Limerick

Or, why I don't write poetry, but my defences are all down the drain.

I was ordered to work a night shift,
like a bicycle off in a skiff
so I haven't much sleep
and my thoughts do they creep
in search of a comfortable drift.

Nurse (Image)

And after my night shift...

South (Image)

South Park Yourself
Thank you Reynolds of Random Acts of Reality.

Muffin

Whew, I almost titled this Sp*m. Which might have drawn some unwelcome visitors. Udge (One of the best named blogs)
scattered a meme, and, since I am scrambling for easy blog material this week, here goes.

Who is the last person you high-fived?
A nurse who appreciated a snotty thing I said to a surgeon.
"And you effect the rotation of the earth, as well."

If you were drafted into a war would you survive?
Well, I did. And yes, even if I were in a more active role, I would. It's a disturbingly comforting bit of knowledge. I'm a survivor and a good shot.

Do you sleep with the tv on?
Have done. Often it keeps me awake, or I wake when it is still going. Mixed bag really.

Have you ever drunk milk out of the carton?
Yuck. I hate milk, would never drink it out of carton, nor the more up-to-date plastic bottle. But I have eaten peanut butter out of the jar, not even always with a spoon. Same for Nutella, which is part of why I don't share it.

Have you ever won a spelling bee?
Just the small ones in class, but those regularly.

Have you ever been stung by a bee?
No, but the idea terrifies me unreasonably. I thought I did once at a big 4th of July fireworks downtown, but it was just a lit cigarette I put my hand back on. Kept picking up ice dumped from coolers, to cool the burn.

How fast can you type?
Not too fast, but not bad. But I can't do any kind of accuracy. Doing Nanowrimo certainly improved it, but typos are rich for me.

Are you afraid of the dark?
I get spooked, still, occasionally. This was a huge fear for me, but I got over it after a sitting in the snow by a lake at night once. So beautiful, I could not continue the fear.

Have you ever made out at a drive in?
Never been to a drive in. Have made out in a few cars. And a bus.

When did you last chose a bath rather than a shower?
Last week. If I have time, and the room isn't too cold. I love hot baths.

Do you knock on wood?
No, strangely, because I used to. Not much wood around at work, and I hate the cliche of knocking on my own head.

Do you floss daily.
Well, every other day at least, yes. But then I also brush the cat's teeth, does that count?

Can you hula hoop?
Yeah, not great though. I bellydance.

Are you good at keeping secrets?
I am excellent with confidences. I resist even hearing 'secrets'.

What do you want for Christmas?
An MS or two behind D's name.

Do you know the muffin man?
Lived on Drury Lane? Died years ago.

Do you talk in your sleep?
Not for years, so I am told. I wouldn't know, I'm always asleep for it.

Who wrote the book of love?
John Gottman. Real research-based map of how real love works.

Have you ever flown a kite?
Many times. Seriously want to go fly our two kites as soon as the weather is tolerable.

Do you wish on fallen lashes?
No, that always seemed weird to me. I knew a woman who compulsively pulled hers out.

Do you consider yourself successful?
I love and am loved. Yes.

Have you ever asked for a pony?
Only as a metaphor for wanting something expensive and impractical.

Plans for tomorrow?
Sleeping in. Maybe the farmers' market. Vacuuming. Make a list for the move.

Can you juggle?
No, I've tried. I just can't get beyond two balls with one hand, about 4-5 catches and that is the absolute max. Can't play an instrument either. But I can dance, and sing a bit, so I call it good.

Missing someone now?
Oh, Moira, I would be there for her last trimester. More friends than I can list here that I would love to gather around, and just chat.

Last time you said "I love you"?
Just now.

Last time you meant it.
Every time. I am not shy about this, I love my friends and they know it.

How often do you drink?
About 4-5 times a week I have one beer. About once every six months, I have two beers in day. Seems to keep my chronic anxiety in check, with few side effects.

