Sunday, December 18, 2005
Saturday, November 05, 2005
The Human Stain (or, Boy is my wife mad at me.)
The Human Stain: The Movie, The Book
Question. You’re a screenwriter? Someone hands you a moderately popular novel by a Pulitzer-prize winning author, which is 10 % plot and 90% exposition, heady and often annoyingly repetitive, and says, “Tee this thing up and smack it down the fairway.” You don’t like golf because of its association with smug capitalists, so instead you grapple with ways to make exposition seem like movement. You settle on two common devices: The Billy Pilgrim effect (you are unstuck in time) and character narration, which is the attempt to fuse a movie with its audio book. Does it work?
This movie flunked at Cannes and garnered some seriously ugly reviews, which proves to me that film critics don’t read books. Maybe that’s why they’re film critics. This is an instance where book meets movie and they mate. They are the two sides of a lean-to, which doesn’t quite make a love triangle.
Coleman Silk is a light-skinned black that made the fateful decision in his youth to “pass” for a white after a romance with a sultry midwestern blonde failed when she met his family and learned the truth. In the book, we also learn that he was ejected from a cathouse when the whore identified him as a “full-blood nigger” with his clothes off.
He became a successful Dean of Classic Literature at a cozy, sub-ivy college, but made enemies while re-shaping the department. He referred to two missing students in his class as “spooks”, not knowing they were black and the ensuing vilification by jealous, moralistic colleagues caused him to resign, after which his wife died of a stroke. He blames his colleagues.
Both book and movie allude to the moralistic societal campaign against Bill Clinton, but only the book goes into a polemic that Clinton could have kept the whole thing quiet if only he’d “ass-fucked” Lewinski.
Silk, 71, begins an affair with a 34-year-old, Faunia, an embittered, trailer-parkesque cleaning-woman-with-baggage, played by Nicole Kidman. Faunia’s baggage is an abusive stepfather, an abusive Vietnam-psychotic ex-husband and two dead kids. Silk’s “last love” blossoms. Faunia’s ex-husband kills them both.
I’m not giving away an important plot twist here. The movie opens with the murder. Roth, more dramatically, withholds this information for the first third of the book.
The poly-critics all point out the poly-themes, such as racism, “racial passing”, the healing quality of love and the spineless tendency for society to hide behind morals. The book also explores the characters of Delphine Roux, Silk’s academic nemesis, who is a textbook study of defense mechanisms and Les, the psychotic vet. One of the high points of the book is the comic-ironic detailing of the anti-fear therapy imposed on Les by his vet buddies. They take him, repeatedly, to a Chinese restaurant so he can get use to being around “gooks”. The movie expounds on Les only with psychologist interviews.
I know and Roth knows, that all these themes are mute. There is only one theme that explains all human behavior. That is the quest for orgasm. It is the ultimate motivator and it is the foundation of all behavior: Coleman Silk’s abandonment of race and family as well as Achilles’ moodiness. Roth knows this, but it’s better not to say it or else we would quit reading his books as if they were mystery novels.
I note that director Robert Benton (Kramer vs. Kramer) grew up in Waxahachie, Texas, which is near my old south Fort Worth neighborhood, not that this matters at all.
If anyone is reading this on Pat Fitzgerald’s web log, please note his refusal to publish my review of Batman Begins, which, indeed, was a nonsensical, drunken rant. You can find that review on my blog at http://billwoodblog.blogspot.com/ . Thanks for your insouciance.
Question. You’re a screenwriter? Someone hands you a moderately popular novel by a Pulitzer-prize winning author, which is 10 % plot and 90% exposition, heady and often annoyingly repetitive, and says, “Tee this thing up and smack it down the fairway.” You don’t like golf because of its association with smug capitalists, so instead you grapple with ways to make exposition seem like movement. You settle on two common devices: The Billy Pilgrim effect (you are unstuck in time) and character narration, which is the attempt to fuse a movie with its audio book. Does it work?
This movie flunked at Cannes and garnered some seriously ugly reviews, which proves to me that film critics don’t read books. Maybe that’s why they’re film critics. This is an instance where book meets movie and they mate. They are the two sides of a lean-to, which doesn’t quite make a love triangle.
Coleman Silk is a light-skinned black that made the fateful decision in his youth to “pass” for a white after a romance with a sultry midwestern blonde failed when she met his family and learned the truth. In the book, we also learn that he was ejected from a cathouse when the whore identified him as a “full-blood nigger” with his clothes off.
