Who would have thought a decade ago that it would come to this? Loosely based on an idea from Cliff the first newsletter was produced in the basement of #80 ten years ago this week. It looked a little different, typed out on an actual electric typewriter, ten pages of one column copy slapped on ripped out paper from an old typing class practice book found while pricing out green tag junk sold at Landfill.
The editor at the time played by TV's George Takei was a little younger, a little more naive, a load less weary, a little less gray, and knew a little bit more than he knows today. He never could envision that ten years later he would still be doing the newsletter mostly done Saturday nights, developing a rhythm over the years, a routine: music carefully picked playing in the background, a load or two of laundry being washed out of sight, a kitty craving some attention wandering every now and then between his feet as the man struggled to decipher some scratched out handwriting.
Of course none of this would have been possible without all the wonderful often times amusing contributions made over the years, the voices come and gone (and those still remaining), and the paycheck (hey, just when do I get a raise?) provided by the man who has taught me more than just about anyone else I've ever known.
It also wouldn't have been possible had it not continued to be a kick working for a company dealing in one of the most joyous elements of life- music. That said with a spate of recent CDs that qualify as must listens (the two! Tom Waits, Lauryn Hill, Wilco, Gary Wilson, Elvis Costello, Paul Westerberg, Mason Jennings, Neil Young, David Murray, etc.) I must admit I was feeling a bit burned out and strangely emotionally distant from trying to digest all the new songs from some of our most talented songwriters (I've been in a Nick Drake mood as of late). Unlike usual, nothing much was seeping in until I came across a disc that came out a few months ago that I had been meaning to listen to but just recently got around to playing for the first time- Kasey Chambers' inspired Barricades and Brickwalls.
Chambers has been described as a young Australian version of Lucinda Williams. Such a label isn't necessarily fair- it's like calling Sandra Bullock a Hollywood version of our favorite purse sewing seamstress who went to Simley High in Inver Grove Heights. Like Williams the music is a mix of country, blues, and rock. And like Williams, Chambers' voice has a quirkiness that adds an emotional nuance to the solidly written self-penned songs (indeed Williams makes a guest backing vocal appearance on one track) though as a lead singer she sounds more like Iris Dement to these ears.
The songs themselves are about heartache, loss, and love. The title track strikes a defiant tone "I'll be damned if you're not my man before the sun goes down..." that works as a nice metaphor for a young songwriter trying to make a statement on her second major label release. My favorite song, "A Little Bit Lonesome" sounds like a long lost Hank Williams track. It's so sad that it makes your back hurt although the humor of the writer shines through and ultimately serves as some sort of redemption. "I'm gonna drink you out of my head." Perhaps the catchiest song amongst the bunch is the driving "Runaway Train" that somehow sounds sensuously sinister with a foraging no hostage melody accompanying Chambers' confident, almost menacing vocal.
The CD is admittedly less an artistic achievement than some of the aforementioned discs but it is the one I'll be playing more than any other this summer. Given her youth the 25-year-old Chambers has probably had fewer life lessons than those other songwriters but she ain't exactly Kylie Minogue either. It will be interesting to listen to her growth as a songwriter on subsequent records; indeed the development since her first disc The Captain is impressive enough. Chambers herself has said the first disc was more of an introduction while the follow up is a "many moods of..." disc. Who knows? Maybe the newsletter will even be around ten years from now to chronicle some of that growth.
Why u Wouldn't Want to be Stuck on an Island with D. Ma
Editor's note: I find it somewhat ironic that in the tenth anniversary issue of the newsletter we have a number of lists submitted. When I interviewed with former GM Scott Kuzma a decade ago for this job I was known for organizing top ten lists within my store. I joked with Scott that if we couldn't fill up the publication with articles I could always resort to lists. Scott scowled at me...Thanks for the idea Sam.
Beach Boys- Pet Sounds
Liz Phair- Exile in Guyville
Coleman Hawkins- Hawk Flies High
Frank Sinatra- Watertown
Bob Dylan- Street Legal
Lucinda Williams- Lucinda Williams
Tubby Esquire- Return of the Last Castrato!
Barry Manilow- Greatest Hits
L7- Smell the Magic
Lyle Lovett- Road to Ensenada
Paul McCartney- Red Rose Speedway
Cibo Matto- Stereo Type A
Monday, June 24, 2002
Monday, June 17, 2002
Blaze of Speed or Glory
There are two questions. One, how do you deal with the first major bobblehead disappointment of your life? And two, has commerce really killed the enjoyment of our greatest creation? At the sprightly age of 37 (tho' a very old 37) I think I discovered that the two questions aren't necessarily unrelated.
