Newton, the slave-trader cum minister who wrote the words of the title song.

The road to abolition was neither short nor smooth. It would take 20 years to end the British trade in enslaved people and almost 30 more before slavery itself became illegal. During the struggle, Wilberforce suffered from an ulcerative colitis leading to an opiate prescription, eye and lung problems and curvature of the spine.

It was not filled with action, romance, or intrigue, but by the end, it moved me to tears. It was a story worth-telling and it was well told, if slowly.

Days later I continued to think on it, the struggle, the determination, the inspiration. One man, though certainly not alone, did so much to change the world for better. What might the rest of us do if we put our minds to it?

Amazing Grace
Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ’d!

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis’d good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the veil,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call’d me here below,
Will be forever mine.


Tag: Amazing Grace Movies

The thing about being a klutz

The thing about being a klutz is that people expect me to fall down. Regularly. And they offer little to no sympathy when I do, ignoring, laughing, or mocking my misfortune, embarrassment and pain.

The thing about being a klutz is that I have gotten used to it.

I didn't mind when a friend called, emailed and text messaged me on Tuesday night to warn me of the slippery sidewalks and advise that I leave work immediately, do not pass go, do not collect $200. After all, she's a bit of a klutz herself and we both fall down. A lot.

"It's really, really slippery out... I wanted you to go home from work! :) I almost fell several times.. it was crazy," she wrote in warning, but I could not leave. I had work to do, groceries to buy, hours before I could even think about going home.

By the time I left, a thick glaze covered Capitol Hill. Around the businesses, Eastern Market Metro station, Yes! Organic Market, the sidewalks were clear but the neighborhoods were treacherous.

The thing about being a klutz is that I tend to walk very, very carefully. And wear sensible (albeit ugly) shoes on days requiring more walking than standing or more standing than sitting.

On Tuesday night, as I made my way along the slick sidewalks of Capitol Hill, I actually walked my normal speed. I watched my feet more than usual but moved quickly through the night. A rattle grabbed my attention and suddenly I felt a biting pain in my leg.

"What the…" I looked up and saw a city truck salting the roads, cars and my legs. "Ouch!"

I could hear the salt pinging off cars parked along the road. A minivan tried to pass, edging forward and side to side before giving up and settling a safe distance behind the salt slinger. I pulled my grocery bag in front of me, hoping the hummus and cereal would protect me from the stinging pellets of road safety.

Eventually, slowly, the truck moved down the street and out of shooting distance. I made it home without incident. Score one for the klutz.

On Wednesday morning, the clatter of ice on glass scared me out of sleep. I looked outside. I looked at the clock (4:04 a.m.) and groaned. I tried to bury my head under pillows but the rattle kept me awake for ages. Eventually, I drifted back to sleep. When I awoke, I realized the state of DC – slushy, snowy, icy DC - and I danced a happy pajama dance for working at home.

An hour later, I pulled on cords and boots and grumbled my way to the office. One of my computers revolted and wouldn't allow access from home. Slush shifted underfoot on unshoveled sidewalks, wetting my cuffs, climbing into my boots and reminding me of the beach.

The thing about being a klutz is that unsure footing scares me. With good reason. Even sand unnerves me. I tore every ligament in one of my ankles at the beach. It hurt for months.

I was the only employee in my office; though, a large group of somebody's clients assembled in the Large Conference Room. I wondered to whom they belonged and who let them in. I hoped they stayed away from my office. Eventually I fixed my computer, or so I thought, and made my way through the stiffening slush home.

My neighborhood made the news that night with people walking in the streets, eschewing the dangerously slippery sidewalks.

On Thursday morning, I thought about returning to the office. I went outside, looked at the blanket of ice-encrusted snow covering the still unshoveled sidewalks and returned to comfort of my couch, computer and working in pajamas. Hours later, showered and overworked, I struggled out into the gloaming.

