"The hardest thing in this world is to live in it."
-The Late Great Buffy Anne Summers
It was a dark and stormy night as I turned right from Western Avenue in Roseville on to County Road C going west. I soon hit the speed limit of 40 miles per hour when I saw a little bunny run out in front of me. We both sort of panicked. The bunny turned, deer in the headlights look, started to go back to the side of the road he had just pranced from, decided against it and tried to bolt to the other side. I tried to decide whether it best to hit my brakes, swerve, continue at the same speed, or speed up. I slowed down and felt my left front wheel thump over Mr. Bunny. I was very sad and quite remorseful and still haven't quite recovered. I've never killed anything bigger than a squirrel before. That night I hugged Mr. Max a little tighter than normal, as the fragility of life dawned upon me.
Speaking of rabbits dying, and on a much cheerier note, a great big hearty welcome to the world to Henry Louis Myers, a divine baby if ever there was one. Eyewitness reports (from one I've come in a very short time to hold in the highest regard) describe Henry as, "adorable, perfect, exquisite... he lives up to the billing. A mere peanut of a lad, but with lots of length to grow into." Can't wait to meet you Henry Louis. I envy one who has yet to hear a Bob Dylan song, has yet to pet a kitty cat, who has never seen an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You have so much to look forward to and learn.
So with all the news, both good and bad, a standout highlight from the past week was a note from a self described "faithful reader" who as I, was quite shaken up by the season finale of the best TV show on the air today. OH MY GOD, THEY KILLED BUFFY! It was downright Star Trek II The Wrath of Khanish the way Buffy was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for the good of the many. I mean I love my sisters to the utmost, but I'm not sure I'd jump off into the void to save their lives. The whole thing was handled so well- the devastated look on Willow's face, Zander looking on in disbelief, Giles shedding a tear- just like the moment Kirk realized that Spock was going to die, I found myself along with fellow poet Spike bawling my eyes out.
I was actually home in time on Tuesday to watch the show. Unfortunately the night before I had worked until midnight when the Legislature adjourned, and the next morning I had to be at the Capitol bright eyed to watch the tax conference committee squabble at 9 freaking a.m. So as I lie on my couch I literally could not keep my eyes open even for the highlight of the TV season. So I gave up and went to bed not to wake up until 5:30 a.m. the next day. And I wasn't able to watch the show until Saturday. Egads what a surprise.
But rest assured dear faithful reader, since Sarah Michelle is all signed up to follow the show to UPN I'm quite confident that Buffy will not stay dead. Maybe they'll bring back a bionic, 'nother robot Buffy to take her place. We must remember that she died at the end of the first season too- although that time it was for only a few minutes and there wasn't that awful finality of the showing of her tombstone.
I must also express a tinge of guilt- I've always said that Buffy is by far the weakest character on the show and it would have been much more interesting if the show had been re-titled Faith the Vampire Slayer. But this season I was actually beginning to like the character of Buffy. It wasn't so much the brush with the dark side that Faith showed her- the thrill of the kill- but more her having to come to terms with the meaning of being the slayer. There are those that have responsibility thrust upon them that lose sight of friendships and give in to the esteem of power. Buffy saw that and decided that family was more important than any of that and to lose yet another family member, born out of blood, was more than she could take. So just as I was beginning to like her, they take her away. Typical, damn typical.
Monday, May 28, 2001
Monday, May 21, 2001
Throwin' One Dollar Wienies at David McCarty
"Honey, I'm the original one eyed chicklet in the kingdom of the blind."
-The God Glorificus
The question of the week is what has a longer lasting effect on your tired and cranky historical scribe after months upon months of watching laws made on sunny frightful days- meeting the Dalai Lama or the fine season long writing efforts on the favorite teeny boppin WB soon to be UPN show? Gee, what do you think?
I'd love to answer the question in an awe-inspiring manner but unfortunately I'm just too tired. I've never been more tired in my life and believe me I've been plenty tired once or twice before.
I was strolling into work last week and thinking about how quickly inspiration fades. Meeting one of the world's most famous spiritual leaders did have an effect; indeed it got me looking at and thinking about things in a little different way. But that faded and it faded much sooner than I wished it had.
So there I was trying to hold on to a thought, a belief, a word, a feeling when everything just kind of returned to the way it has been for a while. As the reality fades the television glows and as I got home on Thursday I finally had the chance to watch Tuesday's episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The show has had a wonderful year. The writing has remained clever and funny but it goes beyond the masterful way the words have been put together and the story has unfolded. Rather it has to do with a skilled artist (writer/producer Josh Whedon) operating at the top of his game while expressing himself so fluidly with breathtaking clarity. (Did I ever tell you all about the asthmatic who took my breath away or was it she knocked the wind out of me?)
Years back in the midst of my infamous "blue period" my dear friend Spunky and I decided to sit down to write a television script to help me overcome my writer's block. We figured we had an in into the Hollywood biz because Spunky's cousin Dale Launer wrote My Cousin Vinny, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels and Love Potion #9. Spunky and I chose to write an episode of The Golden Girls despite having never watched the show.
I was well aware of the charges of selling out that were heaped upon my all time favorite literary hero, F. Scott Fitzgerald when he started writing screenplays but words are words and self expression spread across any canvass can be admirable if done sincerely. Television may not have been as worthy a goal as writing a novel but it was writing and it was channeling my leaking energy in a creative manner. We didn't get very far on the script but a seed to a lesson was planted nonetheless.
This has been a rough year on the character of Buffy. She broke up with her boyfriend. She began questioning the meaning of her profession and her life and how the two so fatefully intertwine and not by choice but by who she is. Her mother died. And now to prevent the fracturing of this reality she has found out she has to destroy someone dear to her heart, a key to her past.