Last Sunday one of the state's leading election officials and I attempted to continue our impressive streak of being one of the few to have all the bobblehead dolls handed out by the Minnesota Twins. Per our usual routine we got down to the dome by 8 a.m., a good three hours before the gates would open. But unlike our previous experiences we saw a line wrapped around the dome far from our gate. There was no way either one of us wanted to sit on hard cement for hours and still most likely not get a doll. So we went and ate breakfast and walked around downtown Minneapolis instead.
Unlike the previous eight dolls given away the latest was of an actual current Twins player, the bubble blowing gold glove first baseman Doug Mientkiewicz. And it was because of that bubble that I really wanted to continue my quest and was disappointed by my failure. If only I had woken up or at least gotten out of bed at 4 a.m.
Some of you might recall that last year I decided to be proactive avoiding future heartbreak by not going for the Kirby Puckett Hall of Fame doll. At the time I figured my streak inevitably would eventually end and I wanted it to end on my own terms. It felt funny not being at the dome that particular Sunday but I was proud that I had conquered a potential addiction. Unfortunately the end of that story was a successful bid on eBay to acquire the little fist pumping Kirby for a mere $75.
So to have my quest ended by 10,000 others, people like that annoying kid behind me that spent the entire game kicking my seat with an occasional screeching scream at the top of her lungs, indeed hurt much more than what I thought was an admirable self inflicted sacrifice. I wanted that one more doll for my collection dammit. When I got home that evening I tried to think of ways to take my mind off my disappointment. Watch the sixteen hours of Charlie's Angels I had taped? Nope, not in the mood. Traipse off to Cassettas for a tasty cannoli? Nope too fattening. Instead I went to bed like I do most nights, cranky and ornery.
Fortunately I had tickets for the following game featuring the return visit of the Atlanta Braves for the first time since the 1991 World Series. It was a wonderful game, eventually won by the Twins in the fifteenth inning. The game featured a five run first inning by the Twins against future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux (a good thing). It also featured typical Maddux artistry (in every sense of the word) for the next six innings as he had the Twins batters off balance with his astonishing assortment of pitches, changing speeds and locations like a gypsy moth (another good thing). What a delight to watch. The Braves eventually tied the game off an increasingly ineffective Eric Milton (a bad thing).
In the 12th inning a loud clap of thunder rang through the plastic teflon covered stadium drawing one of the louder cheers of the evening. After that the constant din of a heavy rain hitting the roof echoed throughout the place sounding like artificial applause. When Twins catcher Tom Prince raced home from first on a Cristian Guzman liner off the baggie in the bottom of the 15th, fans seemed reluctant to leave their seats. Maybe it was the excitement of the win; perhaps it was the thought of going out into the Minneapolis monsoon, but I was one of the first to leave as I raced up the stairs and through the revolving doors alone into the downpour. Paul McCartney's "Band on the Run" played in my head as I ran faster than Lola to my car parked a mile away.
I had a few days before participated in my first softball game of the season subbing for an injured player. In my first at bat I beat out a grounder to short. (I'll never forget my favorite city planner's comment that she liked watching me play softball because it was one of the rare times she saw me happy and she liked watching me run. Just like the wind. Lyrical as a lark, like a gazelle on prozac...) My new teammates complimented me on my speed, which surprised me since my legs felt like lead and I was reluctant to go full speed in fear I'd pull a groin (most likely my own). But nights later I was glad racing through that rainstorm that I had gotten a little exercise beforehand. I may have keeled over otherwise. Instead I felt a certain sense of exhilaration.
Splashing through the puddles, drenched by the time I got to my car the thought of missing a bobblehead wasn't much in my mind anymore. Nope, this time my own head was bobbing as I turned on the radio to the soothing sound of my new favorite song, Norah Jones' dulcet "Don't Know Why" the perfect end to a topsy turvy life lesson.
Last Sunday one of the state's leading election officials and I attempted to continue our impressive streak of being one of the few to have all the bobblehead dolls handed out by the Minnesota Twins. Per our usual routine we got down to the dome by 8 a.m., a good three hours before the gates would open. But unlike our previous experiences we saw a line wrapped around the dome far from our gate. There was no way either one of us wanted to sit on hard cement for hours and still most likely not get a doll. So we went and ate breakfast and walked around downtown Minneapolis instead.
Unlike the previous eight dolls given away the latest was of an actual current Twins player, the bubble blowing gold glove first baseman Doug Mientkiewicz. And it was because of that bubble that I really wanted to continue my quest and was disappointed by my failure. If only I had woken up or at least gotten out of bed at 4 a.m.
