It's your birthday. You and your significant other have been together for quite some time now. You're looking forward to spending some quality time with one another on this special day. When that day comes, your significant other is nowhere to be found. It's not like you made a secret of the day or time. It's not like it wasn't a big deal. It's not like this day hadn't been important for both of you for a very long time. Now it's your birthday, and you're left alone.
Should you break up?
Even if it had been raining?
I ask this because I think it's time to break up with our "President." On Veteran's Day, both the "President" and his Vice Minion chose to skip the part where presidents before have traveled to Arlington National Cemetery to lay a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Could it be that they were out of town? Nope. Barack Obama missed a Veteran's Day wreath-laying, but he was in China at the time. Other presidents have missed the ceremony, but somehow managed to send someone in their place. The Executive Branch was a no-show this year. Maybe he was caught up in the hurly-burly topsy-turvy daily events at the White House. Or maybe he was using that time to tweet about how the threat of "presidential harassment" was giving the stock market "headaches." This comes from a guy who routinely touts his love and respect for our armed forces and veterans from his Twitter account, but seems challenged to make a meaningful connection to the troops deployed across the globe. Too busy. Phone calls to make. Tweets to send. Fox & Friends is on.
All of which might be a little easier to take if he had shown up at all for the one hundredth commemoration of the end World War I. Instead of joining the rest of the world's leaders walking hand in hand down the Champs-Elysees, our "President" took a motorcade to the photo op at the Arc de Triomphe. After which he hopped in his car and headed back to the palace for lunch.
Whether it is his fear of steps, or his inability to operate an umbrella this guy continues to thumb his nose at common courtesy and convention. He is content to make everyone bow to his whims and limitations.
Or we could just break up with him.
In a text.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Getting It Write
The first screenwriter I knew about was Paddy Chayefsky. He wrote Network, and when he won an Oscar for it, I was just old enough to figure that he was the bomb. And he was. For a time. This opened the door for me to start paying attention to the screenplay credits of all the movies I watched. And while I was waiting for Mister Chayefsky to turn out another masterpiece, there was this guy who seemed to have a pretty good gig going: William Goldman.
I am probably dating myself by suggesting that everyone should see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. At least once. Made in 1969, it was the prototype for buddy movies that came by the crate-full shortly after that. And while many of them were quite enjoyable and well made in their own right, they didn't have the wit and buoyancy of the original. All through the seventies and eighties, when the credits included "screenplay by William Goldman," you could be pretty sure you were in for a fun ride. He wrote the novel Marathon Man and adapted it for the screen, giving us all a legitimate fear of Nazi dentists. He adapted Ira Levin's novel The Stepford Wives, giving us all a legitimate fear of suburbia. He turned Stephen King's Misery into a movie that made us all fear our number one fan.
Then there was this book my wife, before we ever started dating, insisted that I read: The Princess Bride. It was written by S. Morgenstern, and retold in a "good parts" version by William Goldman. Yes. That William Goldman. When all that fencing and fighting and torture and true love was made into a film, it was only right that William Goldman should prepare it for the screen. I hope that I am not dating myself again by suggesting that if you were alive in the past thirty years and have not seen The Princess Bride, then you are not as happy as you could be. And though she would complain bitterly that the omission of the first chapter of the book makes it a lesser work, my wife will always watch every frame, because it was written by William Goldman.
And now the man who made so many of those favorite moments has gone. He left dozens of screenplays and inspired a generation of screenwriters, and would-be screenwriters like me. He brought the Terra to life for Butch and Sundance to stomp on, and for Buttercup and Westley to find each other. He will be missed.
Aloha, Mister Goldman.
I am probably dating myself by suggesting that everyone should see Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. At least once. Made in 1969, it was the prototype for buddy movies that came by the crate-full shortly after that. And while many of them were quite enjoyable and well made in their own right, they didn't have the wit and buoyancy of the original. All through the seventies and eighties, when the credits included "screenplay by William Goldman," you could be pretty sure you were in for a fun ride. He wrote the novel Marathon Man and adapted it for the screen, giving us all a legitimate fear of Nazi dentists. He adapted Ira Levin's novel The Stepford Wives, giving us all a legitimate fear of suburbia. He turned Stephen King's Misery into a movie that made us all fear our number one fan.