I slid to the Metro station, skating in thin-soled boots over inches of hard-packed snow and ice. For a second I felt like Legolas, from The Lord of the Rings, or the anorexic in Girl, Interrupted – too light to break the crust of snow, and then I realized that nobody broke through the thick, shiny, death in white.

I climbed mountains of snow, crested and crusted in piles blocking crosswalks, blocking curbs. I skated across lakes of ice three-, four-, five-inches thick resting in the ramp between sidewalk and street.

This morning, Friday morning, the sidewalks were even worse. Thick sheets of ice melded atop inches of hard packed snow. While the city addressed surface streets, many of the sidewalks remain covered, untouched by the city, businesses and homeowners alike.

I fear my evening commute and the freezing weekend ahead.

The thing about being a klutz is that I don't need any help. I fall down well enough on my own.


Tag: Klutz Ice Snow Washington DC

Surviving: A Valentine's Day Recap

From tips for "surviving Valentine's Day solo" to calling it Black Wednesday, dressing in black and attending anti-Valentine's parties, singletons seemed to "cope" with the lovers' holiday in many different ways. As for me, I didn't get the hype.

Granted, I missed the days of Valentine's boxes, of addressing cards for every kid in the class. Bees buzzed around hearts inscribed with 'bee mine" and birds proclaimed "You're tweet." I longed to give cards with lollipops, chocolates or gum but Mom only let me choose from the boxes of 20 tiny little cards with 20 tiny little envelopes. A card for everyone and everyone with a card. No bells. No whistles.

In fourth grade (or was it fifth?), my boyfriend made a Valentine studded with conversation hearts. Wisely, I decided against eating the pasted hearts. I was in fourth or fifth grade, old enough to avoid eating paste but not old enough to move beyond gaining a boyfriend through a note "Will you be my girlfriend – yes, no or maybe (circle one)?"

I circled yes.

Valentine's Day meant a chance to be creative, to build a box, to glue and paste, to color and stick. My sister built a robot one year, wrapped in aluminum foil and quite possibly the coolest thing I had ever seen. (Three years my senior, she was then (and remains) the greatest thing since sliced bread.) Another year, I made myself a jam box – not quite as cool as the purple plastic one in my room but cool enough as classmates slid valentines into the tape deck. Très chic.

Valentine's Day meant cupcakes in the classroom and the off chance that Mom would cave and buy Little Debbie "Be My Valentine Cakes" instead of the cheaper and longer-lasting Oatmeal Creme Pies or Star Crunch. (One went in the lunchbox with a buttered baloney sandwich on Roman Meal, an apple and a thermos of milk – chocolate if I was lucky, white more often than not.)

Valentine's Day meant making wretched little Valentines in art class; they went to our teachers and parents. I bought my mom mysteries from the bookstore downtown and a flower or two. I didn't know about color or meaning, that yellow carnations signify rejection, daisies deem innocence and loyal love, lilac roses offer mystical properties. I bought what I could afford with my allowance in colors I liked.

She was lucky she didn't get a Shrinky Dink unicorn in a heart.

Valentine's Day meant cards for friends and gifts for my mom, the one person I knew I loved. I don't know when it changed.

In seventh grade, we bought flowers for our secret loves. In eighth grade, we purchased paper hearts that went on a board in the hall. I was devastated when Ryan Myers started dating a seventh grader with my initials. Months later, I reveled when she succumbed to mono, missed weeks of school and puffed up like a marshmallow from the steroids.

In high school, I vaguely remember baking heart-shaped sugar cookies for a dance and slipping tiny little Valentine's in tiny little envelopes into the slits at the top of friends' lockers.

I don't remeber a single college Valentine's Day, despite having the same boyfriend for at least two of them. I doubt we did anything. I have a hint, a glimmer, a shimmer of a memory of red gummy hearts in the storeroom at work. A small paper sack of conversation hearts. Decorating the already pink store with hearts.

I barely think of it now but for the glut of suggestions and survival hints.

A couple of years ago, I flew to London for a pair of sold out plays (for which I didn't have tickets). On hearts day, I waited in line for "day tickets," a handful of seats in the last row, released on the day of the performance. I counted on Valentine's breakups for returned tickets and the chance at a better view.

