Like a fine wine

Ah, sweet young Robby Benson, star of Ice Castles, Ode to Billy Joe, and other unforgettable 1970s film fare. Nice-looking kid, but he never did anything for me.

Not-quite-so-young Robby Benson, author of Who Stole the Funny?, voice of Beauty & the Beast's Beast, television director, and last night's featured guest speaker at my place of employment. Some things definitely improve with age.

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas

I walked to work this morning but decided to take the bus home when the temperature rose to over 100 degrees. As we drove up Lake Avenue, the bus passed a Walgreen's where a holiday commercial was being filmed. Fake snow decorated the stone pillars outside, and the drugstore's windows were filled with flocking and big, gift-wrapped Christmas presents. A crew member was wrangling a large roll of "snow" on the sidewalk.

"Mmmmm, mmmmm," I heard the bus driver say softly to herself. "Christmas comes earlier every year."

In the wee small hours

I woke up at 4:10 this morning and decided to go look at the total eclipse of the moon. I had heard that the West Coast had front row seats for the show and that the moon would be a beautiful, mysterious red.

I had a good view from my front porch, and the eclipse was on the wane by that time. The moon was low in the western sky, with the right lower third still in shadow. The shadow was indeed a deep red, but it wasn't beautiful; it made me think of a blood clot.

It was very quiet outside. The only other living being stirring in the neighborhood was a white and orange cat slinking down the sidewalk across the street. I wondered how many of my neighbors were awake at that hour, perhaps watching the same moon from their backyards or bedroom windows; more likely a few people were up and about but doing things like showering or making coffee, completely oblivious to the strange light show in the western sky. How much do we miss -- do I miss -- by being preoccupied with mundane routines, like sleeping or getting ready for work? I'm glad that for once I was able to put my insomnia to good use and see a rare, ugly, blood-red moon.

Cinemaphilia

Last week, Entertainment Weekly published their fall movie preview. I moaned a bit about how weak 2007's final quarter film lineup appeared, and then I started highlighting the flicks I want to see -- either because they sound good, or because they're obvious Oscar bait. When I was done, I had 53 films on my list, the vast majority of which I think sound genuinely entertaining. Damn! I'm hoping a few of these will be released to such poor reviews that I can reject them. Otherwise, I'll be out about five hundred bucks in movie tickets. Being a film fan is not a cheap hobby, I've discovered.

I did catch four films this weekend, three on the big screen and all at bargain prices. Friday evening's fare I watched at home as part of the CoFH lineup. The Howling is a werewolf film that has not held up well since its 1981 release; I remember thinking it was much scarier and more intricately plotted when I first saw it in high school. For the few who don't know it, The Howling is the story of a TV reporter (Dee Wallace) who's being stalked by an elusive criminal named Eddie. After he attacks her in a movie booth in a porno shop -- do such things even exist anymore? -- she loses it and is advised by a celebrity psychologist to take a rest at the retreat he runs in northern California. Lo and behold, the retreat is populated by a clan of werewolves! And the mysterious Eddie seems to have ties to the enclave. Some of the makeup effects are quite good (such as above: Robert Picardo as Eddie wants to give Dee Wallace a piece of his mind -- he will momentarily plunge his fingers into one of the wounds on his forehead and extract a bullet), and some, such as Dee Wallace's fluffy, coiffed, whimpering puppy of a werewolf at film's end, are beyond lame. Slim Pickens has a nice little turn as the local sheriff. I was also struck by the weak score, which sounded so like stock music it was a wonder the studio had hung onto it. I probably would have liked The Howling more if I'd had a few drinks in me -- at least that way I could have enjoyed it as a comedy.

On Saturday, I saw Rescue Dawn with Sean and Curtis at the local second-run theatre. This great little film (I say "little" simply because it seems to have escaped everyone's attention; in many ways it borders on epic) tells the true story of Dieter Dengler, an American pilot shot down in Laos during the early days of the Vietnam conflict. Eventually he and his comrades escape the prison where they are being held, only to face horrors of a different sort: impenetrable jungle, starvation, snakes, and murderous Viet Cong. Christian Bale plays Dengler, and the ever-underrated Steve Zahn plays a fellow captive who is terribly damaged by his prison experience. Curtis liked the film quite a bit, but Sean felt it was lacking something; he felt that even though it can be artificial to impose a character arc on a story, particularly when the story is based on truth, Rescue Dawn could have done a better job of showing Dengler's growth. I have to disagree: Dieter Dengler is a rather unpleasant character, arrogant and bossy, and I think his complete faith in himself is what kept him alive. The fact that he was able to maintain his confidence instead of descending into madness or cowering fear represents a sort of character arc that I thought worked well. Rescue Dawn is directed by Werner Herzog and is a fictional retelling of the story he presented in his documentary film, Little Dieter Needs to Fly. If it shows up at a theatre near you, check it out.