He became a successful Dean of Classic Literature at a cozy, sub-ivy college, but made enemies while re-shaping the department. He referred to two missing students in his class as “spooks”, not knowing they were black and the ensuing vilification by jealous, moralistic colleagues caused him to resign, after which his wife died of a stroke. He blames his colleagues.
Both book and movie allude to the moralistic societal campaign against Bill Clinton, but only the book goes into a polemic that Clinton could have kept the whole thing quiet if only he’d “ass-fucked” Lewinski.
Silk, 71, begins an affair with a 34-year-old, Faunia, an embittered, trailer-parkesque cleaning-woman-with-baggage, played by Nicole Kidman. Faunia’s baggage is an abusive stepfather, an abusive Vietnam-psychotic ex-husband and two dead kids. Silk’s “last love” blossoms. Faunia’s ex-husband kills them both.
I’m not giving away an important plot twist here. The movie opens with the murder. Roth, more dramatically, withholds this information for the first third of the book.
The poly-critics all point out the poly-themes, such as racism, “racial passing”, the healing quality of love and the spineless tendency for society to hide behind morals. The book also explores the characters of Delphine Roux, Silk’s academic nemesis, who is a textbook study of defense mechanisms and Les, the psychotic vet. One of the high points of the book is the comic-ironic detailing of the anti-fear therapy imposed on Les by his vet buddies. They take him, repeatedly, to a Chinese restaurant so he can get use to being around “gooks”. The movie expounds on Les only with psychologist interviews.
I know and Roth knows, that all these themes are mute. There is only one theme that explains all human behavior. That is the quest for orgasm. It is the ultimate motivator and it is the foundation of all behavior: Coleman Silk’s abandonment of race and family as well as Achilles’ moodiness. Roth knows this, but it’s better not to say it or else we would quit reading his books as if they were mystery novels.
I note that director Robert Benton (Kramer vs. Kramer) grew up in Waxahachie, Texas, which is near my old south Fort Worth neighborhood, not that this matters at all.
If anyone is reading this on Pat Fitzgerald’s web log, please note his refusal to publish my review of Batman Begins, which, indeed, was a nonsensical, drunken rant. You can find that review on my blog at http://billwoodblog.blogspot.com/ . Thanks for your insouciance.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
I don't know why Pat wouldn't put this review on his blog?
Batman Begins, as does this review.
First of all, Fuck you Robert Ebert and praise you. You started off with “the movie is not realistic…” OK, Mr. Former Humvee, how realistic is a gastric bypass? Guess what, I’ve assisted on numerous gastric bypasses. I know exactly what they’re like. Obesity is evil and I’ve tried to fight it. But obese people are damaged goods who could never overcome childhood trauma, unlike Batman, who COULD overcome his childhood trauma. Yes, I’ve talked to all these simpering fatboes, who always want more pain medicines for any little thing. Batman would squash them like banana slugs in the gravel path. OK, I’ve not even watched the whole movie yet. It’s on pause on my oversize TV. I’m going back now to watch the rest of it and then I will finish this review.
OK. I’ve watched almost all of it, up to the point of the kiss (Christian Bale vs., Katie Holmes, now impregnated by Tom Cruise, and hey I’m cool with that). I’m inspired. I want to fight evil. I told my eight-year-old to fight evil, but he said he didn’t want to, but then shot me with his EMP rifle.
Well, I still want to fight evil. When I rented this movie at Hollywood Videos, there was a sign that said, if you like this movie, you’d like blah, blah, blah …Blade Runner. Oh man. Cut me with a scimitar. Blade Runner is my all-time number one movie. OK. Rutger Hauer was in this movie. Rutger is the incarnation of evil, at least as an actor. But, I suspect if I could only meet him, he would be a profound person, devoid of real evil. And there was one scene with the oriental bicycle-neon effects that gives the impression of Blade Runner, but not much more. No, this isn’t Blade Runner, but I dig it. Hear that, you saggy adipose freak.
Well, I really am inspired to fight evil. Maybe it has something to do with Famous Grouse, but you minions figure that out. I have always fantasized about finding a criminal in action (maybe a rape) and pulling out my 25 caliber Beretta, which I keep in my car (I do have a concealed weapon license.) and dispatching the rapist with a few words of significance. Like, “ You picked the wrong night to do the penis dance,” or something like that.