Some of you might recall that last year I decided to be proactive avoiding future heartbreak by not going for the Kirby Puckett Hall of Fame doll. At the time I figured my streak inevitably would eventually end and I wanted it to end on my own terms. It felt funny not being at the dome that particular Sunday but I was proud that I had conquered a potential addiction. Unfortunately the end of that story was a successful bid on eBay to acquire the little fist pumping Kirby for a mere $75.
So to have my quest ended by 10,000 others, people like that annoying kid behind me that spent the entire game kicking my seat with an occasional screeching scream at the top of her lungs, indeed hurt much more than what I thought was an admirable self inflicted sacrifice. I wanted that one more doll for my collection dammit. When I got home that evening I tried to think of ways to take my mind off my disappointment. Watch the sixteen hours of Charlie's Angels I had taped? Nope, not in the mood. Traipse off to Cassettas for a tasty cannoli? Nope too fattening. Instead I went to bed like I do most nights, cranky and ornery.
Fortunately I had tickets for the following game featuring the return visit of the Atlanta Braves for the first time since the 1991 World Series. It was a wonderful game, eventually won by the Twins in the fifteenth inning. The game featured a five run first inning by the Twins against future Hall of Famer Greg Maddux (a good thing). It also featured typical Maddux artistry (in every sense of the word) for the next six innings as he had the Twins batters off balance with his astonishing assortment of pitches, changing speeds and locations like a gypsy moth (another good thing). What a delight to watch. The Braves eventually tied the game off an increasingly ineffective Eric Milton (a bad thing).
In the 12th inning a loud clap of thunder rang through the plastic teflon covered stadium drawing one of the louder cheers of the evening. After that the constant din of a heavy rain hitting the roof echoed throughout the place sounding like artificial applause. When Twins catcher Tom Prince raced home from first on a Cristian Guzman liner off the baggie in the bottom of the 15th, fans seemed reluctant to leave their seats. Maybe it was the excitement of the win; perhaps it was the thought of going out into the Minneapolis monsoon, but I was one of the first to leave as I raced up the stairs and through the revolving doors alone into the downpour. Paul McCartney's "Band on the Run" played in my head as I ran faster than Lola to my car parked a mile away.
I had a few days before participated in my first softball game of the season subbing for an injured player. In my first at bat I beat out a grounder to short. (I'll never forget my favorite city planner's comment that she liked watching me play softball because it was one of the rare times she saw me happy and she liked watching me run. Just like the wind. Lyrical as a lark, like a gazelle on prozac...) My new teammates complimented me on my speed, which surprised me since my legs felt like lead and I was reluctant to go full speed in fear I'd pull a groin (most likely my own). But nights later I was glad racing through that rainstorm that I had gotten a little exercise beforehand. I may have keeled over otherwise. Instead I felt a certain sense of exhilaration.
Splashing through the puddles, drenched by the time I got to my car the thought of missing a bobblehead wasn't much in my mind anymore. Nope, this time my own head was bobbing as I turned on the radio to the soothing sound of my new favorite song, Norah Jones' dulcet "Don't Know Why" the perfect end to a topsy turvy life lesson.
Monday, June 10, 2002
Fried Green Magnolias
Anyone who truly knows me knows that if there is but one love of my life it is going to the latest "chick flick" all by myself. Thus when I noted a vacation day happened to coincide with the opening of the new film The Secrets of the Divine Ya-Ya Sisterhood, I just knew I'd be spending the afternoon in the dark.
"All by myself" may not be an entirely accurate term. My "date" for the two hours was my sweetie Sandra Bullock who plays Sidda Walker a playwright who is being slowly driven mad by her mother Vivi (Ellen Burstyn). When Sidda admits as much in a Time Magazine interview joking that at least her wacky upbringing gave her plenty of artistic material to work with, Vivi is livid. Between sips of booze and yelping and cutting up family pictures, she disowns her daughter.
That's when the Ya-Ya sisters step in. The trio of Vivi's lifetime friends decide to kidnap Sidda to convince her that behind her mother's wacky behavior lies a secret that makes all forgivable. The story, based on books by Rebecca Wells, is apparently a hit with women readers who have formed sort of a secret Ya-Ya like club amongst themselves. Indeed I may have been the only male member (so to speak) in the audience at one of the first showings in the Twin Cities. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the movie- the previews I had seen made the movie look absolutely dreadful. It was only out of loyalty to Sandra that I decided to give it a try.
It took me a while to warm up to the characters. At first it all comes across as another tired film featuring witty eccentrics that have a zinger for every occasion. But it turns out the movie isn't exactly a comedy. There are some dark themes dealt with including alcoholism and physical abuse (with even a hint of incest) and by the end there is enough depth that the emotional climax of the movie has been earnestly earned.