For the first show, I sat in the last row. For the second, the first. I could smell the makeup.

This year, I posted a love story that a stranger told me to rewrite with a happier ending, despite the fact that it was real, my story from my life. I thought about going to a midday movie but worked like a grown up. I talked to friends. Family. I bought gifts for my brother and sister. I bought myself a Valentine's doughnut. With sprinkles.

I didn't hide or deny the day. I didn't need to "embrace the holiday even though I was single." I didn't need to drink my singleton sorrows away. I enjoyed a nice dinner with my brother. A fire. A book. It was a good night if only another snowy, slushy, icy Wednesday in February.

If I think about it, I might buy myself some Little Debbie Valentine Cakes and some Shrinky Dinks, in honor of my childhood and Valentine's Days of days gone by.


Tag: Valentine's Day Shrinky Dinks Little Debbie

Chocolate chip cookies

I wanted nothing more than a chocolate chip cookie, warm from the oven, breaking into gooey, almost undercooked halves, chocolate melting. Maybe it was the cinnamon, the spice, the brown sugar from the soup on the stove. Maybe it was the fire. The ice outside. Saint Valentine's Day.

I used to make him cookies, the boy I adored. I didn't note when it started but I remember the day I forgot.

"No cookies?" he asked, half-plaintive, half-joking.

"What?" I asked.

"Cookies? You always make me cookies."

With a start, I realized it was true. The night of our first dinner together, I made chocolate chip cookies. I baked half a dozen in my little toaster oven and refrigerated the rest of the dough. Every night after that, I made cookies. I used up the dough and made more.

I sent cookies home with him after Christmas. He was supposed to be in Montana or Idaho but he came back to spend the holiday with me. I rushed my family out the door.

"I love you," I said. "I just need to clean, to shower, to bake... You were going home, right?"

My sister laughed at me, kissed my cheek and left, husband and babies in tow. He arrived, dinner in hand. We sat basking in the glow of the fire and the glory of the tree we had decorated together while chocolate wafted overhead. From where I sat, I could see the absurd ornament he'd bought at a rest stop on the New Jersey turnpike - his first gift to me.

After the Super Bowl, I sent him home with a tin of cookies. Over the next several weeks, the tin would reappear, fill with cookies and disappear again.

We went out the day before Saint Valentine's. It made sense at the time. He gave me a Ziploc of pound sterling for my weekend trip to London; I gave him a CD, half a dozen books and a tin of cookies. He called on the day to make sure I knew I was "appreciated."

I knew.

Chocolate chip cookies on cold winter nights. When I remember him, that's what comes to mind. Chocolate chip cookies. Russet freckles. Fires burning gold and bronze, fawn and sienna. Dark brown curls and dark brown eyes.

The first time I met him, all I could remember was his eyes, those warm brown eyes glinting with humor.

Sometimes, I think of the way things fell apart, the shuffle off to friendville, the fading away of everything over several months. I catch a shadow of him on the Metro, the curls, his gait and my heart breaks anew. I think of ending things with "you're not a bad friend; you're a bad person," but most of all, I think of the cookies.

I wonder if he thinks of me with chocolate chip cookies. I kind of hope I've ruined them for him.


Tag: Valentine's Day Cookies Chocolate Chip

What a Party!

Larger than life, that's how he seemed. Larger. Or louder, at least. He entered with a flourish and an entourage, 15 minutes late for his own reading.

"There's my girlfriend," he called, striding past the waiting crowd at Olssons to hug a woman with graying hair standing at the back. Enroute to the podium, he smiled and joked with audience members. He patted my friend on the shoulder. She looked up in surprise and confusion as he continued up to the front.

The crowd in the small, suburban DC store waited to hear more about his book: What a Party! My Life Among Democrats: Presidents, Candidates, Donors, Activists, Alligators and Other Wild Animals. According to some, Terry McAuliffe's book is the "must read" memoir of the year.