The pressure was too much and Buffy finally snapped. She tumbled within herself in a catotonic trance where she replayed over and over in her mind the things she was running away from while at the same time facing her doomed fate in a surrealistic way. Her crisis, much like President Bartlett's crisis in the West Wing has caused her to question her own beliefs while at the same time gaining strength by such questions.
Never has a show delved so deeply and so expertly into the issues of grief. Life goes on but sometimes we don't. Sometimes it helps to be able to talk freely to your friends but sometimes it's their lack of words or absences that hurt the most. All the feelings that surround an overwhelming loss- the confusion, the sadness, the separation both from all that once brought comfort but also the detachment to one's own soul that comes from having to let go. It's all been there this year in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and with it a lesson: it's not about questioning the source of inspiration, it's about appreciating those that know the distinction.
-The God Glorificus
The question of the week is what has a longer lasting effect on your tired and cranky historical scribe after months upon months of watching laws made on sunny frightful days- meeting the Dalai Lama or the fine season long writing efforts on the favorite teeny boppin WB soon to be UPN show? Gee, what do you think?
I'd love to answer the question in an awe-inspiring manner but unfortunately I'm just too tired. I've never been more tired in my life and believe me I've been plenty tired once or twice before.
I was strolling into work last week and thinking about how quickly inspiration fades. Meeting one of the world's most famous spiritual leaders did have an effect; indeed it got me looking at and thinking about things in a little different way. But that faded and it faded much sooner than I wished it had.
So there I was trying to hold on to a thought, a belief, a word, a feeling when everything just kind of returned to the way it has been for a while. As the reality fades the television glows and as I got home on Thursday I finally had the chance to watch Tuesday's episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The show has had a wonderful year. The writing has remained clever and funny but it goes beyond the masterful way the words have been put together and the story has unfolded. Rather it has to do with a skilled artist (writer/producer Josh Whedon) operating at the top of his game while expressing himself so fluidly with breathtaking clarity. (Did I ever tell you all about the asthmatic who took my breath away or was it she knocked the wind out of me?)
Years back in the midst of my infamous "blue period" my dear friend Spunky and I decided to sit down to write a television script to help me overcome my writer's block. We figured we had an in into the Hollywood biz because Spunky's cousin Dale Launer wrote My Cousin Vinny, Dirty Rotten Scoundrels and Love Potion #9. Spunky and I chose to write an episode of The Golden Girls despite having never watched the show.
I was well aware of the charges of selling out that were heaped upon my all time favorite literary hero, F. Scott Fitzgerald when he started writing screenplays but words are words and self expression spread across any canvass can be admirable if done sincerely. Television may not have been as worthy a goal as writing a novel but it was writing and it was channeling my leaking energy in a creative manner. We didn't get very far on the script but a seed to a lesson was planted nonetheless.
This has been a rough year on the character of Buffy. She broke up with her boyfriend. She began questioning the meaning of her profession and her life and how the two so fatefully intertwine and not by choice but by who she is. Her mother died. And now to prevent the fracturing of this reality she has found out she has to destroy someone dear to her heart, a key to her past.
The pressure was too much and Buffy finally snapped. She tumbled within herself in a catotonic trance where she replayed over and over in her mind the things she was running away from while at the same time facing her doomed fate in a surrealistic way. Her crisis, much like President Bartlett's crisis in the West Wing has caused her to question her own beliefs while at the same time gaining strength by such questions.
Never has a show delved so deeply and so expertly into the issues of grief. Life goes on but sometimes we don't. Sometimes it helps to be able to talk freely to your friends but sometimes it's their lack of words or absences that hurt the most. All the feelings that surround an overwhelming loss- the confusion, the sadness, the separation both from all that once brought comfort but also the detachment to one's own soul that comes from having to let go. It's all been there this year in Buffy the Vampire Slayer and with it a lesson: it's not about questioning the source of inspiration, it's about appreciating those that know the distinction.
Monday, May 14, 2001
I Am the Weakest Link- Bye Bye
When I heard last year that the Dalai Lama was going to address the Minnesota Legislature I decided I was obligated to do my best to arrange an interview with His Holiness by using my job as a reason (an excuse?) to meet the charismatic leader.
Not that I'm that schooled in Buddhism nor am I that knowledgeable about the trials and tribulations of the Dalai Lama but I thought it was a rather unique opportunity to be in the presence of an acknowledged world leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner. How often does one get a chance like that? Plus I liked the fact that story after story I read about him emphasized his penchant for giggling. That in itself warranted an effort for an interview.
I of course never thought it could possibly happen. My only previous brushes with fame didn't exactly measure up with this potential opportunity. In kindergarten young Dee Dee Hasselburg, the daughter of actress Loni Anderson, followed me around like a lost, devoted puppy, attaching herself to me for whatever reason in an affectionate way. Later on I bagged the groceries of World Series hero and Cy Young Award winner Frank Viola who was accompanied by his son, Frank Jr. and a whole lot of pop to purchase.
More recently Mrs. Minnesota stopped by our office a few of weeks ago and I got to shake her hand while admiring the tiara upon her head. She smiled at me and as she walked away she did her lightbulb wave and I wished her well. A few days later at the Twins' game they had Mrs. Minnesota sing "God Bless America" and the "Star Spangled Banner." What could be more patriotic you ask? Well for one thing the one who did the singing wasn't the woman I had just met. Somebody's cheating or in some states it's called bigamy. Anyhoo getting back to our story...
I suffered what can mildly be described as a fracture of previous faith after my Mom died. Not that I hadn't questioned it severely before but I really was wondering what the point of all this we face can possibly be. My still best friend was kind and thoughtful enough to loan to me a book of daily Christian meditations with a Seventh Day Adventist bent. I read those passages religiously feeling as if I was shirking my duties any day I happen to miss my reading.
At the same time I further roamed down that super information byway by subscribing to a Buddhist email lesson of the day. The combination of Christian scripture and Buddhist wisdom meant almost as much to me as a friend who could possibly care so much as to be concerned that I didn't at the most difficult time of my life lose my bedrock faith in all things spiritual.