Ashley Judd (who plays a young Vivi via flashbacks that comprise half of the movie) gives a versatile and absolutely mesmerizing performance. Her wonderfully ever twinkling eyes mask the utter ultimate collapse of her character. There is a scene where she has left her family, checked into a motel and awakes from her depression to find out she doesn't even know what day it is. She stares into the mirror for minutes and her hard and weary features express more than all the one liners and wacky plot developments we have seen thus far.
Besides Judd's performance perhaps the best part of the movie comes right at the very end as the closing credits roll over a shot of twinkling candles. Out of the void, a light waltz begins to play accompanied by the last voice you'd expect to hear in a "chick flick" (I guess the movie earns that label because instead of action sequences we get a story about relationships and carrying the scars caused by others). It's a brand new Bob Dylan song, "Waiting for You." Dylan's voice is as expressively croaky as ever and his splendid love song sums up the emotions of the movie with wit.
"Happiness is but a state of mind/ Anytime you want, you can cross the state line/You don't need to be rich or well-to-do/I'll be around, waitin' for you."
Bullock by the way gives a nice understated performance that has a bit more emotional depth than we've seen before. Having lost her mother to cancer last year the story about a difficult mother/daughter love for each other no doubt must have appealed to the actress reading the script for the first time.
A movie spent with Bullock and Dylan and ironically another ended up on my mind and in my thoughts and heart. My favorite heavy breather recently has talked to me about difficulties she is having with her mother. A recent phone call in which she banged her knee on an open drawer reaching for the phone left plenty of pain but not as much as what else is apparently going on in her life. I doubt I'm the one to be discussing such matters with but it has always meant a lot whatever she shares with me. Not being able to offer much advice, I dearly hope she sees this movie with her mother. The ultimate message is a worthy one- that our scars often prevent us from taking the chances that we should take and there are some moments in life that define us and that can either make us a better person or weaken us in a way that we'll never quite recover from. You don't want to wait until it's too late to realize that those who hurt us most can maybe even be the ones we will miss most in the end.
"All by myself" may not be an entirely accurate term. My "date" for the two hours was my sweetie Sandra Bullock who plays Sidda Walker a playwright who is being slowly driven mad by her mother Vivi (Ellen Burstyn). When Sidda admits as much in a Time Magazine interview joking that at least her wacky upbringing gave her plenty of artistic material to work with, Vivi is livid. Between sips of booze and yelping and cutting up family pictures, she disowns her daughter.
That's when the Ya-Ya sisters step in. The trio of Vivi's lifetime friends decide to kidnap Sidda to convince her that behind her mother's wacky behavior lies a secret that makes all forgivable. The story, based on books by Rebecca Wells, is apparently a hit with women readers who have formed sort of a secret Ya-Ya like club amongst themselves. Indeed I may have been the only male member (so to speak) in the audience at one of the first showings in the Twin Cities. I wasn't exactly looking forward to the movie- the previews I had seen made the movie look absolutely dreadful. It was only out of loyalty to Sandra that I decided to give it a try.
It took me a while to warm up to the characters. At first it all comes across as another tired film featuring witty eccentrics that have a zinger for every occasion. But it turns out the movie isn't exactly a comedy. There are some dark themes dealt with including alcoholism and physical abuse (with even a hint of incest) and by the end there is enough depth that the emotional climax of the movie has been earnestly earned.
Ashley Judd (who plays a young Vivi via flashbacks that comprise half of the movie) gives a versatile and absolutely mesmerizing performance. Her wonderfully ever twinkling eyes mask the utter ultimate collapse of her character. There is a scene where she has left her family, checked into a motel and awakes from her depression to find out she doesn't even know what day it is. She stares into the mirror for minutes and her hard and weary features express more than all the one liners and wacky plot developments we have seen thus far.
Besides Judd's performance perhaps the best part of the movie comes right at the very end as the closing credits roll over a shot of twinkling candles. Out of the void, a light waltz begins to play accompanied by the last voice you'd expect to hear in a "chick flick" (I guess the movie earns that label because instead of action sequences we get a story about relationships and carrying the scars caused by others). It's a brand new Bob Dylan song, "Waiting for You." Dylan's voice is as expressively croaky as ever and his splendid love song sums up the emotions of the movie with wit.
"Happiness is but a state of mind/ Anytime you want, you can cross the state line/You don't need to be rich or well-to-do/I'll be around, waitin' for you."