Then there was this book my wife, before we ever started dating, insisted that I read: The Princess Bride. It was written by S. Morgenstern, and retold in a "good parts" version by William Goldman. Yes. That William Goldman. When all that fencing and fighting and torture and true love was made into a film, it was only right that William Goldman should prepare it for the screen. I hope that I am not dating myself again by suggesting that if you were alive in the past thirty years and have not seen The Princess Bride, then you are not as happy as you could be. And though she would complain bitterly that the omission of the first chapter of the book makes it a lesser work, my wife will always watch every frame, because it was written by William Goldman.
And now the man who made so many of those favorite moments has gone. He left dozens of screenplays and inspired a generation of screenwriters, and would-be screenwriters like me. He brought the Terra to life for Butch and Sundance to stomp on, and for Buttercup and Westley to find each other. He will be missed.
Aloha, Mister Goldman.
Monday, November 19, 2018
Anatomy Of A Snow Day
When I was a lad, I used to sit in the kitchen listening to the radio, barely able to breathe as school closures were announced. At times the list seemed to be organized with the specific intent of driving those children in Boulder Valley RE-2 mad with anticipation. We certainly had our share of disappointments, as our hearty pioneer town's spirit was generally rewarded with a slog to school in all kinds of inclement weather. It snows in Colorado. Get used to it, kid.
But on those rare occasions when the roads truly were impassible and the forecast was for even more, we got what we wanted: A chance to spend the day playing outside.
And that's pretty much what I expected when the Oakland Unified School District chose to fall in line with the rest of the Bay Area and cancel classes for the Friday before Thanksgiving Break. What would be gained by sending those children hearty enough to brave the last day before a week off into the poisonous cloud that had been plaguing the area for the past week? More and more kids had been showing up to school in masks, along with their parents, certain that any exposure to the atmosphere would cause them to melt into a choking mass of spasms. I didn't have the heart to explain how bitterly all of those students had taken the pill handed to them called "indoor recess." They would happily run and kick balls and climb and chase one another until they dropped. The powers that be just didn't want to be responsible for that last part.
So we got a smoke day. It was announced just as school was being dismissed for the day on Thursday, and I heard the news first from a group of third graders. Which is precisely why I doubted it. Then our crossing guard approached me with the same proclamation. Which is right about the time my phone began to buzz. An email delivered directly to me, from the superintendent, telling me that I didn't need to come to work the next day. We were getting an extra day right before our scheduled vacation.
Which I used to come into school for a couple hours, to straighten up and prepare for the next time we all got together to do the teaching thing. On my way down the hill, I saw one of my little charges jumping rope on the sidewalk. Braving the elements. "Mister Caven!" she cried, "What are you doing? There's no school!" Her face was squished into a knot of confusion that mostly found on second grade girls.
"I'm just going to go in and clean some things up," I replied. And enjoy the day of quiet.
But on those rare occasions when the roads truly were impassible and the forecast was for even more, we got what we wanted: A chance to spend the day playing outside.
And that's pretty much what I expected when the Oakland Unified School District chose to fall in line with the rest of the Bay Area and cancel classes for the Friday before Thanksgiving Break. What would be gained by sending those children hearty enough to brave the last day before a week off into the poisonous cloud that had been plaguing the area for the past week? More and more kids had been showing up to school in masks, along with their parents, certain that any exposure to the atmosphere would cause them to melt into a choking mass of spasms. I didn't have the heart to explain how bitterly all of those students had taken the pill handed to them called "indoor recess." They would happily run and kick balls and climb and chase one another until they dropped. The powers that be just didn't want to be responsible for that last part.
So we got a smoke day. It was announced just as school was being dismissed for the day on Thursday, and I heard the news first from a group of third graders. Which is precisely why I doubted it. Then our crossing guard approached me with the same proclamation. Which is right about the time my phone began to buzz. An email delivered directly to me, from the superintendent, telling me that I didn't need to come to work the next day. We were getting an extra day right before our scheduled vacation.
Which I used to come into school for a couple hours, to straighten up and prepare for the next time we all got together to do the teaching thing. On my way down the hill, I saw one of my little charges jumping rope on the sidewalk. Braving the elements. "Mister Caven!" she cried, "What are you doing? There's no school!" Her face was squished into a knot of confusion that mostly found on second grade girls.
"I'm just going to go in and clean some things up," I replied. And enjoy the day of quiet.