How are you feeling today?
Pretty good, if tired after shoving all 40 hours into 4 days in a row. Regaining my energy slowly. Did pretty good at work, which always makes me feel more positive.

What do you say too much?
"Sure."

Have you ever been expelled from school?
No, I am meticulous at not getting caught. I was a goody-goody right through to high school graduation. I knew how expensive parochial school was, and I valued it. I waited to be adventurous until I was in college, away from parental rules. And paying for it myself.

What are you looking forward to?
Being moved. Friends visiting this summer.

Have you ever crawled through a window?
Oh, sure. Parent's house when the keys were locked in. Going out on roofs.

Have you ever eaten dog food?
No, but I had pork patties and Vienna Sausage from MRE's, neither of which is as good as dog food.

Can you handle the truth?
Naked and unvarnished and ungarnished. I consider it my proof of courage, the test of my soul.

Do you like green eggs and ham?
I do not like green eggs and ham, but I have liked reconstituted eggs and spam.

Any cool scars?
Left shin, from moving a concrete downspout when I was about 4, with neighbor kids. Above my right clavicle, from an argument with a stainless steel door at work. Near that, one from a lipoma removal. Four tattoos. Oh, and my chicken pox scar over my eyebrow in exactly the same place D has his.

Poop

We got a gift from our new apartment managers. Pretzels, a roll of toilet paper, soap. Very appropriate. It had a straw-like plastic ribbon, and I thought Moby would like to chase it. I wasn't going to just let him have it. But I tied it to the doorknob, and puttered in the kitchen. Moby came in rubbing my shins with his head. Then I noticed him at the ribbon. Not chasing. Eating. About 12-18 inches of it, gone. I was a bit worried. I got more worried. When D got home, he called the vet for advice. He was told this is not uncommon at this time of year, what with plastic Easter grass, in the feline diet, according to the MSPCA. Advised to watch for constipation over 24-48 hours. Diarrhea, blood, vomiting, protruding ribbon, what I would expect, as a nurse. Not that I have ever had to extract ribbon from a human rectum, I have seen other foreign objects, and understand the general rules. I once loved watching Emergency Vets.

I worked my usual ten hours today. I periodically email back and forth with D, my job being intermittent hurry-up, and wait. Well, D writes that Moby had been scratching in the litter box, and had not had a poop in the 24 hours since the ribbon ingestion.  So he called the animal hospital, and they suggested he come in.   He sent me an email, he was taking him in, while I was at work, and included the address.  I figured out how to get there, picturing D in a waiting room while they did surgery to remove the obstruction.  I ran out, I caught the train, worried and planned, tried to stay calm. Realized how responsible I feel for this small life, how much Moby means to us, and to me. I ran those last blocks, the light fading, still uncertain what I was going to find, or if D was already home, and worried that I was not home.

It's a beautiful old building, that reminded me of my ancient grade school. I was helped, frantic and fighting back tears. Kindly, helpfully, told D and Moby were finished with the vet. Finally, we figured out that they'd just left.  And that Moby was fine,  x-ray done, and D in a cab home with him.  Some confusion calling me a cab, same name to same address within five minutes. I was so relieved, he was fine, Moby was fine, all that mattered. The cab driver was remarkably not terrifying, especially for a Boston cabbie. I hurried home,   I ran in, to find D and Moby standing by the door in the hall.  D lost his keys.  He'd only been waiting about five minutes. 

Says Moby kept looking up at him, as if to say "Well? Open the door.  You are the one with the thumbs." 

Let the boys in, made dinner, and all is well now. 

I was cranky with D for going in so soon, for panicking, for the stress on Moby, for the expense right now. And instantly regretted it. He was the one on the ground. If Moby had gotten seriously ill, and he had not, we would be broken. He did the right thing. Moby is family. He is included in our love, has joined in. Just as I regret going to the ER after my choking, D does not. Because he could not have dealt with the perhaps, had he not insisted on my being checked. Same thing. I once sat for four hours while they pieced together his elbow, trying to comfort myself that it was his arm, and not, as it could so easily have been, his head. And it helped less than I hoped.