OK. I know that some of you out there in cyberspace have enjoyed my reviews and I appreciate that. But, this movie has grabbed me. For instance, I’m keeping an eye on my neighbor. One night, I came home and there were eight, (count em) eight cop cars blocking the entrance to my driveway (0.2 miles, gravel). I pulled up and the cop said, “Who are you?” I said, “I live down there,” He said, “You can’t go down there.” I said, “My wife is down there, get out of my way.” He did. Well, it turned out, some guys had invaded my neighbor’s house and tied up his (then) wife and said they were going to kill her. They ransacked the house and then left.
Now, it’s a number of years later and there’s a new wife and several kids. One is a fifteen-year-old named Jake. Jake always seems really friendly and waves at me, but then he’s running away and one time comes to our house and then one time comes to another neighbor (Naife, who gives really great massages), and the cops come and he goes back and then gets hit by Mike, but his mother says he threatened to kill them and described exactly how he’d do it and in what room, etc. I’m just watching right now. Just like Batman. Just like Christian Bale, who was great in American Psycho.
My friend Pat? He’s got some really heavy artillery. I mean really heavy. He’s let me shoot this stuff at Tri County. Bad guys, I’m just waiting. If you’re not Batman, you’re Bad Man.
First of all, Fuck you Robert Ebert and praise you. You started off with “the movie is not realistic…” OK, Mr. Former Humvee, how realistic is a gastric bypass? Guess what, I’ve assisted on numerous gastric bypasses. I know exactly what they’re like. Obesity is evil and I’ve tried to fight it. But obese people are damaged goods who could never overcome childhood trauma, unlike Batman, who COULD overcome his childhood trauma. Yes, I’ve talked to all these simpering fatboes, who always want more pain medicines for any little thing. Batman would squash them like banana slugs in the gravel path. OK, I’ve not even watched the whole movie yet. It’s on pause on my oversize TV. I’m going back now to watch the rest of it and then I will finish this review.
OK. I’ve watched almost all of it, up to the point of the kiss (Christian Bale vs., Katie Holmes, now impregnated by Tom Cruise, and hey I’m cool with that). I’m inspired. I want to fight evil. I told my eight-year-old to fight evil, but he said he didn’t want to, but then shot me with his EMP rifle.
Well, I still want to fight evil. When I rented this movie at Hollywood Videos, there was a sign that said, if you like this movie, you’d like blah, blah, blah …Blade Runner. Oh man. Cut me with a scimitar. Blade Runner is my all-time number one movie. OK. Rutger Hauer was in this movie. Rutger is the incarnation of evil, at least as an actor. But, I suspect if I could only meet him, he would be a profound person, devoid of real evil. And there was one scene with the oriental bicycle-neon effects that gives the impression of Blade Runner, but not much more. No, this isn’t Blade Runner, but I dig it. Hear that, you saggy adipose freak.
Well, I really am inspired to fight evil. Maybe it has something to do with Famous Grouse, but you minions figure that out. I have always fantasized about finding a criminal in action (maybe a rape) and pulling out my 25 caliber Beretta, which I keep in my car (I do have a concealed weapon license.) and dispatching the rapist with a few words of significance. Like, “ You picked the wrong night to do the penis dance,” or something like that.
OK. I know that some of you out there in cyberspace have enjoyed my reviews and I appreciate that. But, this movie has grabbed me. For instance, I’m keeping an eye on my neighbor. One night, I came home and there were eight, (count em) eight cop cars blocking the entrance to my driveway (0.2 miles, gravel). I pulled up and the cop said, “Who are you?” I said, “I live down there,” He said, “You can’t go down there.” I said, “My wife is down there, get out of my way.” He did. Well, it turned out, some guys had invaded my neighbor’s house and tied up his (then) wife and said they were going to kill her. They ransacked the house and then left.
Now, it’s a number of years later and there’s a new wife and several kids. One is a fifteen-year-old named Jake. Jake always seems really friendly and waves at me, but then he’s running away and one time comes to our house and then one time comes to another neighbor (Naife, who gives really great massages), and the cops come and he goes back and then gets hit by Mike, but his mother says he threatened to kill them and described exactly how he’d do it and in what room, etc. I’m just watching right now. Just like Batman. Just like Christian Bale, who was great in American Psycho.