A couple of months back as I attended my first and only meeting concerning the Dalai Lama's visit I expected to be delivered the news that I would in no way be able to interview him because he had far better things to do, far more important people to spend time with. But I didn't hear that. I was told that if he had the time, a Senate counterpart and myself might have the chance to ask the Dalai Lama a few questions. At any rate we were given the promise of access to the retiring room behind the House of Representatives' chamber where His Holiness would greet legislative leaders after his speech.
I tried to formulate some questions for the possible interview in my mind. "Who's your favorite Beatle?" "What's your favorite meal?" "What music do you listen to, books do you read?" "Do you remember specific lessons from past lives and what life was better, reincarnation number five or seven?"
All this occurred while truly believing there was no way I'd ever come within 20 feet of the spiritual compassionate one. But as the time neared it actually began to appear that an interview wasn't entirely out of the question. I was being given access that even those higher up weren't granted and who could guess, maybe His Holiness would take one look at me and decide this was a person he could open up to and answer the questions never before asked.
The morning before his speech I was given my security clearance and told to be in the retiring room no later than 8:00 a.m. for his 9:30 speech. The night before I fretted more than I usually am inclined to do. What exactly do you ask the Dalai Lama?
As I tried to get some sleep I was a tad more paranoid than usual. I double checked my doubly set alarm clock. I checked the air in my newly purchased tires. I made sure I had all my necessary credentials to get into my choice spot.
As the alarm buzzed the next morning and I awoke from a fitful night's rest I speeded up my normal morning routine just in case. An hour later as I nervously approached the never before sacred House chamber I felt a strange but serene calm. My nervousness was overcome with a feeling of genuine serenity- I was going to enjoy this morning despite myself.
As I cut my way through the line that had formed an hour before, I felt honored that while I may not be able to speak with His Holiness I was being given the access that few others were. After wading my way through security much more stringent than the Metrodome's efforts at protecting the beleaguered Chuck Knoblauch the week before, I stood in my designated spot for about an hour. Just as the events were scheduled to proceed I was told by security that I had to evacuate the backroom for yet another sweep and so my only option was to meander out front to where the speech was going to take place. I stood awkwardly out of place and out of time as the Dalai Lama was introduced into the chamber. I was in a spot up front where he had to walk right by me to get to the speaker's spot. After he passed I pressed my way back to the back room, right where I belonged.
After his address he was escorted back to the retiring room by the Speaker of the House and Senate Majority Leader. I stood there knowing I couldn't speak but needed to be the eyes of the many who weren't fortunate enough to have the access. As the members of the reception line one by one went up to have scarves previously distributed blessed by the Dalai Lama I decided to get in line. Scarfless I approached him and he looked at me. I took the step forward, reached out my hand and met his eyes. He stood right hand extended, expectant as if he expected me to deliver some words of wisdom. I said, "thank you" as he giggled.
Later I was told by one House member that the Dalai Lama's gentleness was noticed and admired to which I silently (of course) concurred. Learn to smile and laugh and appreciate the always present compassion that can occur in an exchange between any one of us at any moment and one can overcome just about any obstacle that appears in our path.
Not that I'm that schooled in Buddhism nor am I that knowledgeable about the trials and tribulations of the Dalai Lama but I thought it was a rather unique opportunity to be in the presence of an acknowledged world leader and Nobel Peace Prize winner. How often does one get a chance like that? Plus I liked the fact that story after story I read about him emphasized his penchant for giggling. That in itself warranted an effort for an interview.
I of course never thought it could possibly happen. My only previous brushes with fame didn't exactly measure up with this potential opportunity. In kindergarten young Dee Dee Hasselburg, the daughter of actress Loni Anderson, followed me around like a lost, devoted puppy, attaching herself to me for whatever reason in an affectionate way. Later on I bagged the groceries of World Series hero and Cy Young Award winner Frank Viola who was accompanied by his son, Frank Jr. and a whole lot of pop to purchase.
More recently Mrs. Minnesota stopped by our office a few of weeks ago and I got to shake her hand while admiring the tiara upon her head. She smiled at me and as she walked away she did her lightbulb wave and I wished her well. A few days later at the Twins' game they had Mrs. Minnesota sing "God Bless America" and the "Star Spangled Banner." What could be more patriotic you ask? Well for one thing the one who did the singing wasn't the woman I had just met. Somebody's cheating or in some states it's called bigamy. Anyhoo getting back to our story...
I suffered what can mildly be described as a fracture of previous faith after my Mom died. Not that I hadn't questioned it severely before but I really was wondering what the point of all this we face can possibly be. My still best friend was kind and thoughtful enough to loan to me a book of daily Christian meditations with a Seventh Day Adventist bent. I read those passages religiously feeling as if I was shirking my duties any day I happen to miss my reading.
At the same time I further roamed down that super information byway by subscribing to a Buddhist email lesson of the day. The combination of Christian scripture and Buddhist wisdom meant almost as much to me as a friend who could possibly care so much as to be concerned that I didn't at the most difficult time of my life lose my bedrock faith in all things spiritual.
A couple of months back as I attended my first and only meeting concerning the Dalai Lama's visit I expected to be delivered the news that I would in no way be able to interview him because he had far better things to do, far more important people to spend time with. But I didn't hear that. I was told that if he had the time, a Senate counterpart and myself might have the chance to ask the Dalai Lama a few questions. At any rate we were given the promise of access to the retiring room behind the House of Representatives' chamber where His Holiness would greet legislative leaders after his speech.
I tried to formulate some questions for the possible interview in my mind. "Who's your favorite Beatle?" "What's your favorite meal?" "What music do you listen to, books do you read?" "Do you remember specific lessons from past lives and what life was better, reincarnation number five or seven?"