When those you love are in peril, normal, rational thought, is not entirely reliable. It does not cover all the unaskable questions.

Empty

My brain is empty. I'm ill and bothered. I invite you to one of my earliest posts, transferred over from the old defunct site. I can't even assess it properly.


Tea

Goose (Photo)

"There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of beer at a cocktail lounge."

Raymond Chandler, "Red Wind."


It was actually a cold, lake effect wind. I went out looking for an apartment, and found a near perfect one. While battling a lingering virus, hormones, and a rare migraine aura. (Very pretty with bright glowing pulsating lights in an inverted C in my lower right visual field.) My new friend, my rental agent, not only drove me to my place to get my meds, and would have gladly have put it off another day, she also dropped me back home, and picked up D to finish the process.

She and I took pictures of this over accessorized goose.

The owl is stone.

There were snow flurries. Hard, bitter, persistent winds.

House (Photo)

The Dutch House at 20 Netherland Rd, Brookline. On the National Historic Register. We just happened upon it. Seems it was once a Pub, 1793(?) Now a private home.

Stumbling upon history.

I think I have moving on the brain, and it's a couple of months to go.

Promise

"I notice that you didn't admit to slipping me and C each others' email addresses after my previous relationship ended. This whole thing is all your fault, you know." Said Moira.

And I said, that is her story. I can only tell my side of it. But I am going back a bit further, to explain the circumstances of our friendship. To explain what I know of my friend. For that, it takes the background of a truly alien place. Surgery.

I'd been in the OR for about three years, which is to say I was getting to be pretty proficient. It was on the job training, since the hiring freeze five years earlier, when was new, I was in the first year of new hires. The old staff was not accustomed to new folks, and it was with mixed feelings, and uneven skills, patchy patience and occasional hostility that they welcomed us. Learning this protocol ridden, exacting, demanding specialty is excruciating under ideal circumstances. There is little or no slowing down to allow for thorough learning, the surgery sweeps along in a torrent, and the newbie must cling and cope. Sterility is absolute, scrutiny is constant, correction is swift, and justice has nothing to do with it. Surgeons and Anesthesiologists demand attention and swift response, usually for very good reasons, often enough simply as habit. Old nurses bite. The mass of details that must be learned and rules adhered to are an ocean of crashing confusion. The white noise from the ventilator, positive air pressure, warmers, autoclave, compression boots and various equipment hums, alarms and beeps, conversation and music for distraction, mean that it is almost impossible to hear anyone. It takes a while to grow OR ears, to pick out what is important, what questions are directed at me, what is not my problem. Standing in the right place, not contaminating anything, remembering what all the instruments are called, not dropping anything, standing so as not to contaminate oneself.

This was all home to me on the day Moira walked in. Tall, way too skinny, sharp, a bit too bright, achingly young. One of a group of scrub tech students I'd seen skirting through the lounge on the days the hospital had them all in classes, before being let into the guts of the OR. She appeared nervous, but determined, there was steel armature beneath the prettiness, a grit that marked her, to my eyes, as one who was going to make it. Old OR folks reflexively, if not always correctly, size up the new hires, techs and nurses and medical students alike. The attitude is not so important as the attentiveness. Moira was all perked up ears. Even if she couldn't hear a thing.

We chatted in the locker room on the way out that afternoon, she laughed at a joke I'd made. I often made remarks that few if any heard or responded to, I kept quipping to amuse myself. That she noticed, thought me funny, was a big flag saying, this one is going to be fun. She would tell me later I'd said something irreverent, which really didn't narrow it down much for me. But she'd marked me as a woman to say anything to.

Touching is part of the job, a soft tap on the back, a hand laid below the back of the neck, safely away from any sterile areas, is a gentle way to get attention and not startle, while specifying who needs to be listening. This flows over to non-sterile areas, an habitual way of greeting. When new, this feels very intrusive. Threatening - to have one's back touched as normal greeting. With Moira, I knew to be very careful doing this.