Others have had less positive things to say of the book. With reviews ranging from "more fun than informative" (St. Petersburg Times) to "more full of crap and less self-aware than probably any other human being on God’s green earth" (Townhall.com), "must read" seems a big of a stretch, but he's got the support of his friends behind him.

Amazon attributed President Bill Clinton with, "I thought I knew Terry McAuliffe as well as anyone, but this time he surprised even me. Who knew Terry could sit still long enough to give us a book this good? What a Party! is a must-read for all of us who love politics, believe in public service, and know that laughter is often the best survival strategy."

Additional recommendations included President Jimmy Carter and Senator Hillary Clinton with high-ranking quotes for a high-ranking member of the Democratic party. The former chairman of the Democratic National Committee heads Senator Clinton's campaign, but it wasn't the presidential bid McAuliffe came to discuss. He came to talk about himself and his book.

Publishers Weekly claims he "lives up to his nickname Mad Dog in this boisterous memoir." If the stories he told were any indication, the allegation might be true.

The dogged fund-raiser, who once wrestled an alligator for a $15,000 contribution, raised a record $578 million as DNC chairman and more than $1 billion total for his party, according to the Washington Post. He told stories of events, the 260-pound alligator, singing karaoke - badly - for the sake of donations.

"I'll do anything once to raise money," he said. "Not twice."

He has his work cut out for him. The Associated Press reports that Clinton hopes to raise $15 million by the end of March and more than $75 million before 2008.

"We have to fight," he said of the upcoming election, of elections past. "If we're not going to fight, we're not going to win."

McAuliffe seemed a man accustomed to winning. He told of winning his one case. Undefeated record, as it were. He also bragged of being in the top one-percent of the country, financially, personally, as well as raising large amounts of money for the party.

"I love to ask people for money," McAuliffe said. "I don't know if it's in my DNA."

Al Gore has called him "the greatest fundraiser in the history of the universe."

Salon calls him "a brash and unabashed self-promoter, who has utilized those gifts to become the best fundraiser in the modern history of his party."

He was charming and funny. The crowd laughed often and deeply, but I walked out wondering about the etymology of glad handing, the meaning of pandering.

I trusted him about as far as I could throw him. I trusted him as much as I'd trust any man his age, any age, in a Dewey Beach bar, a spot he said he enjoyed, but he didn't need to be trust-worthy. He needed to tell a good story and I'll give him that. He made us laugh. The book just might do the same.


Tag: Terry McAuliffe Olssons Books

Playing hooky

A mental health day. That's what I told my boss, but it felt more like hooky. Friday afternoon and I wasn't at work. I could almost forget that I worked each of the past 12 days, including that morning. For the moment, for the afternoon, I was free.

I worked from home Friday morning. I had worked from home late Thursday night, too, because I needed to get work to Amsterdam before my counterparts got into the office. Six hours ahead, three in the morning.

On Friday, I struggled to wrest myself from the arms of sleep, but I figured that if I didn't get additional work by 10:30 or 11, when the Europeans headed out for the weekend, I was clear.

My boss took Friday off. Someone else planned to leave by one and half of my clients/teammates were either on their RDO (regular day off) or traveling. I sat on my couch and pounded the keys for a bit, constantly checking my email and constantly checking the clock. At 10:45, I sighed with relief, grabbed my keys and my coat, a soda and my purse and I left. I went to an 11:15 movie on a workday.

Two people entered the lobby in front of me, queuing at cashier while I hit the kiosk. The smell of fresh popped corn wafted up from the concession stand downstairs and on the escalator, while I rode down, I passed a woman popping kernels in her mouth. At 11:13 on a Friday morning.

At the stand, in the empty lobby, a man shouted, "Hello" and looked around anxiously for a concessionaire. I looked for an usher myself and, as I approached the abandoned stand, examined my ticket, trying to figure out which half I'd leave. A man appeared as I deliberated and tore my ticket in half.