All this occurred while truly believing there was no way I'd ever come within 20 feet of the spiritual compassionate one. But as the time neared it actually began to appear that an interview wasn't entirely out of the question. I was being given access that even those higher up weren't granted and who could guess, maybe His Holiness would take one look at me and decide this was a person he could open up to and answer the questions never before asked.
The morning before his speech I was given my security clearance and told to be in the retiring room no later than 8:00 a.m. for his 9:30 speech. The night before I fretted more than I usually am inclined to do. What exactly do you ask the Dalai Lama?
As I tried to get some sleep I was a tad more paranoid than usual. I double checked my doubly set alarm clock. I checked the air in my newly purchased tires. I made sure I had all my necessary credentials to get into my choice spot.
As the alarm buzzed the next morning and I awoke from a fitful night's rest I speeded up my normal morning routine just in case. An hour later as I nervously approached the never before sacred House chamber I felt a strange but serene calm. My nervousness was overcome with a feeling of genuine serenity- I was going to enjoy this morning despite myself.
As I cut my way through the line that had formed an hour before, I felt honored that while I may not be able to speak with His Holiness I was being given the access that few others were. After wading my way through security much more stringent than the Metrodome's efforts at protecting the beleaguered Chuck Knoblauch the week before, I stood in my designated spot for about an hour. Just as the events were scheduled to proceed I was told by security that I had to evacuate the backroom for yet another sweep and so my only option was to meander out front to where the speech was going to take place. I stood awkwardly out of place and out of time as the Dalai Lama was introduced into the chamber. I was in a spot up front where he had to walk right by me to get to the speaker's spot. After he passed I pressed my way back to the back room, right where I belonged.
After his address he was escorted back to the retiring room by the Speaker of the House and Senate Majority Leader. I stood there knowing I couldn't speak but needed to be the eyes of the many who weren't fortunate enough to have the access. As the members of the reception line one by one went up to have scarves previously distributed blessed by the Dalai Lama I decided to get in line. Scarfless I approached him and he looked at me. I took the step forward, reached out my hand and met his eyes. He stood right hand extended, expectant as if he expected me to deliver some words of wisdom. I said, "thank you" as he giggled.
Later I was told by one House member that the Dalai Lama's gentleness was noticed and admired to which I silently (of course) concurred. Learn to smile and laugh and appreciate the always present compassion that can occur in an exchange between any one of us at any moment and one can overcome just about any obstacle that appears in our path.
Monday, April 30, 2001
The Boy Who Couldn't Distinguish the Colors of a Rainbow
Few of these columns indelibly elicit as much response as those that deal with my love life. People enjoy gawking at car wrecks after all. Thus it wasn't much of a surprise that last week's effort (and I use that term loosely) generated more of a murmur than usual. Thanks to all who sent their condolences after reading of my broken engagement with TV newscaster Harris Faulkner.
Not that I've ever been called "skanky" before but if you read between the lines you realized that despite the heartache of another broken relationship I already had another in mind. I wasn't exactly cheating on Harris. Our vows to each other had as much distance as the bandwidth between UHF and VHF stations. And I, like millions of others who are hooked on our nation's number one TV show, have fallen under the wily charms of the most recent one who got the boot out of the Outback, young Elisabeth Filarski.
Not that I'm weak minded, more like weak kneed or weak hearted, but I could hardly help myself. "Bessy" wore a homemade headdress to Tribal Council for Peter's sake. And those who know me know a woman in a hat always catches my eye. Doesn't matter if it's a Copenhagen baseball cap or a fancy French beret, my head tends to turn to those who have enough style sense to wear a middle finger like chapeau atop their noggin.
There were other considerations also. First of all you all must read my novel to understand the romantic symbolic stature Australia has in my dreams (both those long gone by and those that won't quite ever leave me alone and die). I once gave the first person I knew who was on her way to that mysterious land the Australian flag that hung proudly in my college dorm room. She was kind enough to bring back for me a personally selected rock from her last day on the beach that I still cling to as a reminder that there once was another day.
And yes I'm sure millions of geeky men with Internet access are smitten with Elisabeth Filarski because of her appearance (it was almost a blessing she got voted off last week because due to malnutrition her hair was coming off in clumps... ewww). Yet she struck in me something almost Sandra Bullockish. She just seemed like a darn nice gal, and her friendship with the old codger Rodger was truly sweet and genuine in a genre that by its very nature stifles such traits and turns them into something icky all in the name of another buck and rating point.
Elisabeth also played softball in college. You gotta love that. It reminded me of one of my all time favorite moments in life when I convinced the World's Greatest Soccer Player to join my softball team despite the fact that she had never played real ball ever in her young existence. I remember the first day she came out to the ball field with me and I pitched her batting practice and she tried her gosh darn best. She was consistent in making contact though the ball didn't go very far. She laughed and tried harder and we had the bestest most funnest time ever. I know Elisabeth Filarski would be that type of gal too.
Thursday nights of course are the nights we lay out the award winning Session Weekly. For that past twelve weeks the ritual of late night working has been slightly modified. Before I leave in the morning I check and double check with great paranoia to make sure my VCR is set to tape Survivor. As we roll past 7 p.m. and then 8 p.m. I make sure to take no phone calls, make sure not to go online. I don't want anything or anyone to spoil the surprise of who got the boot off the show. I race home as soon as I can making sure not to turn on the radio. I plop myself down on the couch and take in the most anticipated hour of my week. And believe it or not I'm seldom let down.
Many of the most respected TV watchers I know refuse to watch Survivor. Thus sadly they don't quite understand what they out of snobbish foolery have been missing: quite simply one of the most intriguing TV shows that has come along in a long time. Yes it's about a bunch of people sitting and whining about each other for an hour but the show is masterfully put together to tell a familiar story about what it is like to live in this country in the year 2001. A fine soul like Elisabeth Filarski doesn't stand a chance but somehow charms her way far past what could have been expected. Maybe not all hope needs to be snuffed out like that symbolic flame from the commercial Tiki torch.