Contrariwise, when scrubbed, when training her so new to scrubbing, I needed to grab her hands, touch her arm, hand an instrument, or demonstrate, while not talking, not distracting the surgeon talking to his resident. I knew that like me she would feel this as too very forceful, pushy. No time for words, I had to hand the instrument to the surgeon, and hold her back, without words, without interrupting the flow. I laid a soft hand on the forearm to reassure, to calm, because not being able to pass a clamp properly feels like failure, ineptitude, shame. It is an intense experience, even after the motions become a long rehearsed dance. Because there is always improvisation, each surgery a new variation. Makes it hard to teach, as muscle memory must be experienced and layered to be known in the bones. Riding a bicycle cubed. She allowed herself, over strong internal resistance, to be comforted.

Moira was a quick learner, seldom repeated mistakes, struggled to stay calm, quietly soaked in until she looked about to burst. She was getting good after a few months, when one day she was with me with the double surgeon team of Johnson and Thompson, oncology, tumor debulking, big cases, demanding, fast, skilled, loud pair, one left handed one right handed, who egged each other on, add in a med student, a resident. She was on her own with them for the first time, and they were chewing on her. I was backing her up, and although it sounds bad, I knew they would treat her much better (not like it felt better) if I did not scrub in as well. Adam was the old nurse circulator - he worked with the Dreadful Duo regularly, and had a rough, guy-rapport with them. I knew them for what they were, and they were my weird loud grandpas by then. She made a 'mistake', they yelled, she bit back tears, we did what we could to defuse, and gave her what she needed, cheered her on with gestures, distracted the surgeons by taking on blame, and kept her afloat. I relieved her for lunch, and reassured her that she was up to this. When she came back, shaking but grim, they made a dirty joke, and she topped it. They laughed, and she gave a firm nod. She had 'em, and she knew it.

On New Year's Eve, I invited her, with all due disclaimers, to spend the pseudo holiday with me, and D and his computer geek, socially inept, clever, witty and kind bunch of guy friends to watch Mystery Science Theater 3000. Sadly, she had nothing better to do, and luckily, she showed up. She went over very well with them, and she seemed to hesitantly enjoy herself. She became on of the regular crowd, joining in for occasional trips to dinner. She got to hear about the C stories. C being one of the CS class who had moved out to San Diego the year before. C and his family automotive curse. C and the naked computer component set up, C and the one eyed cat, C and the bag of super balls on his birthday.

Moira became my friend, the one she talked to, but not about everything, I knew. Hints and whispers, shy admissions with obvious expectation that each would send me running. And evident surprize when I stayed and understood. She was the first I invited when D and I finally had our wedding reception, 10 year approximate anniversary of the beginning, 7 of the legal marriage. We invited C of course, and all the friends we could gather in a Lebanese restaurant, for food and talk and a bellydancer. We are not natural party givers, but this seemed important, as we did the legal ceremony in his parent's living room with the Mormon Bishop, with only parents and brothers. And all the friends looked so disappointed not to have been invited. It took a while, but the celebration was going to happen. It turned out to be the best way to spend our money in our year of prosperity. Two small children ran around, dancing happened to unexpected people. And C met Moira.

After it was over, in the car back to our friends house, C asked me about her.

"Is she serious about that boyfriend?"
"I don't really know, I think so."
"If they do break up, promise you will give her my address and phone number. I think she is really cute." I knew this to be high praise from C.
"If they do, I promise I will."

And Moira did dump the guy she brought. And I had to figure out how to get the information to her without being a yenta. I did mention to her that C thought her cute, presented as a way to make her feel better about herself in the soul crushing experience of a break-up. But saying nothing more. Then, with D's help, I sent a purposefully awkward group email, under the pretense of learning how to use the feature. With everyone's email on the list - names attached. Promise fulfilled. That was all I did, keep a promise.