My friend Pat? He’s got some really heavy artillery. I mean really heavy. He’s let me shoot this stuff at Tri County. Bad guys, I’m just waiting. If you’re not Batman, you’re Bad Man.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Friday, October 07, 2005
Movie Review: Serenity
Serenity: A Bill Wood review
One problem I had with this mixed-genre, way-cool, sci-fi fest was that it’s title kept putting me in the mind of the Seinfeld episode Serenity Now, where George’s father would utter “serenity now” every time he was about to get mad. But that’s my problem. Another problem was that Pat and I gave this flick Three Thumbs Up. Three? Well, Pat gave it two and I gave it one. When I told Pat he could only give it one, he replied, “If God had intended man to be ape, he would have given him only one thumb.” I was left, literally, holding my thumb. The next daunting mind itch, was trying to figure out exactly which John Wayne movie writer Joss Whedon (who also wrote the TV series Firefly, upon which the movie is based, also Buffy the Vampire Slayer) was channeling. I think it was Chisum, where rogue rancher Chisum fights the power with fellow rebel Billy the Kidd. Whedon cooks up a tasty genre-fusion stew here. There’s Wayne-esque dialogue, mainly from Mal (Nathan Fillion), the troubled, but secretly stalwart ship’s captain. “No more runnin.” But then, there’s ultra-satire from the rest of the crew that could have come right out of Doug Adam’s Hithchiker’s Guide series. Zoe (Gina Torres): “If we stay here we’re all going to die.” Jayne (Adam Baldwin): “Well…I might live through it.” The Zombie angle is nicely played by the Reavers, hyperaggressive canibals whose origin is a big plot point. Tales From The Crypt fans will love the decayed flesh-fest on the planet Miranda. It gives a whole new meaning to the term “Mirandized”. The humor popped up frequenlty enough to keep me cortically engaged. Watching River (Summer Glau), weird psychic and beautiful ex-ballerina, kick ass in the most erotic art form ever, energized a different part of my brain. Sorry, it’s my brain and you can’t go there. The corporatized reviewers are all predicting poor receipts from this cult-oriented project. To that, I say, who gives a shit.
Summer, will you marry me?
Friday, September 30, 2005
Etan Thomas' Poem
Out of the ashes of Iraq come soldiers dressed in fatigues of fire Wearing helmets secured in smoke They've choked off the lies spewed out of the mouth of a burning bush
The true warrior's existing wake
Who's flames burned them at the stake
Cremated their bodies
And stuffed them in an urn wrapped in red, white, and blue....
Rummaging through a forest set ablaze by one lethal match
With witty catch phrases forever attached to the side of their kingdom
Operation Iraqi Freedom
Links to Al Qaeda
Eminent threats
And weapons of mass destruction.....
They've been skillfully thrown into the lion's den
Out of the frying pan and into the furnace
Their courage exceeds any measuring stick
But they can hear the footsteps of death creeping around the corner
For they've been led into the eye of the storm
Transformed into peacekeepers
Lending a helping hand for the poorly planned post-war strategy......
The true warrior's existing wake
Who's flames burned them at the stake
Cremated their bodies
And stuffed them in an urn wrapped in red, white, and blue....
Rummaging through a forest set ablaze by one lethal match
With witty catch phrases forever attached to the side of their kingdom
Operation Iraqi Freedom
Links to Al Qaeda
Eminent threats
And weapons of mass destruction.....
They've been skillfully thrown into the lion's den
Out of the frying pan and into the furnace
Their courage exceeds any measuring stick
But they can hear the footsteps of death creeping around the corner
For they've been led into the eye of the storm
Transformed into peacekeepers
Lending a helping hand for the poorly planned post-war strategy......
Livestrong ride
Thought you might want to hear about the Livestrong ride.
Notice the two spikes in the elevation chart. Those are known as “ball-breakers”. Ergo, one for each testicle. I didn’t do 100 miles cause I didn’t reach the 2nd loop turn-off in time. Probably just as well. They started people in different groups. I was in lane 7 and started about 45 minutes after lane 1. Also, had a flat and almost all the remaining 100 milers passed me while I was fixing it. When I left Bald peak, the second spike, there were only two other riders.
However, when I got back on the 40 mile course there were still lots of riders, some the 100 milers that had done the other loop and slow 40 and 70 milers. I did 74 miles, plus pegged another 4 miles looking for my car on the Nike campus where all buildings and parking lots look the same. Never saw Lance, but I heard him, or else someone that sounds like him. He gave a little speech. The only thing I remember was he said something about sperm donation, and now I wonder if that had to do with the two climbs on the route. I fear my sperm production is katrina-ed.
I think I might have had a better time if I could have ridden Lance’s bike.