Not that I've ever been called "skanky" before but if you read between the lines you realized that despite the heartache of another broken relationship I already had another in mind. I wasn't exactly cheating on Harris. Our vows to each other had as much distance as the bandwidth between UHF and VHF stations. And I, like millions of others who are hooked on our nation's number one TV show, have fallen under the wily charms of the most recent one who got the boot out of the Outback, young Elisabeth Filarski.
Not that I'm weak minded, more like weak kneed or weak hearted, but I could hardly help myself. "Bessy" wore a homemade headdress to Tribal Council for Peter's sake. And those who know me know a woman in a hat always catches my eye. Doesn't matter if it's a Copenhagen baseball cap or a fancy French beret, my head tends to turn to those who have enough style sense to wear a middle finger like chapeau atop their noggin.
There were other considerations also. First of all you all must read my novel to understand the romantic symbolic stature Australia has in my dreams (both those long gone by and those that won't quite ever leave me alone and die). I once gave the first person I knew who was on her way to that mysterious land the Australian flag that hung proudly in my college dorm room. She was kind enough to bring back for me a personally selected rock from her last day on the beach that I still cling to as a reminder that there once was another day.
And yes I'm sure millions of geeky men with Internet access are smitten with Elisabeth Filarski because of her appearance (it was almost a blessing she got voted off last week because due to malnutrition her hair was coming off in clumps... ewww). Yet she struck in me something almost Sandra Bullockish. She just seemed like a darn nice gal, and her friendship with the old codger Rodger was truly sweet and genuine in a genre that by its very nature stifles such traits and turns them into something icky all in the name of another buck and rating point.
Elisabeth also played softball in college. You gotta love that. It reminded me of one of my all time favorite moments in life when I convinced the World's Greatest Soccer Player to join my softball team despite the fact that she had never played real ball ever in her young existence. I remember the first day she came out to the ball field with me and I pitched her batting practice and she tried her gosh darn best. She was consistent in making contact though the ball didn't go very far. She laughed and tried harder and we had the bestest most funnest time ever. I know Elisabeth Filarski would be that type of gal too.
Thursday nights of course are the nights we lay out the award winning Session Weekly. For that past twelve weeks the ritual of late night working has been slightly modified. Before I leave in the morning I check and double check with great paranoia to make sure my VCR is set to tape Survivor. As we roll past 7 p.m. and then 8 p.m. I make sure to take no phone calls, make sure not to go online. I don't want anything or anyone to spoil the surprise of who got the boot off the show. I race home as soon as I can making sure not to turn on the radio. I plop myself down on the couch and take in the most anticipated hour of my week. And believe it or not I'm seldom let down.
Many of the most respected TV watchers I know refuse to watch Survivor. Thus sadly they don't quite understand what they out of snobbish foolery have been missing: quite simply one of the most intriguing TV shows that has come along in a long time. Yes it's about a bunch of people sitting and whining about each other for an hour but the show is masterfully put together to tell a familiar story about what it is like to live in this country in the year 2001. A fine soul like Elisabeth Filarski doesn't stand a chance but somehow charms her way far past what could have been expected. Maybe not all hope needs to be snuffed out like that symbolic flame from the commercial Tiki torch.
Monday, April 23, 2001
Now on to Elisabeth "Bessy" Filarski
"If it's her you want, I don't care about that. You can have my girl but don't touch my hat. I grew up lonesome on the open range and that cold north wind can make a man feel strange..."
-Lyle Lovett
Last week I had my heartbroken (yes yet again) as I had to call off my engagement to KSTP-TV newscaster Harris Faulkner. Yes I still dig her work and her authoritative news delivery and yes when I first saw her in person I thought every one in the room had to be able to hear my heart beat as I became very flush. I'm a guy who falls in love as easily an United States apology to China and I'm as lenient in accepting my partner's faults as a judge in a P. Diddy trial but Harris crossed an absolute resolute line in my soul.
The other night when she was doing her dutiful anchor banter with sportscaster Joe Schmidt he mentioned the Twins and Royals were involved in a scoreless tie. Harris said it was a "boring 0-0 game." Those that don't know any better now but are sure to jump on the Twins' bandwagon when the team is games ahead in July, are the ones who think that finely pitched games are boring and any inning that doesn't feature a home run is an inning where nothing happens. In other words they don't know squat. They can't appreciate the game and they probably only like poetry that rhymes too.
A fellow just can't marry a gal like that.
It is nice to see some enthusiasm in this town for the Twins again. There's a noticeable buzz in the Metrodome this season that has been missing for quite some time. At work people are actually sometimes talking about the previous night's game. Though our local thinning newspapers still run meaningless Timberwolves West Coast basketball games and irritating pre-Viking draft stories more prominently on page one of their sports sections, the Twins nonetheless aren't being relegated to the inside pages quite so often so early this year.
And rightfully so. Back in the early 1980's when the decision was made to go with young players like Hrbek, Gaetti, Viola, and Puckett, the team suffered through some God awful seasons record-wise. But that was always a team worth watching because the players were good and they were developing and when they won they won because they played the game right and it was all very fun to watch. The same can be said for this year's team.
In an era when most teams are stacking their lineups with softball bellied sluggers who just want to cream every pitch out of the ballpark, and thanks to some awful pitching often do so, the Twins have decided to build a team based on pitching, defense, speed, and doing the little things that are supposed to be done to win games.
The team features a tremendous double play combo in Guzman and Rivas who are sublimely a delight to watch. Mientkiewicz is a terrific fielding first baseman. Jones and Hunter are among the best at running down fly balls and making more than their share of highlight plays.
Few teams can feature four starters better than Radke, Milton, Redman and Mays. The question about the team is whether or not they can manufacture enough runs to beat the other teams who launch their tightly wound baseball mammoth smashed home runs. But Koskie and Lawton are steady hitters and Ortiz has shown enough promise to think that this team might just keep on doing what they have done at the beginning of this season.