Moira, your turn, it's your story from this point on.

Dishes (Photo)

In honor of those who are moving, or will be moving soon, or who are moving two days early.

Body

I loved being carried as a small child. My brothers seemed to enjoy picking me up and moving me around, would go out of their way to pick me up and move me out of the way. They were often the ones to carry me in from the car at night, or swing me around before depositing me in bed. Their male presence, their strength and affection gave me the counter point to my difficult father.

My father was loved by my cousins, because he would get on the floor with the children and play with them. He happily became one of the boys wrestling. I suspect it is his version of affection as the youngest of six boys inadequately supervised by busy parents. He often hurt me in the roughhousing with my brothers. So when I went to sit on him while he was napping, he thought it affection. I was trying to hurt him back. When I hit him, it was to return the pain. Or get back at him for making my mother cry. I learned to be wary of touch, and to draw back. It bothered me that he could not tell the difference.

My most sensual memory of my mother is of her tucking me in bed. She would run her hand over my body, over the blankets. It felt protective and sexual and holy, and my tensions would melt, my mind quieten down, and I would sleep. I could not understand, though I knew enough not to ask, why she avoided certain areas, and this disturbed me.

My Aunt Evelyn was the one I found when I got tired at family gatherings. I would sit beside her and lean into her, rocked to sleep as she gestured and talked and laughed in the conversations around her. She would complain of her arm going to sleep or how heavy I was getting, but only later, only after I was awake again. I knew she took my trust as compliment, as painful honor. She died when I was living across the country, just starting my new job. My grief for her lasted acutely until I was able, years later, to stand at her grave. Not a ceremony common in my family. But once I was there, I was able to finally bestow tears on her, her beloved Ernie beside her. My pain began to lift that day, and the loss began to heal. I can still feel her arms around me when I am very tired.

D and I began our relationship in the context of an Army National Guard unit deployed to the Gulf in 1991. We would talk, a lot, in public areas. There were only public areas. We would lean together, shoulder to shoulder, or back to back. We walked discreetly holding pinkie fingers, because to walk hand in hand in uniform was PDA, an actionable offense against military decorum. But the need to touch was irresistible, a powerful physical attraction between us insisted. I hugged him as he stood at the postal counter (he was one of the postmen for the unit) by putting my chin on his shoulder, leaning in from behind him, my hands demurely by my side. Not like we felt we were fooling anybody, just keeping to the letter of the UCMJ.

Which is all not to say we didn't find privacy for more intimate contact, it just had to be carefully done. Our public conversations were wide ranging, a comedy act, and compared to most of those around us, terribly intellectual. Yes, we actually talked about books that we had actually read. One time, Sgt. Tina Somebodyorother commented that it was good that two smart people could spend all our time talking about Shakespeare and Science and such! We looked at each other in a kind of amazement that she would think that was what we did ALL THE TIME, when we both knew we'd indulged very, very, quietly in graphically sexual contact. We bit our respective lips and nodded and tried not to laugh out loud. Yup, yup, that is exactly what we were doing, talking about astronomy, uh huh.

We still touch each other often, prefer to sit next to each other, hug enthusiastically when we come home, rub cheeks watching a movie. Like drops of water on a counter, our bodies reach out to each other.

My dearest friend -M- lives on that Other coast, due to some guy - C- she met at D& my reception - a childhood friend of D. She was dating a Pretty Jerk, but at one point in the evening M & C were standing together, and at a glance the word "Couple" came into my head. After dumping Pretty Jerk a month or so later, she began to correspond with C via email, and after several visits in person, she moved out to be with him. They have now a rich, physical, and delightful-to-be-in-the-room-with marriage. But they started out with a powerful in person attraction. Then made sure it was real.

And M and I now have to grow our friendship through the words. But when I see her in person, we hold on to each other, lean together, or simply sit together in each other's presence. We don't talk as well then, but we laugh more. We began our friendship with both talk, and physical contact working together. Last visit out there, I fell asleep on her couch, under her mother's substantial afghan.