Sunday, November 18, 2018
Bearing The Smoky
As we negotiated the poor air quality here in the Bay Area, I had a number of random thoughts.
The first one was this: I would love to be the person who had the concession on those tacky surgical masks that men, women, and children of all ages are strapping to their noses and mouths. I have to imagine that the markup on those babies is pretty severe, since they run from anywhere between eleven dollars and thirty-two dollars. Reminiscent of the run on duct tape and plastic sheeting in December of 1999.
Another aspect of living in a haze is the choices that we make. I went out for a run on a couple of mornings after the air quality began to dip. This decision was based primarily on the notion that I might not get any exercise at all being trapped inside all day. This transferred abruptly to the enthusiasms of the kids at school, who felt disabused by the suggestion by these so-called grownups that they should not be allowed to play outside. Never mind that their number had been reduced steadily over the course of the week due to parental concerns and wheezing among their family members. The overarching sentiment seemed to be, "I may end up in the hospital tonight, but I will play four square today!"
The last impression that has been renewed for me is that of the morning cigarette. There have been plenty of times when I have been riding my bike to school or out for a run as the sun is making its presence felt, and I see a man or a woman hunching over to light up. There is no better way for your lungs to start a day than to fill them with contaminants. Add to this picture the gray could of smoke enveloping them from outside even as they take that first big drag. And proceed to hack up what remains of their respiratory system.
And all the while, we know that these are the lucky ones. The ones who dealt with the extraneous effects of the worst wildfire in California history. Where there's smoke, there's smoke. The fire is a hundred plus miles away. Take a whiff of that.
The first one was this: I would love to be the person who had the concession on those tacky surgical masks that men, women, and children of all ages are strapping to their noses and mouths. I have to imagine that the markup on those babies is pretty severe, since they run from anywhere between eleven dollars and thirty-two dollars. Reminiscent of the run on duct tape and plastic sheeting in December of 1999.
Another aspect of living in a haze is the choices that we make. I went out for a run on a couple of mornings after the air quality began to dip. This decision was based primarily on the notion that I might not get any exercise at all being trapped inside all day. This transferred abruptly to the enthusiasms of the kids at school, who felt disabused by the suggestion by these so-called grownups that they should not be allowed to play outside. Never mind that their number had been reduced steadily over the course of the week due to parental concerns and wheezing among their family members. The overarching sentiment seemed to be, "I may end up in the hospital tonight, but I will play four square today!"
The last impression that has been renewed for me is that of the morning cigarette. There have been plenty of times when I have been riding my bike to school or out for a run as the sun is making its presence felt, and I see a man or a woman hunching over to light up. There is no better way for your lungs to start a day than to fill them with contaminants. Add to this picture the gray could of smoke enveloping them from outside even as they take that first big drag. And proceed to hack up what remains of their respiratory system.
And all the while, we know that these are the lucky ones. The ones who dealt with the extraneous effects of the worst wildfire in California history. Where there's smoke, there's smoke. The fire is a hundred plus miles away. Take a whiff of that.
Saturday, November 17, 2018
Mnemonics
What a great slogan "Good Guy With A Gun" is. It has that brevity that makes it hard to dislodge from your prefrontal cortex. It has the alliteration that makes it sing. It seems to make so much sense. Until you start to unravel it.
The number of good guys with guns that died in the line of duty because of a gun that wasn't in the hands of a good guy is forty-four. Forty-four good guys and gals with guns died because their jobs are inherently dangerous. Because, as most people will remind you, there are a lot more bad guys with guns who don't follow the rules who don't care who they shoot on the other side of that thin blue line.
And then there's Jemel Roberson,a church musician and a security guard at Manny’s Blue Room Bar in Robbins, Illinois. Jemel was doing his job early last Sunday morning when he asked a group of drunken patrons to leave the bar. Moments later, one of them came back with a gun. He opened fire. In the ensuing tumult, Roberson apprehended one of the men outside the bar. He had a knee on the bad guy's back and held a gun on him, suggesting that he did not move. Police officers arrived on the scene and shot Jemel Roberson. He was shot five times. Without ever firing a shot in anger, Jemel Roberson was dead.
Two days before this incident, Roberson had played at his grandmother's funeral.