Yes baseball is back and like the budding flowers in front of my house it is an annual yet always appreciated ritualistic feeling. Yet wistfully as my Dad has pointed out a couple of times already my Mom would have been rightfully excited about this team. One of her many missed qualities was the ability to appreciate beauty when she saw it, and console one who has made the decision that another just isn't the right person after all.
-Lyle Lovett
Last week I had my heartbroken (yes yet again) as I had to call off my engagement to KSTP-TV newscaster Harris Faulkner. Yes I still dig her work and her authoritative news delivery and yes when I first saw her in person I thought every one in the room had to be able to hear my heart beat as I became very flush. I'm a guy who falls in love as easily an United States apology to China and I'm as lenient in accepting my partner's faults as a judge in a P. Diddy trial but Harris crossed an absolute resolute line in my soul.
The other night when she was doing her dutiful anchor banter with sportscaster Joe Schmidt he mentioned the Twins and Royals were involved in a scoreless tie. Harris said it was a "boring 0-0 game." Those that don't know any better now but are sure to jump on the Twins' bandwagon when the team is games ahead in July, are the ones who think that finely pitched games are boring and any inning that doesn't feature a home run is an inning where nothing happens. In other words they don't know squat. They can't appreciate the game and they probably only like poetry that rhymes too.
A fellow just can't marry a gal like that.
It is nice to see some enthusiasm in this town for the Twins again. There's a noticeable buzz in the Metrodome this season that has been missing for quite some time. At work people are actually sometimes talking about the previous night's game. Though our local thinning newspapers still run meaningless Timberwolves West Coast basketball games and irritating pre-Viking draft stories more prominently on page one of their sports sections, the Twins nonetheless aren't being relegated to the inside pages quite so often so early this year.
And rightfully so. Back in the early 1980's when the decision was made to go with young players like Hrbek, Gaetti, Viola, and Puckett, the team suffered through some God awful seasons record-wise. But that was always a team worth watching because the players were good and they were developing and when they won they won because they played the game right and it was all very fun to watch. The same can be said for this year's team.
In an era when most teams are stacking their lineups with softball bellied sluggers who just want to cream every pitch out of the ballpark, and thanks to some awful pitching often do so, the Twins have decided to build a team based on pitching, defense, speed, and doing the little things that are supposed to be done to win games.
The team features a tremendous double play combo in Guzman and Rivas who are sublimely a delight to watch. Mientkiewicz is a terrific fielding first baseman. Jones and Hunter are among the best at running down fly balls and making more than their share of highlight plays.
Few teams can feature four starters better than Radke, Milton, Redman and Mays. The question about the team is whether or not they can manufacture enough runs to beat the other teams who launch their tightly wound baseball mammoth smashed home runs. But Koskie and Lawton are steady hitters and Ortiz has shown enough promise to think that this team might just keep on doing what they have done at the beginning of this season.
Yes baseball is back and like the budding flowers in front of my house it is an annual yet always appreciated ritualistic feeling. Yet wistfully as my Dad has pointed out a couple of times already my Mom would have been rightfully excited about this team. One of her many missed qualities was the ability to appreciate beauty when she saw it, and console one who has made the decision that another just isn't the right person after all.
Monday, April 16, 2001
Aging Kitty Burned Out Bureaucrat
"A faithful heart makes wishes come true..."
-Michelle Yeeowww!
News Flash: Love may be able to save your heart and soul but it can't save your life or colon.
On Good Friday the 13th I had a rare day off where I had no obligations, no responsibilities, no places to be, no faces to see, other than doing my taxes. Have any of you tried eFiling? Man I would highly recommend it! Filling out forms online and getting your return done in a matter of an hour of your precious life and getting funds sent electronically, what could be sweeter? Even the oh so attractive Assistant Commissioner of the Department of Revenue, my mentor and former boss Jenny Engh did it this year!
So for dinner on my day off I microwaved the previous day's lunch, the tasty Pad Thai from Ruam Mit, and as I was pulling my steaming dish from my oven I noticed an ant walking along the peripheral edge of the stove. It had survived three minutes of non-explosive nuking and I wondered if soon there would be a mutant insect a foot long wandering the hallways of my home. This wasn't some nuclear surviving cockroach after all.
On my day off I paid extra special attention to my roommate the rapidly aging Mr. Max. I've noticed the past few months he isn't so sure nor confident in his jumps. Years back I set up his cat tree in front of his favorite viewing window. It's a three foot jump up for him that has never been a question. But I've noticed more and more a bellow before the jump (often in the wee small hours of the morning) and a hesitancy to leap before crashing into the closed window. So I finally had the chance to really watch him and sure enough he hesitated before taking the plunge. So I thought I would do him a favor and move an object (searched for and considered about)- his carrier that he can only associate to my leaving or his trips to the veterinarian next to the cat tree to enable him to leap a less distance. Max of course got somewhat worked up at this unexpected change. He clung to me like a pair of alleged inappropriate birthday underwear as we watched the Twins win and thought about Mom as the trivia question answer had to do with poor hitting Dean Chance.
Afterwards I slid in my American rare DVD copy of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon into my computer. I've been meaning to re-watch it after having acquired such a unique treasure last month from somewhere in Asia but just haven't had the time for a second viewing of a movie that touched me the first time around like few others. The second time reminded me strongly of my desire to want to like the Academy Award winner of the early 1960's West Side Story all the more. That movie had such great music, such a universal story message (the value of romantic love over one's unaccepting upbringing) that I ended up liking it despite it's melodramatic shortcomings.