I long to hold her baby when she makes her appearance, to know who she really is. To know if she falls asleep in my arms. To find out if we, too, can be friends.

Sleep

I love sleep. I love that strange drifty feeling when falling asleep happens slowly, and the gravity increases, paralysis sets in warmly. Voices in conversation around fade to nothing, then become loud and crystal clear, but the meaning is indecipherable. Ideas prod at the edges, brilliant images and frightening CGI effects. Then that too fades into deeper, darker dreams and absence.

When I was very small, I slept under a slanted roof in a former bathroom on a small bed. The window was tiny, and high in the wall. I preferred the venetian blinds down and tight to keep the shadows away. The register was a black painted grate that puffed out waves of coal scented heat that seared my face, and light poked through the grill from my brothers' room if they were there studying. I listened to their muted chatter. Bad nights I overheard hateful arguments from downstairs through the conduit. That angry high pitched male voice, swearing and hectoring, the crying of my mother. Often interspersed with the neutral noises of repairs, hammers and thumps.

The fire in the furnace would die down, and the cold would lurk back and sit heavy on my shoulders. I would squidge down to the foot of the bed, bunching the covers around me, as well as Raggedy Anne and my brothers' abandoned bear, and any other stuffed toy I could find. I wanted them at my back as the terrors of the dark closed around me. Skulls and black fish all hid in the low corners. I sang sagas to myself, awake often long, long into the night, until everyone was in bed, and longer. Later I would wake cold and back at the top of the bed, a long puzzle. My mother once complained I had scratched her when she pulled me up, and my frustration was at her interfering with my method for staying warm. She ignored my explanation, it "wasn't right". I figured she deserved the scratch, certain that in my sleep I had fought her, trying to stay cozy. Then felt instantly guilty, as well as still angry.

Summers were oppressive for the heat and sweat, the roar of fans, the itch of mosquito bites and the grit of that pink lotion that helped not at all. I would lay awake and imagine black shadows biting my back and toes.

Much better were the nights at aunts and uncles homes, with lots of cousins. I would be laid in a bed not quite strange, and drift off to raucous laughter and the conversations of Euchre games, or Rummy, or 500.

I graduated nursing school over a decade ago, book-ended with several months of night and evening shifts. I was never any good at night. I'd never pulled an all-nighter. No one in their right mind wants to see me awake at two am. I cannot sleep during the day. When I did work at night, I would get a few hours sleep when I got home, and that was it. I was hallucinating. I lost my sense of humor. I was not safe to drive, nor take care of a patient. This was not going well. So I started to listen to NPR to keep my mind still, allowing me to sleep. Which worked a bit, but had to be turned off or I would wake and start listening to it.

When I got into the OR, I went to day shift, and had to learn how to go to sleep at 9PM. D got several books on tape from the library. Shelby Foote and John LeCarre. Soothing voices, and as I heard them repeatedly, I lost interest in the story, and let the sounds wash over me, but they kept my own scurrying mind quiet. D found it helped him sleep better as well.

And that wonderful sensation of gently falling asleep, to my brain processing talk, returned reassuringly.

Kung-fu

There are movies I have wanted to see, knowing, really knowing from the preview that I will love it. I can also tell when I need to avoid a movie, based on the preview. I've seen a lot of movies (4866 rated on Netflix to date). I have essentially seen way too many movies. Nothing like Kevin Murphy, of course, who miraculously manages to still love all films, to my admiration and amazement. It is a rare movie that can get through my wall of 'seen that' and 'so flawed'.