After the ride, they had a concession area next to the Lance Armstrong Center. I didn’t see Lance or George Hincapie or Eddie Merx. They were greeting the cancer survivors who finished the ride. I did get to tour the Center, but they wouldn’t let me swim in Lance’s pool.
The Nike campus is impressive. There were security people all over and I thought I shouldn’t touch anything, lest I smudge the patina of corporate power. It reminded me of the setting of the movie “Scanners”.
All said, it was a fun ride and well supported. I didn’t get to have a heavy rap with Lance, but I did meet some nice people on the ride.
Next year?
Bill
Friday, September 16, 2005
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Hemingway's Operative Report
The other day I took a book with me into the OR to read between cases. It was a book of Hemingway's comments on writing. There were frequent comparisons to lovemaking and war and good clarets and lots of gutsy existentialism. Then I thought about the mindless writing of medical documents and wondered how Papa would have dictated an appendectomy.
HEMINGWAY'S OPERATIVE REPORT
The steel went out of her eyes as they ran the juice into her. Steel. It was a man's metal, not like zinc or molybdenum. Her sleep came on like the dreamless fog of a good claret. I grasped the knife, the dog of a knife, and cut into her. Was it her skin or mine that I cut? Did it really matter? Layers were divided. We are nothing but layers, and when the last layer is gone there is nothing. Yes, there was blood. There is always blood. Her blood reminded me of a certain vineyard in the Alsace, where the blood of battle could not be separated from the blood of the grapes and all was the harvest of cannon and madness. They said the bottling that year was the purest vintage anyone could remember. It was like drinking the tears of the Madonna, they said, and it brought on both joy and sadness, though none would touch it and the bottles cried in their caves degustation till they ran to vinegar. With my finger curled in the shape of a milk white thigh, like the thigh of a certain girl, no she was a woman, but she fooled all the pining lads in the village, who would have died for her for less than a kiss, but she had no desire to harvest the lives of fools, for she was a woman even at that age, I brought the diseased old man, whose name means less than nothing, into the light that was no longer dark. One tie and a purse string, made of moth's vomit, were all it took to bring him down. He did not beg, for he was one who had lived and he had no fear of death. Death to him was like the swirl of a good Pernod sweating down the side of Alsatian crystal on a night when Hatchet Jim came back with a fresh load of Cubanos and the table stakes occasionally contained a woman's name. We parted friends and that is the best way and maybe the only way, since any other parting is not that at all. With the final layer closed, the soft, sad one that hides everything and yet speaks every language known to man, I stood, or did I sit, and with the urge that was obsession only to myself, I began to write, for writing, as lovemaking, can truly begin only when there is nothing left to say.
HEMINGWAY'S OPERATIVE REPORT
The steel went out of her eyes as they ran the juice into her. Steel. It was a man's metal, not like zinc or molybdenum. Her sleep came on like the dreamless fog of a good claret. I grasped the knife, the dog of a knife, and cut into her. Was it her skin or mine that I cut? Did it really matter? Layers were divided. We are nothing but layers, and when the last layer is gone there is nothing. Yes, there was blood. There is always blood. Her blood reminded me of a certain vineyard in the Alsace, where the blood of battle could not be separated from the blood of the grapes and all was the harvest of cannon and madness. They said the bottling that year was the purest vintage anyone could remember. It was like drinking the tears of the Madonna, they said, and it brought on both joy and sadness, though none would touch it and the bottles cried in their caves degustation till they ran to vinegar. With my finger curled in the shape of a milk white thigh, like the thigh of a certain girl, no she was a woman, but she fooled all the pining lads in the village, who would have died for her for less than a kiss, but she had no desire to harvest the lives of fools, for she was a woman even at that age, I brought the diseased old man, whose name means less than nothing, into the light that was no longer dark. One tie and a purse string, made of moth's vomit, were all it took to bring him down. He did not beg, for he was one who had lived and he had no fear of death. Death to him was like the swirl of a good Pernod sweating down the side of Alsatian crystal on a night when Hatchet Jim came back with a fresh load of Cubanos and the table stakes occasionally contained a woman's name. We parted friends and that is the best way and maybe the only way, since any other parting is not that at all. With the final layer closed, the soft, sad one that hides everything and yet speaks every language known to man, I stood, or did I sit, and with the urge that was obsession only to myself, I began to write, for writing, as lovemaking, can truly begin only when there is nothing left to say.