I realize having seen none of the other nominees for this year's Best Picture that I'm not qualified to make a judgment of how the Oscars turned out. I know that Traffic had a more pressing and important message to deliver; Gladiator was more epic and had a more accessible appeal (no subtitles for Pete's sake!); and Erin Brockovich had spunk and cleavage; but I do know no film from last year had greater artistic integrity than Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. When we reach that apocalyptic day and all things have to be gauged on their individual merits, I know deep in my heart that none of those other movies can even begin to measure up to Ang Lee's masterpiece.
The movie delivers an important moral memoradum in a profoundly perfect technological and cinematic way. The fight scenes are heavenly ballet and poetry in motion, and though you know there are wires and hidden editing trickery involved nonetheless you sit there with your mouth agape totally able to put aside any inherent and ever creeping cynicism that may exist. It's a magical movie that has a timeless saga.
I used to have this dream as a kid when I was running full speed (away/toward something) where I would be able to achieve such a speed that I was able to take flight. I remember that feeling of floating tempered with my logical disbelieving side that lamentably kept reminding me this was only a dream that I couldn't really fly. But the dream was so real and Crouching Tiger recaptured that same spirit in such an effective way that I was transferred thankfully back to another place, another time.
The three main leads, Chow Yun Fat, Michelle Yeoh, and Zhang Zi Yi, are perfect for what they are expected to do. Zi Yi's character Jen, the emotional centerpiece of the movie is exquisitely beautiful in conveying the conflict of loyalty for a friendship against the discord of doing what one is expected to do by tradition. It's a nakedly ostentatious distinctive performance, courageously true to the heart.
The movie begins so serenely and so quietly that when the first fight scene arrives 15 minutes into things it truly leaves one totally stunned. As Yeoh and Zi Yi race and romp across the rooftops the effect is one of total brilliance. The viewer lets go and can only sit back and watch the cinematic wonder of all that is to follow.
-Michelle Yeeowww!
News Flash: Love may be able to save your heart and soul but it can't save your life or colon.
On Good Friday the 13th I had a rare day off where I had no obligations, no responsibilities, no places to be, no faces to see, other than doing my taxes. Have any of you tried eFiling? Man I would highly recommend it! Filling out forms online and getting your return done in a matter of an hour of your precious life and getting funds sent electronically, what could be sweeter? Even the oh so attractive Assistant Commissioner of the Department of Revenue, my mentor and former boss Jenny Engh did it this year!
So for dinner on my day off I microwaved the previous day's lunch, the tasty Pad Thai from Ruam Mit, and as I was pulling my steaming dish from my oven I noticed an ant walking along the peripheral edge of the stove. It had survived three minutes of non-explosive nuking and I wondered if soon there would be a mutant insect a foot long wandering the hallways of my home. This wasn't some nuclear surviving cockroach after all.
On my day off I paid extra special attention to my roommate the rapidly aging Mr. Max. I've noticed the past few months he isn't so sure nor confident in his jumps. Years back I set up his cat tree in front of his favorite viewing window. It's a three foot jump up for him that has never been a question. But I've noticed more and more a bellow before the jump (often in the wee small hours of the morning) and a hesitancy to leap before crashing into the closed window. So I finally had the chance to really watch him and sure enough he hesitated before taking the plunge. So I thought I would do him a favor and move an object (searched for and considered about)- his carrier that he can only associate to my leaving or his trips to the veterinarian next to the cat tree to enable him to leap a less distance. Max of course got somewhat worked up at this unexpected change. He clung to me like a pair of alleged inappropriate birthday underwear as we watched the Twins win and thought about Mom as the trivia question answer had to do with poor hitting Dean Chance.
Afterwards I slid in my American rare DVD copy of Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon into my computer. I've been meaning to re-watch it after having acquired such a unique treasure last month from somewhere in Asia but just haven't had the time for a second viewing of a movie that touched me the first time around like few others. The second time reminded me strongly of my desire to want to like the Academy Award winner of the early 1960's West Side Story all the more. That movie had such great music, such a universal story message (the value of romantic love over one's unaccepting upbringing) that I ended up liking it despite it's melodramatic shortcomings.
I realize having seen none of the other nominees for this year's Best Picture that I'm not qualified to make a judgment of how the Oscars turned out. I know that Traffic had a more pressing and important message to deliver; Gladiator was more epic and had a more accessible appeal (no subtitles for Pete's sake!); and Erin Brockovich had spunk and cleavage; but I do know no film from last year had greater artistic integrity than Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. When we reach that apocalyptic day and all things have to be gauged on their individual merits, I know deep in my heart that none of those other movies can even begin to measure up to Ang Lee's masterpiece.
The movie delivers an important moral memoradum in a profoundly perfect technological and cinematic way. The fight scenes are heavenly ballet and poetry in motion, and though you know there are wires and hidden editing trickery involved nonetheless you sit there with your mouth agape totally able to put aside any inherent and ever creeping cynicism that may exist. It's a magical movie that has a timeless saga.
I used to have this dream as a kid when I was running full speed (away/toward something) where I would be able to achieve such a speed that I was able to take flight. I remember that feeling of floating tempered with my logical disbelieving side that lamentably kept reminding me this was only a dream that I couldn't really fly. But the dream was so real and Crouching Tiger recaptured that same spirit in such an effective way that I was transferred thankfully back to another place, another time.
The three main leads, Chow Yun Fat, Michelle Yeoh, and Zhang Zi Yi, are perfect for what they are expected to do. Zi Yi's character Jen, the emotional centerpiece of the movie is exquisitely beautiful in conveying the conflict of loyalty for a friendship against the discord of doing what one is expected to do by tradition. It's a nakedly ostentatious distinctive performance, courageously true to the heart.
The movie begins so serenely and so quietly that when the first fight scene arrives 15 minutes into things it truly leaves one totally stunned. As Yeoh and Zi Yi race and romp across the rooftops the effect is one of total brilliance. The viewer lets go and can only sit back and watch the cinematic wonder of all that is to follow.