Yesterday I went to the New Beverly to see a double feature of the 1978 Invasion of the Body Snatchers and 1982's remake of The Thing. I like both Donald Sutherland and Brooke Adams, the leads in Body Snatchers, and it was a treat to see Jeff Goldblum and Veronica Cartwright in supporting roles, but I think I would have been confused if I weren't already so familiar with the brilliant original film. The screenplay jumped around a lot, particularly in the beginning, and didn't do a great job of explaining plot points; for instance, it was unclear if Sutherland and Adams were just friendly co-workers or if their relationship went deeper than that. I also didn't like the film completely giving away the whole pods-from-space detail -- I mean, you find out what's going on during the opening credits, which does a great deal to undermine tension later on. I guess by now everyone knows the story of Invasion of the Body Snatchers so the filmmakers felt it was all right to tip their hand early on. The Thing was quite entertaining. I hadn't seen it since it originally came out on video when I was in high school, and all I remembered about it was a dog peeling apart and bloody, ropy tendrils bursting from its body. Carpenter assembled a terrific cast, including Kurt Russell, Wilford Brimley, Richard Dysart, and Richard Masur. The whole enterprise was horribly, wonderfully gory -- my favorite moment (besides the dog peel -- that's still excellent!) was when an alien-possessed member of the Antarctic crew was receiving CPR, and his chest caved in and gigantic teeth within his chest cavity clamped shut so hard on the hapless fellow giving compressions that the guy's arms were bitten off. Both Body Snatchers and The Thing have refreshingly downbeat endings that are sadly lacking in most of today's films. I'm hoping to see The Invasion, the latest remake of the former, this week, and we'll see if it dares to bum audiences out.

Overheard at the post office

HUSBAND: Do you have one of those forms you can fill out when you want your mail held? A friend of mine asked me to get one of those for her.

POSTAL WORKER: Yes. How long are you going to be out of town?

HUSBAND: It's for someone else. She wants me to fill it out for her.

POSTAL WORKER: We only hold mail for 30 days. Do you need us to hold her mail for longer than 30 days?

HUSBAND: Uh, she's in a coma.

WIFE: Bill, 30 days is long enough.

Book of the week

I love it when a longtime favorite comes back into print! My parents gave me a copy of Jane-Emily for Christmas when I was eleven years old, and I stayed up late Christmas night reading it. The story so unnerved me that I made our dog, Tiger, stay in the room next to my bed while I read; he lay there patiently, letting me pet him as I turned the pages. Only when I finally finished and turned off the light did Tiger pad down the hallway to my sound asleep parents' bedroom and his usual spot for the night.

Overheard at work

Woman #1: Wow, there sure are a lot of books in here!

Woman #2: Yes, there are. Are you a reader?

Woman #1: Oh, yes. I like the Harlequins.

Old news

Today I ran across an intriguing question: What is the oldest thing you own? Part of me can't help picturing my own reflection in the mirror and thinking, "Me," but truth be told, I do have a few items that are more than 41 years old.


First off, there's our house. The Shambles was built in 1922. I own my grandmother's high school choir book from her senior year in 1921. On my wedding day my "something old" was a cameo brooch that once belonged to my great-great aunt; I'd guess it's from around 1910 or so. And one of my prize possessions is a beautiful Japanese baby doll given to my father by an elderly Japanese woman shortly after World War II -- he assumed it was hers when she was a little girl, so it probably dates from around the turn of the last century.

But the oldest thing I own (as far as I know) is a handwoven coverlet made by my great-great grandmother on my mother's father's side. It's a traditional red, white and blue pattern, and I inherited it after my parents died. My grandmother told me that Grandpa's grandmother died in 1865, so although I don't know exactly what year the coverlet was made, I do know it can't be any younger than 142 years old. And I'd say that's a good deal older than I am by anyone's standards.



(This isn't my actual coverlet, but it looks a lot like this one, down to the white line running down the center; I used to fear that it was a fold where the fabric was weakening, but now I believe it's a seam where two smaller pieces were joined together.)

What is the oldest thing you own?

Goodbye, old friend

I just found out this morning that the old Rialto movie theatre in South Pasadena is closing tomorrow night. The boys and I took my niece Cameron there not long ago to see Ratatouille, and I had been struck not only by the tiny audience in attendance but also how shabby the building had become. It's too bad -- at one time it was a grand old theatre, with high-backed seats, red velvet drapes, box seats, and beautifully painted walls. It was a revival house during my high school days, and since it became an arthouse theatre I've seen some wonderful movies there over the years; I even caught my first showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at one of its frequent midnight screenings. More recently the Rialto has been showing mainstream fare, probably in a bid to bring in more business. Unfortunately, it seems not to have done much good.