The Samaritan
The Samaritan
Here’s what happened.
I had no cases on a Tuesday. The weather prediction was “sunny”, though a dense fog came around at night and was still hovering in the morning. Usually, the valley fog here in Oregon burns off to give sun.
So, I decide to take a ride, a bike ride, down the Upper Clackamas. It’s a ride I usually do in the summer, since there are no facilities for the 25 miles to the Ripplebrook Ranger Station, except in summer the marina’s open and I can get Gatorade and burritos. Once, I ran out of water and had to drink from a waterfall. But, I have a fanny pack that holds two water bottles, plus the one on the bike and I think I’ll be OK.
When I take my bike off the hooks in the garage, the rear tire is flat. I change the tube and it holds air. Hmmm. I drive to Estacada and the tire is still tight.
The three-mile hill out of Estacada goes fine, though the tire seems a little splayed. Then, the downhill where it drops into the river gorge of the Clackamas. It’s a picture postcard right after the crest with the river winding blue through the big forest canyon and a Montana sky above.
The marina is closed. Fine. I have the three water bottles and a tasty steelhead pita sandwich in the fanny pack. Also, have my Ipod. Me, myself and Ipod.
At mile 36.5 (Estacada is mile 25) there are road crews and a woman flagger where the big slide happened last week. But, it’s open. I stop to take the plastic bags off my socks since it’s getting warm. The cattle dog in the woman’s truck barks fiercely, but when I talk to it, it sits down behind the door. She tells me it’s a “red” and her husband is at the truck on the other side with their other heeler, a “blue”. I tell her about the two cattle dogs that always chase me on the climb up to Sandy. They run right out on the highway. The last time I went there, they were gone. She says they don’t recommend bikes going through since there are big rocks on the road. I say, “It doesn’t bother me.” There are always big rocks cracking off the basalt cliffs in the canyon.
So, the tire seems to be holding and I cruise into the flats by the river. Soon I’ll see kayakers. They road trends upward since it’s upriver, but you don’t really notice it until you come back and realize you’re riding faster.
I’m at twenty miles and looking for the hill before the ranger station. It warms so I pulled over to shed the Lycra.
The back tire is spongy. Shite. I take out the tube and inflate it and find the leak. I had checked the inner tire in my garage, but now I know where to look and sure enough there is a razor thin rock sliver, about 3 millimeters, in the tire. I get it out with my knife and put the spare tube in. It seems OK. Soon as I saddle I know it’s bad. Total flat. OK, patch kit.
I find the leak in the first tube and sand the rubber. I pull off the glue cap with my teeth. All the glue is dried. Old kit. Defeat.
The first car that passes is a shiny Subaru and it doesn’t even slow. Maybe my cycling glasses make me look sinister. The next car, an old dust-brown Fairlane pulls over.
He looks Mexican, but says “ju”, so I think, maybe Cuban, but, no, he is from Mexico City. The speed limit is 40, but he drives between 10 and 15 mph. Sometimes a car passes and sometimes he pulls over. He is driving down the river to enjoy nature. “I like seeing the nature.”
There are bible quotes stuck all over the car. I relax.
I remember the drive from Vera Cruz to Mexico in Rube’s old truck. “This area looks a lot like the mountains between Vera Cruz and Mexico City,” I say.
“You know Vera Cruz?”
“Well, we stayed in a little place called Tuxpan.”
His voice rises. “You know Tuxpan? My mother lived very near there. The river runs into the ocean.”
“Yes, I remember that. There was a white sand beach that went for miles with no one, except a few horses.”
He smiles.
I tell him how we all got sick in a restaurant. He tells me how he always gets sick when he comes back from Mexico to the U.S.
I tell him the story of my flats. He tells me how he got a flat once taking a short cut from Highway 26 to the Clackamas through Timothy Lake. “You don’t have to go through Sandy.”
I’m curious. It would be quicker to stay on the highway. That’s a very long short cut, I think, over a lot of rough dirt road, but then I remember he likes to drive through nature and I get it.
He tells me someone stopped to help him fix his flat. It seems life is balancing.
After a while, he asks me if I read the Bible.
“Sure.”
“How did God make the Red Sea open? How could he do that?"
I say, “Maybe an earthquake.”
He looks puzzled.
“You know, the land comes up.”
Still puzzled.
“Well, what I’d like to know is how they walked across that. It must have been thick mud, you know, a total swamp.”
Still puzzled. Brow wrinkles.