Thursday, April 12, 2001
If I Live to Be the Pungent Age of 37
Mona who fishes on his desk with a chipped ear and meaningful demeanor is a constant reminder of the ONE he has truly loved over the passing years. He won't forget that as much as he has refused and taken for granted his blessing.
He used to wake up after another restless and fruitless and listless and pointless night of sleep wondering if this was the day he was finally going to stand up and lie down and say, "NO MORE!" (Extra Exclamation POINT added for emphasis.) He would drive to the parking lot behind the Lutheran version of the Catholic green soon to be sold out gold cathedral and not risk his life by crossing University but rather travel the haunted tunnels which brought to his feeble mind the memories of a previous session (an ironic use of the word) when he would rush home to his Mom knowing the days were dwindling.
The halls echoed with a bustle of those who thought they were making a difference. Truth be told, if such a cliche appeals, is that the self importance was a justification for a severe lack of self esteem that for once he didn't share. He was the one who shared too much too often and it had taken its toll. The chair of the all powerful tax committee took a swing. Though it hit it didn't hurt so much as caught him off guard. His favorite Timberwolve was an off guard named the late great Malik.
Nip it in the bud for a dress code. Replace the sleep with a jolt of caffeine. A process of brewing homemade lattes every morning past seven. Masses who read innocuously and who understood better than he ever could. The green belted kick boxing Jezebel who tried to judge the merits of pending legislation amused him with her desire to do such a good job. Where did that part of him once exist?
He watched everyone's favorite pencil thinned mustache Oscar winner sing the most important song of the millennium about reaching a point in LIFE when one wants to care but can't seem to find any reason TO. TWO? Worried man vs. I'm a worried man with a worried mind. Makes a difference or two. TOO? Also? But if you have a worried mind doesn't that inherently mean you care on some subterranean level? You tell me? I'm of a generous heart despite the antagonism.
He dragged himself to, or stepped himself up to the signed out room and heard another measure that wasn't measured by its merits but rather by its chances (a big kickboxing discord). He didn't understand not that he ever did. Transit levy, lost in the flood. Sandbagging, reliance to an extent no one else has in mind.
A continuation of a hearing (he once had a ringing in his ear that his Mom brought him in for tests and medicinal drops and a lack of balance that made him curl up and wanna die on the high school boy's room floor) that he knew his neutrality might be questioned. Not that it should because he was one whose dispassionateness wasn't an issue; it wasn't so much he didn't have strong opinions as much as it was he had fetid sentiments about just about everything. It wasn't as if he was living in an undecided gray sea area but rather he was constantly oscillating between black and white. Carry and conceal or coral? Why not holster up and Wyatt Earp one's visually potential danger? Let's be up front and honest and nothing else one might argue to those who see it as a public "safety" issue.
So on the day when they tabled things and prevented an emotional albeit misunderstood diversion of starving school kids he was glad he didn't have to work past his involuntary metiers. Instead he hustled himself down to the bubble where he was joined by a professional outcast and the divine carrying one and her weary domestic partner to watch the local lads crush the opposition as powerfully as those that view a new workplace as obscene as those who gave up long ago and couldn't fall any less (or more).
He used to wake up after another restless and fruitless and listless and pointless night of sleep wondering if this was the day he was finally going to stand up and lie down and say, "NO MORE!" (Extra Exclamation POINT added for emphasis.) He would drive to the parking lot behind the Lutheran version of the Catholic green soon to be sold out gold cathedral and not risk his life by crossing University but rather travel the haunted tunnels which brought to his feeble mind the memories of a previous session (an ironic use of the word) when he would rush home to his Mom knowing the days were dwindling.
The halls echoed with a bustle of those who thought they were making a difference. Truth be told, if such a cliche appeals, is that the self importance was a justification for a severe lack of self esteem that for once he didn't share. He was the one who shared too much too often and it had taken its toll. The chair of the all powerful tax committee took a swing. Though it hit it didn't hurt so much as caught him off guard. His favorite Timberwolve was an off guard named the late great Malik.
Nip it in the bud for a dress code. Replace the sleep with a jolt of caffeine. A process of brewing homemade lattes every morning past seven. Masses who read innocuously and who understood better than he ever could. The green belted kick boxing Jezebel who tried to judge the merits of pending legislation amused him with her desire to do such a good job. Where did that part of him once exist?
He watched everyone's favorite pencil thinned mustache Oscar winner sing the most important song of the millennium about reaching a point in LIFE when one wants to care but can't seem to find any reason TO. TWO? Worried man vs. I'm a worried man with a worried mind. Makes a difference or two. TOO? Also? But if you have a worried mind doesn't that inherently mean you care on some subterranean level? You tell me? I'm of a generous heart despite the antagonism.
He dragged himself to, or stepped himself up to the signed out room and heard another measure that wasn't measured by its merits but rather by its chances (a big kickboxing discord). He didn't understand not that he ever did. Transit levy, lost in the flood. Sandbagging, reliance to an extent no one else has in mind.
A continuation of a hearing (he once had a ringing in his ear that his Mom brought him in for tests and medicinal drops and a lack of balance that made him curl up and wanna die on the high school boy's room floor) that he knew his neutrality might be questioned. Not that it should because he was one whose dispassionateness wasn't an issue; it wasn't so much he didn't have strong opinions as much as it was he had fetid sentiments about just about everything. It wasn't as if he was living in an undecided gray sea area but rather he was constantly oscillating between black and white. Carry and conceal or coral? Why not holster up and Wyatt Earp one's visually potential danger? Let's be up front and honest and nothing else one might argue to those who see it as a public "safety" issue.
So on the day when they tabled things and prevented an emotional albeit misunderstood diversion of starving school kids he was glad he didn't have to work past his involuntary metiers. Instead he hustled himself down to the bubble where he was joined by a professional outcast and the divine carrying one and her weary domestic partner to watch the local lads crush the opposition as powerfully as those that view a new workplace as obscene as those who gave up long ago and couldn't fall any less (or more).
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