Without casting any further judgments into these murky waters, let's just take guns out of this interaction. Security guard asks drunken patrons to leave a bar in the wee hours of the morning. One of them comes back looking for a fight. A scuffle ensues, and police are called. They show up and settles the dispute. Someone ends up being cited, maybe jailed, for their behavior. Order is restored.
In this particular version, however, Good Guy with a Gun Gone. And the number of times this kind of thing goes wrong, it's probably worth remembering. Not just in your prefrontal cortex, but in your heart as well.
The number of good guys with guns that died in the line of duty because of a gun that wasn't in the hands of a good guy is forty-four. Forty-four good guys and gals with guns died because their jobs are inherently dangerous. Because, as most people will remind you, there are a lot more bad guys with guns who don't follow the rules who don't care who they shoot on the other side of that thin blue line.
And then there's Jemel Roberson,a church musician and a security guard at Manny’s Blue Room Bar in Robbins, Illinois. Jemel was doing his job early last Sunday morning when he asked a group of drunken patrons to leave the bar. Moments later, one of them came back with a gun. He opened fire. In the ensuing tumult, Roberson apprehended one of the men outside the bar. He had a knee on the bad guy's back and held a gun on him, suggesting that he did not move. Police officers arrived on the scene and shot Jemel Roberson. He was shot five times. Without ever firing a shot in anger, Jemel Roberson was dead.
Two days before this incident, Roberson had played at his grandmother's funeral.
Without casting any further judgments into these murky waters, let's just take guns out of this interaction. Security guard asks drunken patrons to leave a bar in the wee hours of the morning. One of them comes back looking for a fight. A scuffle ensues, and police are called. They show up and settles the dispute. Someone ends up being cited, maybe jailed, for their behavior. Order is restored.
In this particular version, however, Good Guy with a Gun Gone. And the number of times this kind of thing goes wrong, it's probably worth remembering. Not just in your prefrontal cortex, but in your heart as well.
Friday, November 16, 2018
Evacuate And Shun
A very good friend of mine and I were joking the other night as we talked on the phone. She was relating to me how she had coordinated a five minute, a thirty minute, and a one hour evacuation plan. I suggested that we pitch an HGTV show, where she could go from home to home, advising others on the delicate balance of things you need when you can't stay in your house. Having just returned from two days away from her own home, evacuated from the path of the Thousand Oaks fire, our conversation strayed into some pretty dark places. Considering there were a great many people who had never had the chance to flee, or to ponder what items might make the trip away from their homes, there was an edge of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I.
Which made me start to inventory my own life. What would I drag out the front door if I only had five minutes to choose? Would I have the presence of mind to remember my carefully laid plan? The most obvious answer is the one where I take the irreplaceable: My wife and myself. The stuff would have to wait. People, we preached to our son from a very early age, are more important than things. But what about those animation cels? The movie poster collection? Somewhere in a recess of my mind, I recall insurance playing a part in this, but I cannot imagine that there will be a replacement for the frame signed by Chuck Jones to me. I don't expect there is a set price for wedding photos. Or DVDs of our son when he was a tiny boy. When we taught him that people are more important than things.
Still, there is a short list of things I would like to believe I would tuck under my arm when the flames came over the hill, or the house began to creak and fail in an earthquake. The photo album. That first edition of Breakfast of Champions. Our wedding cake topper. The file cabinet with the last twenty-five years of documents, warranties, and policies. Or maybe just my wits.
It pains me just a little to think about what Neil Young must have lost in the fire. It makes me smile when I think about the man who found his wife's wedding ring amid the ashes. It gladdens my heart to know that my friends and family are safe again.
For now.
Which made me start to inventory my own life. What would I drag out the front door if I only had five minutes to choose? Would I have the presence of mind to remember my carefully laid plan? The most obvious answer is the one where I take the irreplaceable: My wife and myself. The stuff would have to wait. People, we preached to our son from a very early age, are more important than things. But what about those animation cels? The movie poster collection? Somewhere in a recess of my mind, I recall insurance playing a part in this, but I cannot imagine that there will be a replacement for the frame signed by Chuck Jones to me. I don't expect there is a set price for wedding photos. Or DVDs of our son when he was a tiny boy. When we taught him that people are more important than things.