The theater was empty but for a couple in the row behind me. I lost myself in the movie, in Pan's Labyrinth. Occasionally, I grew aware that I was freezing but promptly forgot as I found myself on the edge of my seat, wondering where the movie might go. Half understanding the words, half reading the subtitles, my forgotten Spanish returned in bits and pieces, familiar and comforting.

When the movie ended, the cuddling couple and I remained in our seats for a while, watching the credits roll. I realized that I was done making myself want to cry – the movie was just so depressing – and walked into the cold bright day.

It was only 1:30 and I was not at work.

I walked over to the National Portrait Gallery, which reopened in July after several years of reconstruction. I'd never been to the museum.

I found the preamble spelled out in license plates, challenging my memory and my ability to decipher the shorthand of personalized plates. I wandered through the marbled halls, looking at photographs and paintings, reading stories of both the artists and the subjects.

On the second floor, an exhibit entitled "Josephine Baker: Image and Icon" followed her contribution to the Jazz Age through photos, posters, prints and paintings with a bit of video.

"In celebration of the 100th anniversary of Baker’s birth, the exhibition explores the development of her image, first as an exotic phenomenon in a mid-1920s Paris that was infatuated with African-American culture, then as a glamorous cabaret star and finally as a Civil Rights advocate for a world without ethnic and racial barriers."

The exhibition of the Portrait Gallery’s portrait competition winners frightened me a bit, with a giant floating head at the end of the hall. Through the Cold War and presidents, celebrities and sports stars, I wandered. A bored teenager leaned against a windowsill while his mother examined a mixed media portrait in a box. I stood on the tips of my toes to look at the cold, clear day and I leaned just inches away from a photo of Tom Thumb's wedding.

On the third floor, voices echoed from marbled floor to vaulted ceiling and I found my way to the café. I yearned for the sophistication of the restaurant at the Tate Modern but enjoyed my wine amidst sculptures and youngsters. At some point other than the middle of winter, I might find myself on the Portico Café, watching the bustle around the Verizon Center.

As I sat with my book and my wine, scribbling in my notebook and smiling, I received a message from a friend asking about plans for Friday night.

"I'm free at any time," I wrote. "I'm playing hooky. Or what would be hooky if I hadn't worked the past 12 days, including this morning."

"Wow," she replied.

"It's all good," I wrote. "A movie and a museum. A glass of wine. It's easy to forget I'm burnt out on a day like today."


Tag: Hooky Work Movies Art

And starring Richard Burton

"And starring Richard Burton as… Becket," my friend intoned dramatically, which set loose another round of giggles. We'd just left "The Queen," which didn't exactly inspire giddiness, but an extraordinarily long trailer before the film inspired the humor.

The film featured Richard Burton as Becket with Peter O'Toole as his king, which we knew this because the extraordinarily long trailer mentioned it a few (dozen) times. What we didn't know was why a film from 1964 warranted a 10-minute trailer in 2007.

"I think it's being re-released," I said. I thought I saw a poster in the lobby. "Is there something... important about it? I'm going to have to go home and google it."

"As I knew you would," Kayla said. "With Richard Burton as… Becket."

The trailer stuck in my mind and brought questions with it - Why Becket? Why now?

Kayla talked about last week's Saturday Night Live. A skit featured the Drew Barrymore discussing drinking with the aging actor.

"Technically, I've been dead for at least ten years," the O'Toole character said.

He's listed on DeadOrAliveInfo.com and the Dead People Server. For the record, he's still alive at age 74, with his eighth nomination in the Best Actor category, including a nomination for Best Actor in a Leading Role as King Henry II in Becket. (Richard Burton died in 1984 with seven nominations under his belt, including as competition for Best Actor in a Leading Role for Becket.)

Thomas Becket met the newly crowned King, Henry II, in 1154. The two hit it off immediately, their similar personal chemistries forming a strong bond between them but named the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1162, he devoted himself to God over the king. He engaged in a conflict over the rights and privileges of the Church and was assassinated by followers of the king in Canterbury Cathedral in 1170. The knights who did the deed to curry the king's favor, fell into disgrace.