R.I.P. to another great old Pasadena-area movie house.

Shiny happy bathroom

My urge to completely spiff up my home hasn't resulted in much elbow grease on my part, but last night I did give our bathroom a pretty good overhaul.

When you rarely make an effort to keep things clean, and you prefer to use organic products when you do bother, the result is a none-too-clean abode. (Sadly, I speak from personal experience.) Gentle, earth-loving cleansers are good for your lungs and eyes and the water supply, but they just don't cut through soap scum the way C.L.R. does. I decided to haul out the tough stuff when I realized my bathtub had gradually changed from pure white to what the decorators like to call "almond," due to the alarmingly thick layer of mineral and soap buildup.

After the shower was clean, I thought, "Oh, what the hell," and gave the rest of the bathroom a good cleanse. I scrubbed out the wastebasket, washed the toilet brush (gag), and hung a new shower curtain. After I took a much-needed shower last night, I dried myself with a fluffy towel still warm from the dryer. I still need to update the reading material in the magazine rack and wash the glass lamp covers, but all in all, a job well done. And while the W.C. is not perfectly sterile, mine was no half-assed job, either; I'd say it's no more than 15% assed.

This morning the smell of bleach was permeating the house, so Sean and I each made efforts to mask the odor. Now our house smells like bleach, gardenia-scented candle, and coffee-scented incense.

Why would I want to?

Last night I was chatting with Norman, and our conversation turned, as everyone's casual late-night conversations are wont to do, to high school and sex. Norman asked me if there was a girl at my school who was considered "the slut." I told him I couldn't remember anybody being saddled with that reputation; I certainly didn't think it was me.

Maybe I was more distant from my teenage friends than I thought, but I don't recall ever sitting around with my gal pals or even my sisters and comparing sexual escapades. I gave up the big v when I was 16 so I had something to talk about, but no one asked and I didn't volunteer. But during my senior year, a nice Mormon boy I'd started seeing gave me a copy of How to Regain Your Virginity for my birthday. He meant it as a joke, I'm sure, but there was a whiff of wistfulness about the presentation of this particular gift. I had never talked to him about past boyfriends, though I guess both of us must have assumed I had more experience than he. It's as if he had a gaydar-like knowledge about my fallen state: he looked at me and he just knew.

Maybe I appeared sluttier than I realized.

Civic improvement

Sean took me out to lunch today. As we were walking to the restaurant, he asked me, "So, what have you done today to make the world a better place?"

I thought long and hard, then answered, "I picked a bloody Kleenex up off the floor in the religion section."

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My buddy Trooperdog is running an exquisite corpse over on his blog. I urge you to take a look and see if you can add anything to it! (You might have to be registered on Xanga to do so...)

Tempting fate

Last night after our virtuous dinner of steamed broccoli and Weight Watchers tuna casserole, Norman and I volunteered to go get dessert while Sean and Curtis road-tested some new editing software they'd purchased.

At the market we picked out slices of chocolate cake and carrot cake, a frosted brownie, and a tiny cheesecake. Norman was taken with the idea of "a la mode," so we selected a carton of Stephen Colbert's Americone Dream ice cream.

As we left the market, Norman started rooting around in the shopping bag to make sure his piece of chocolate cake hadn't tipped over, possibly besmirching the decorative frosting flower on top. "Where are you, sweetheart?" I heard him murmur. Then, a moment later, "Soon you and I will be one."

We laughed nervously as we passed a rack of newspapers bearing the headline DIABETES EPIDEMIC HITS L.A.

Making the grade

Today at our weekly marketing meeting, I mentioned that a former co-worker was scheduled for an autograph party this fall. There was some oohing and aaahing from my co-workers, most of whom were not aware that she's an author and wanted to know what she'd written. "It's a children's book, " I said. "It's middle-grade fiction." Jen, my boss, turned to Mr. Steve, who works in the children's department.

Jen: So what's the difference between junior fiction and middle-grade fiction?

Mr. Steve: Junior fiction is, like, first, second and third grade reading. Middle-grade fiction is fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh...

Jen: Then what's young adult?

Mr. Steve: Pornography.

Minutes of useless fun!

Holy crap, I've been having fun with the Generator Blog! It's nothing but links to generators all over the web. I've learned that my goth name is Bitch Slave, my horoscope for the day is You have the athleticism of a mullosk. • You will come up with a great name for your genitals. • Tomorrow brings more soup. • Your every fleeting thought is a pearl, I would be sorted into Ravenclaw at Hogwarts, and my cheese comparator is Cheddar. I also had a very interesting tarot card reading.

Check it out!