Still, there is a short list of things I would like to believe I would tuck under my arm when the flames came over the hill, or the house began to creak and fail in an earthquake. The photo album. That first edition of Breakfast of Champions. Our wedding cake topper. The file cabinet with the last twenty-five years of documents, warranties, and policies. Or maybe just my wits.
It pains me just a little to think about what Neil Young must have lost in the fire. It makes me smile when I think about the man who found his wife's wedding ring amid the ashes. It gladdens my heart to know that my friends and family are safe again.
For now.
Thursday, November 15, 2018
The Man
I have thought about writing this epitaph a hundred times. Stan Lee lived to be ninety-five years old, and I am still working on finding words to express the impact this man had on my life. For a period of time, I was signing my name with the parenthetical (the Amazing Spider Man). I read more comic books than your average nerd, and though I had dalliances with other publishers, I was a Marvel guy. This was the standard and the brand that I could trust. It was part of the road map of my life.
It should be noted that the first time I proposed to my wife, I did so as an homage to Peter Parker and his paramour Mary Jane Watson. As I mentioned, this was the first of many attempts, but it should be noted that a copy of that comic still stands on an altar next to our wedding photo. It is the way the legend has proved to be stronger than the more twisted path of reality.
If you don't know Stan Lee, you might have been asleep for the past fifty years, so I will tell you that he is the man responsible for heroes. Heroes like the aforementioned Spider Man, Iron Man, Fantastic Four, Black Panther, Incredible Hulk, and Howard the Duck.
Yes. I went with my older brother to see Howard the Duck when George Lucas turned it into a movie. We paid full price. And we liked it. I watched the CBS TV version of Spider Man. Okay, I wasn't in love with it, but I watched. When Sam Raimi finally got his hands on the Webslinger, I was in heaven, even if that third outing went a little awry. But I was back in line when Andrew Garfield pulled on those red and blue tights. Twice. All this time, Stan was gearing up for a Marvel Cinematic Universe that brought us Iron Man, and resurrected Captain America, breathed new life int Black Widow and made Hawkeye cool.
With each new movie, I found myself drawn back to those comics. The ones I had read for so many years, and eventually introduced to my son. He and I sat in the audience of together and waited for the cameo from the man who brought us all these amazing stories. As many times as I have watched the Avengers on screen, I return to that frame where the Avengers discover Steve Rogers, frozen in time. This was the moment of my awakening, and ever since then, I have made mine Marvel.
Stan Lee stomped on the Terra and galaxies beyond our imaginations. Thankfully, he shared those worlds with us, and I that those ninety-five years were never enough, but I am eternally grateful for the gifts he shared. He will be missed. Aloha, Stan. And Excelsior!
It should be noted that the first time I proposed to my wife, I did so as an homage to Peter Parker and his paramour Mary Jane Watson. As I mentioned, this was the first of many attempts, but it should be noted that a copy of that comic still stands on an altar next to our wedding photo. It is the way the legend has proved to be stronger than the more twisted path of reality.
If you don't know Stan Lee, you might have been asleep for the past fifty years, so I will tell you that he is the man responsible for heroes. Heroes like the aforementioned Spider Man, Iron Man, Fantastic Four, Black Panther, Incredible Hulk, and Howard the Duck.
Yes. I went with my older brother to see Howard the Duck when George Lucas turned it into a movie. We paid full price. And we liked it. I watched the CBS TV version of Spider Man. Okay, I wasn't in love with it, but I watched. When Sam Raimi finally got his hands on the Webslinger, I was in heaven, even if that third outing went a little awry. But I was back in line when Andrew Garfield pulled on those red and blue tights. Twice. All this time, Stan was gearing up for a Marvel Cinematic Universe that brought us Iron Man, and resurrected Captain America, breathed new life int Black Widow and made Hawkeye cool.
With each new movie, I found myself drawn back to those comics. The ones I had read for so many years, and eventually introduced to my son. He and I sat in the audience of together and waited for the cameo from the man who brought us all these amazing stories. As many times as I have watched the Avengers on screen, I return to that frame where the Avengers discover Steve Rogers, frozen in time. This was the moment of my awakening, and ever since then, I have made mine Marvel.
Stan Lee stomped on the Terra and galaxies beyond our imaginations. Thankfully, he shared those worlds with us, and I that those ninety-five years were never enough, but I am eternally grateful for the gifts he shared. He will be missed. Aloha, Stan. And Excelsior!
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