With a dozen Academy Award nominations, Becket ranks among the most-nominated films in Oscar history. "Stunningly photographed on location in England, and featuring brilliant dialogue from an Oscar-winning screenplay by Edward Anhalt (adapted from the play by Jean Anouilh), this film has long been unavailable for viewing."

A fluke of scheduling fate has made a newly restored 35-millimeter print of this 1964 film, costarring a 39-year-old Richard Burton and a 32-year-old Peter O'Toole, available just when a now-74 O'Toole is once again in the heat of a best actor Oscar contest, for his role in "Venus."

In 2002, the Academy's Board of Governors presented him with an Honorary Oscar, which read: "To Peter O’Toole, whose remarkable talents have provided cinema history with some of its most memorable characters," including King Henry II opposite Richard Burton... as Becket.


Tag: Becket Peter O'Toole Richard Burton

Reds

Sunday dawned gray and rainy, the perfect day for staying in bed if I had been in bed but I had taken to sleeping on the couch. The disassembled dresser in my bedroom, with drawers and drawer pulls and sliding bits, cluttered the narrow walkway between bed and wall, trunk and door. I could not reach the closet, which meant that clean, folded laundry, dirty clothes, a few pairs of boots and a book or two resided on my bed along with bits of wood from the disassembled dresser.

In my guestroom, I had stripped the shelves of my computer desk, leaving it cold and naked, shivering in anticipation of a new owner who failed on the follow through, chaining me to the couch much of Saturday and forcing me to start over with negotiations of the sale. This led to couch-sleeping as the bed in the guestroom now held the printer, the scanner, a couple of instruction manuals and a number of 8-mm tapes that didn't belong to me.

Fortunately, the sofa was a sleeper. Unfortunately, I could not open the closet door, which housed the sheets, for the clutter that drove me nuts, making me want to bury my head in the sand, the sheets, under the half-dozen pillows on a bed I could not reach for the laundry.

And so, Sunday dawned gray and rainy, the perfect day for staying in bed if I had been in bed but I awoke on the couch. I pulled myself upright and started my day, stripping sheets from the beds (and replacing the laundry, the boots, the printer and scanner and box of tapes). I pulled the towels from the bathroom, the kitchen. I sorted the pile of clothes into lights and darks and reds, and I went to the laundromat with a friend. Soap. Suds. Dirty clothes.

As I watched the water level rise and the clothes start to spin, my stomach sank.

"Oh, crap. I think my red T-shirt's in with my red towels and sheets."

Normally it wouldn't be a problem. Unfortunately, my red T-shirt is actually green and the red towels were brand new and bleeding.

The laundromat sparked the purchase of new red towels. My brother and I were hanging out at the local lavateria, getting all clean, when I realized that I was over my towels. I loved them when I bought them several years earlier, but the top two were threadbare and stained by bleach, the bottom four progressively newer, plusher, wonderfully softer and every single towel was a different color.

"Do you think I should get new towels?" I asked my brother, holding up a bleach-spotted towel.

"Whatever," he offered, folding a T-shirt. His towels were my towels from college.

"Okay. I'm getting new towels. What color should I get?"

"Red? It's your signature color."

My signature color? I have a signature color?

I never thought I'd have a signature color. I never thought I'd have black and white tile floors, but I do. I've run with red accents – red lamps, red rugs, red blankets and red pillows. A red clock on the wall. Red vases in the window. When I got home that night, I ordered new bath towels and bath sheets, wash clothes and hand towels: all red. A new red bathmat as well.

And, so, there I was, back in the laundromat with a load of red, with my new red T-shirt in a sea of crimson. The water turned a dirty pink before my eyes and my new red/green shirt spun obliviously through the suds.

One might wonder why I considered it my red T-shirt, given the color. It was only red in only the loosest, most literal sense. I bought it from (Product) Red™, a movement geared toward raising funds and awareness for HIV/AIDS treatment in Africa.