“You know, there’s no roads on the bottom of the ocean.”
Finally, he laughs a little.
I ask him if he knows Luis, my neighbor, who owns three Mexican restaurants, all named Cha Cha Cha.
“Cha cha cha,” he says very rapidly. Then, he pauses. “I don’t know him.” He pauses. “The Mexican restaurants are becoming very popular.”
We climb up the hill at 12 mph. He says, “You ride up this hill? It’s a big hill.”
“Yes, but then I get to cruise down the other side all the way to Estacada.”
It turns out his name is also Luis and we marvel at the coincidence. I buy him a Gatorade and chips at the market and invite him to share lunch on my tailgate. Suddenly he says, “Amigo, I have to get going,” and launches into an explanation.
“No problem. You were very nice to pick me up.”
We shake hands. “Con Dios,” I say.
His grin is wide now. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”
Here’s what happened.
I had no cases on a Tuesday. The weather prediction was “sunny”, though a dense fog came around at night and was still hovering in the morning. Usually, the valley fog here in Oregon burns off to give sun.
So, I decide to take a ride, a bike ride, down the Upper Clackamas. It’s a ride I usually do in the summer, since there are no facilities for the 25 miles to the Ripplebrook Ranger Station, except in summer the marina’s open and I can get Gatorade and burritos. Once, I ran out of water and had to drink from a waterfall. But, I have a fanny pack that holds two water bottles, plus the one on the bike and I think I’ll be OK.
When I take my bike off the hooks in the garage, the rear tire is flat. I change the tube and it holds air. Hmmm. I drive to Estacada and the tire is still tight.
The three-mile hill out of Estacada goes fine, though the tire seems a little splayed. Then, the downhill where it drops into the river gorge of the Clackamas. It’s a picture postcard right after the crest with the river winding blue through the big forest canyon and a Montana sky above.
The marina is closed. Fine. I have the three water bottles and a tasty steelhead pita sandwich in the fanny pack. Also, have my Ipod. Me, myself and Ipod.
At mile 36.5 (Estacada is mile 25) there are road crews and a woman flagger where the big slide happened last week. But, it’s open. I stop to take the plastic bags off my socks since it’s getting warm. The cattle dog in the woman’s truck barks fiercely, but when I talk to it, it sits down behind the door. She tells me it’s a “red” and her husband is at the truck on the other side with their other heeler, a “blue”. I tell her about the two cattle dogs that always chase me on the climb up to Sandy. They run right out on the highway. The last time I went there, they were gone. She says they don’t recommend bikes going through since there are big rocks on the road. I say, “It doesn’t bother me.” There are always big rocks cracking off the basalt cliffs in the canyon.
So, the tire seems to be holding and I cruise into the flats by the river. Soon I’ll see kayakers. They road trends upward since it’s upriver, but you don’t really notice it until you come back and realize you’re riding faster.
I’m at twenty miles and looking for the hill before the ranger station. It warms so I pulled over to shed the Lycra.
The back tire is spongy. Shite. I take out the tube and inflate it and find the leak. I had checked the inner tire in my garage, but now I know where to look and sure enough there is a razor thin rock sliver, about 3 millimeters, in the tire. I get it out with my knife and put the spare tube in. It seems OK. Soon as I saddle I know it’s bad. Total flat. OK, patch kit.
I find the leak in the first tube and sand the rubber. I pull off the glue cap with my teeth. All the glue is dried. Old kit. Defeat.
The first car that passes is a shiny Subaru and it doesn’t even slow. Maybe my cycling glasses make me look sinister. The next car, an old dust-brown Fairlane pulls over.
He looks Mexican, but says “ju”, so I think, maybe Cuban, but, no, he is from Mexico City. The speed limit is 40, but he drives between 10 and 15 mph. Sometimes a car passes and sometimes he pulls over. He is driving down the river to enjoy nature. “I like seeing the nature.”
There are bible quotes stuck all over the car. I relax.
I remember the drive from Vera Cruz to Mexico in Rube’s old truck. “This area looks a lot like the mountains between Vera Cruz and Mexico City,” I say.
“You know Vera Cruz?”
“Well, we stayed in a little place called Tuxpan.”
His voice rises. “You know Tuxpan? My mother lived very near there. The river runs into the ocean.”
“Yes, I remember that. There was a white sand beach that went for miles with no one, except a few horses.”
He smiles.
I tell him how we all got sick in a restaurant. He tells me how he always gets sick when he comes back from Mexico to the U.S.