I was uncritical and omnivorous once, easily distracted by shiny things. I grew up not able to see any movie not G rated, or not on the Legion of Decency list of acceptable films. My tastes when given free reign tended toward the risque and foreign, anything not Disney, in essence. I spent my four years in college seeing an average of 4-5 movies a week - in theaters. I went to the movies at the Detroit Institute of Arts from one to three times a week. The WSU film society had noon shows for students for 50¢. The Punch and Judy showed art house and second run movies. The Ren Cen had Tuesday dollar night. The Unitarian Church down the street showed films in series. I saw French and Czech, Polish and Japanese and Russian films. I saw a string of Hitchcock, and Bertrand Blier movies. I saw two a week in my film classes from Professor Spaulding. He loved movies, with all their warts, which he enjoyed dissecting. I have never seen film the same way again.

My tastes and criteria for movies are quirky and unusual, a combination of my training, film and acting, overexposure, and deep attachment to characters. When I have tried to rate movies in online lists, compared to what others like, to get recommendations, it does not jibe. The more I rate, the more wrong the predictions become. I think I confuse the system.

Because I will refuse a movie because a director has betrayed my trust - especially if that director murders a character. I have no qualms about a character dying, or being murdered in a film. But when that character is simply offed for no plot advancing or character defining reason, just for the thrill of it, then I do not give that director another chance. My best example is in the shiny but soulless The English Patient. When the sergeant is gratuitously exploded to no end, at the end, I felt shamelessly manipulated, badly manipulated. I want to be skillfully manipulated when I see a movie.

I hated Ralph Fiennes in that movie, and will never see any movie with him in it again. In Quiz Show he irritated me, in English Patient, I came to loathe him. See, thing is, he ACTS! That showy, self conscious, easy ACTING! that I know to be an Oscar grubbing cheat. It looks like he is doing something grand, but there are no difficult choices made, no subtlety, no heart. It's Special Effects Acting -"See the 'Making of--Ralph Fiennes facial expressions!'"

Please, don't ever ask me to see a Ron Howard or Steven Speilberg movie. Just don't even ask.

I will not see a movie with Julia Roberts in it. I will give anything with Judy Dench, or done by Martin Scorcese, a chance, even if Julia Roberts were in it. I have not liked all Martin Scorcese films. Nor every one of John Sayles. But I will grant them another try. They have earned my trust, and we all make crap at times.

On the other hand, I do not need a movie to be great. It does have to have heart. It does have to be fairly free of gaping plot holes. It has to have a sense of humor, the truth of drama, the point of comedy. That Thing You Do is one of those perfect small movies. Internally consistent, funny, true and with a warm chewy center. Tank Girl is not perfect, but Lori Petty is so charming, and the friendships that develop are genuine, ignoring the silly special effects and the swiss cheesy plot. Nor do I even need that, Plan 9 From Outer Space is utter crap, but done with such energy and wobbly imagination that, given a room full of loudmouths watching it, is a lot of fun, and the good guys win (I think, sorta). It's fine to like bad movies, as long as one is aware that it is bad, but likable anyway.


I just saw Kung Fu Hustle. I knew from the previews I wanted to see it. It has been on our Netflix list for a long time, but D was a bit dubious. We missed it in theaters when it came out, due to the move across country and my own disenchantment with sitting in a theater to see a film. I regret this.

I laughed, I cringed, it was amazing. Difficult to cope with the extreme Tex Avery extreme violence at first, but it was pointed. No one was quite what they seemed, and compassion wins. This was by far the best movie I have seen in years. It is the funniest modern comedy I have seen, with Pixar animation being in the same league. This is a movie that is concentrated movie. Much more than is obvious on first viewing. It is parody and homage and over the top moralizing, CGI and martial arts chorerography, disguising a solid story of courage and decency and responsibility. It is, as all great stories are, a love story.

We may need to own this one, and make friends watch it.

Yes, I do have IMDB bookmarked on my bookmarks bar, since you ask.

Famous (Photo)

Oh, he's a gracious celebrity. Will send you a paw print anytime.

He was famous before, he also made
Calling All Pets.

Infinity (Photo)

Moby made the Infinite Cat Project! at 1199.

Juicer (Photo)

This is my lemon juicer. Works really well. Unless I have paper cuts. As with all photos here, click for a larger view.