Before anyone says I could have donated the money directly, I have to say "get off my back." That and I do donate money. I also live for T-shirts. I wear them as often as possible and am trying to figure out how to get away with wearing them at work. (Given that I'm a consultant at a government agency; this is going to take quite a bit of work.)

I like stating Desi(red) across my chest. I like saving the world. If the T-shirt helped pay for the distribution of anti-retroviral medicine in Africa, even better.

My one T-shirt provided 41 single-dose (nevirapine) treatments for mother and baby, to prevent the transmission of HIV from mother to child.

Not only that, it's kind of sexy.

Stepping off the soapbox and back into laundromat, I watched my new green T-shirt spin through pink water for a solid 35 minutes. Somehow, when I was sorting the lights and darks, the green/blues from the red/browns, I associated my red T-shirt with my red laundry. I don't know what happened, but it came out fairly green. I was happy.


Tag: Red

Schlitz

Irony is lost on some people.

"Why did you send that guy a beer?" she shouted over the band.

"What?"

"Is he cute?" she asked.

"What? I don't know."

"Well, why did you send him a beer?"

"I didn't! You did," I screamed.

"Oh, right. I picked him! Is he cute?"

She turned to scan the faces behind us. She tried to find the guy who'd been trying to figure out who bought him a Schlitz an hour earlier.

It all started when I mentioned to my brother and a friend that the bar offered the "archetype of working-class beers" in a can. I amused myself with thoughts of sending it to a stranger with a cheesy, "Here's looking at you, kid" kind of grin. I wouldn't have actually done it.

In fact, I didn't do it. My friend took my banter and cornered a confused bartender who delivered the beer to some random guy "over there" from an unknown admirer.

"It's irony," I shouted. "It's not exactly top-shelf. It's like $3 a case. What message are you sending if you buy a man a Schlitz?"

"Hey, I like you enough to send you a 50-cent beer"?

She didn't quite get it.

The guy didn't either, but he enjoyed the beer and the attention.

Some ideas are better kept inside my head.


Tag: Irony Schlitz

Breaking news

Anna Nicole Smith, 39, died this afternoon. The former Playboy playmate earned plenty of attention in her day but never so much as today.

I live in the Nation's capitol, Washington DC, Center of the free world, and as I sat on my couch, trying to think through a reporting request, I was distracted by the television. A major news channel blared in the background. The news of Smith's death continued to arise as a major news item.

As we waited for the press conference, the newscasters covered her weight gain and loss, possible drug use, flu-like symptoms and paternity tests. MSNBC linked to it from the front page as breaking news.

Then, we went to Hollywood Florida and a news conference. Smith was in a hotel room in the Hard Rock Cafe Hotel and Casino. Her nurse, a private nurse, called the hospital operator. At 1:45 a bodyguard administered CPR. At 2:49, the police were notified that Anna Nicole Smith had died. The cause of death would be determined by a medical examiner.

NBC4 interrupted programming to broadcast the conference, the breaking news: no information regarding the hotel room itself, no news of illegal substances, no baby in her room but she did have her own nurse. That's about all the information the police offered. "I do not know that" and "I cannot tell you that" and "I haven't been up there to see it" resounded like a broken record for minutes on end as a news conference with very little news dominated a major news channel in this major city.

Smith lost her 20-year-old son on September 10, days after giving birth to her daughter. She was facing a paternity suit for the baby girl.

The news is sad as the death of any 39-year-old might be but the coverage seems strangely intense. She was a model and a mother. She married a very old man and inherited a lot of money. She gained weight, lost weight and starred in her own reality television show. She wasn't a world leader, an "influential figure," a master criminal or a saint. She was a woman who died far too young.

Yesterday, we were focused on an astronaut who drove 900 miles in diapers, donned a disguise and allegedly intended to maim or kill a woman she saw as competition for the affections of a man.

Is there nothing else newsworthy? Anywhere in the world?


Tag: Anna Nicole Smith News

Midlake, mid-winter break in DC