I tell him the story of my flats. He tells me how he got a flat once taking a short cut from Highway 26 to the Clackamas through Timothy Lake. “You don’t have to go through Sandy.”
I’m curious. It would be quicker to stay on the highway. That’s a very long short cut, I think, over a lot of rough dirt road, but then I remember he likes to drive through nature and I get it.
He tells me someone stopped to help him fix his flat. It seems life is balancing.
After a while, he asks me if I read the Bible.
“Sure.”
“How did God make the Red Sea open? How could he do that?"
I say, “Maybe an earthquake.”
He looks puzzled.
“You know, the land comes up.”
Still puzzled.
“Well, what I’d like to know is how they walked across that. It must have been thick mud, you know, a total swamp.”
Still puzzled. Brow wrinkles.
“You know, there’s no roads on the bottom of the ocean.”
Finally, he laughs a little.
I ask him if he knows Luis, my neighbor, who owns three Mexican restaurants, all named Cha Cha Cha.
“Cha cha cha,” he says very rapidly. Then, he pauses. “I don’t know him.” He pauses. “The Mexican restaurants are becoming very popular.”
We climb up the hill at 12 mph. He says, “You ride up this hill? It’s a big hill.”
“Yes, but then I get to cruise down the other side all the way to Estacada.”
It turns out his name is also Luis and we marvel at the coincidence. I buy him a Gatorade and chips at the market and invite him to share lunch on my tailgate. Suddenly he says, “Amigo, I have to get going,” and launches into an explanation.
“No problem. You were very nice to pick me up.”
We shake hands. “Con Dios,” I say.
His grin is wide now. “Vaya con Dios, amigo.”
Movie Review
Review: The Aristocrats
Pat enticed me to go to this movie, which I hadn’t heard of. He gave me a short intro before the reel rolled. I’ve just read some reviews, which were all sub-rave positive. My take? If you’re trying to establish or maintain the image that you are a sophisticated intellectual, who can see beyond the social prison imposed by conventional morality, tell your listeners you really liked this movie. Say you now have a deep understanding of comedians and what makes them tick. If your self-image, like mine, is pleasantly fermenting in a landfill, protected by an acid stench that only certain birds will penetrate, feel free to groan and let that groan turn into a mantra that takes you beyond the sad comedy of this clubby documentary. I did laugh a few times, but mostly mildewed as the reservist roster of PROMINENT COMEDIANS OF OUR TIME let us into their inner sanctum by reciting their oh-so-creative versions of this anally retentive non-joke. It’s the comedian version of jock bravado. We’re so brave we let the vile-adolescent-in-us-all out to play. Hey public, if you were that brave, you’d get to sell tickets to the schmucks and tell this joke backstage, because only true pros can handle this genitalia. Maybe it’s the climate here in the rainy Pacific Northwest that makes me cynical. Maybe if I still lived in Arizona or moved to L.A. the sunshine would allow me to appreciate even the faintest entertainments. Ah, Kurt Cobain. Now there’s a funny fucking story.
Pat enticed me to go to this movie, which I hadn’t heard of. He gave me a short intro before the reel rolled. I’ve just read some reviews, which were all sub-rave positive. My take? If you’re trying to establish or maintain the image that you are a sophisticated intellectual, who can see beyond the social prison imposed by conventional morality, tell your listeners you really liked this movie. Say you now have a deep understanding of comedians and what makes them tick. If your self-image, like mine, is pleasantly fermenting in a landfill, protected by an acid stench that only certain birds will penetrate, feel free to groan and let that groan turn into a mantra that takes you beyond the sad comedy of this clubby documentary. I did laugh a few times, but mostly mildewed as the reservist roster of PROMINENT COMEDIANS OF OUR TIME let us into their inner sanctum by reciting their oh-so-creative versions of this anally retentive non-joke. It’s the comedian version of jock bravado. We’re so brave we let the vile-adolescent-in-us-all out to play. Hey public, if you were that brave, you’d get to sell tickets to the schmucks and tell this joke backstage, because only true pros can handle this genitalia. Maybe it’s the climate here in the rainy Pacific Northwest that makes me cynical. Maybe if I still lived in Arizona or moved to L.A. the sunshine would allow me to appreciate even the faintest entertainments. Ah, Kurt Cobain. Now there’s a funny fucking story.
Saturday, September 03, 2005
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Monday, August 29, 2005
Thursday, August 25, 2005
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