Bullock by the way gives a nice understated performance that has a bit more emotional depth than we've seen before. Having lost her mother to cancer last year the story about a difficult mother/daughter love for each other no doubt must have appealed to the actress reading the script for the first time.
A movie spent with Bullock and Dylan and ironically another ended up on my mind and in my thoughts and heart. My favorite heavy breather recently has talked to me about difficulties she is having with her mother. A recent phone call in which she banged her knee on an open drawer reaching for the phone left plenty of pain but not as much as what else is apparently going on in her life. I doubt I'm the one to be discussing such matters with but it has always meant a lot whatever she shares with me. Not being able to offer much advice, I dearly hope she sees this movie with her mother. The ultimate message is a worthy one- that our scars often prevent us from taking the chances that we should take and there are some moments in life that define us and that can either make us a better person or weaken us in a way that we'll never quite recover from. You don't want to wait until it's too late to realize that those who hurt us most can maybe even be the ones we will miss most in the end.
Monday, June 3, 2002
Is This When Ebert Misses Siskel?
Anyone who truly knows me knows that if there is but one love of my life it is the German cinema. Thus I often spend hours contemplating what exactly my life may look like through the lens of a German filmmaker.
Contrary to popular belief my life hasn't always been about fleeing spontaneity at all costs, locked up in a safe environment where a burnt out light bulb can just add to growing days of darkness. Nope, there have been periods (granted brief in tenure like a sudden super nova) that would actually make some pretty good material in the hands of one of them strong black coffee swigging, Capri cigarette holding, effeminate young male Germans, decked in black with an equally bleak look on the nature of things.
I remember seeing a German flick once about a guy who had a bit of an emotional breakdown. All hope was gone. They locked him up for a while in a hospital and the only memories he would have of the place years later was the first time his doctor took him outside for a stroll and they ended up on the roof (of all places!) that was of course encased in a wire fence cage. Ultimately he left the place against the doctors wishes to try to figure his way out on his own terms (a much better way to die he thought than being zonked out on medications and zapped by electric shock therapies.) (Ironically by the way, I recently gave up my addiction to Sweet Tarts just as the news hit the wires that placebos are just as effective as anti-depressants in fighting the blues.)
The hero of this foreign movie ultimately stumbled across his Australian soulmate and the two of them hit the road on an unforgettable (and rather haunting) road trip. He ended up writing a novel about the experience. A reporter ends up asking him the story behind the novel and he reveals it is more interesting than the story in the book itself. The traveling partner ended up a purse sewing seamstress living off one of the Great Lakes. A decade after their trip he still wasn't quite over her and he missed the way she got his sense of humor to such a degree she actually encouraged him to smile whenever possible. He eventually died in a freak accident where he, entirely at random, got in the middle of a shooting in a downtown area. We see the scene over and over and that he dies wearing his favorite grey felt hat, the one he rarely ever wore just in special care free moments, seems to have some special significance.
I don't remember the name of that film if it ever existed. But this past week I saw another German movie that took my breath away equally as much as that other one. The Princess and the Warrior (Die Krieger und Die Kaiserin for all you German speaking people that literally translates "The Empress and the Warrior") is a fairy tale and a fable and a stunningly perceptive movie. It is the follow up effort of Run Lola Run director Tom Tykwer and actress Franka Potente.
In its story the movie in a way reminded me of last year's fabulous French film Amelie. That movie was about a waif of a repressed woman who spends her life doing anonymously good things for people while searching for the person she thinks is her soulmate- a face that keeps showing up in various photo booths across the city. The Princess and the Warrior is about a similarly peculiar yet engaging young woman Sissi (Potente) who is a nurse at a mental institution.
Sissi becomes involved in an accident, ending up under a semi-truck with a blocked breathing passage. The man that caused the accident (a fact Sissi is never made aware of) crawls under the truck to escape the authorities and he performs a tracheotomy in a sequence that is difficult to watch and has an effective sexual overtone that makes it vital to the rest of the story.
The man disappears and after she recovers from her injuries Sissi devotes her time in trying to track him down. When she eventually finds him she learns that Bodo wants nothing to do with her. He is a sad man stuck in time, a moment when his young wife died in a gas station accident while he was in the men's room. His brother describes Bodo's situation as being "stuck on that toilet." But Sissi is convinced it is fate that brought the two of them together and refuses to give up figuring out the way forward for the two of them.
The movie is about coincidences and whether or not life is about random events or whether or not a greater plan exists. Potente is terrific in the lead role, giving a subdued performance that ties together the fairy tale elements of the story and roots it all in a bizarre reality. Like Amelie the cinematography is unique and stunning, unlike standard American fare. This is a movie to savor and won't leave you alone as close as it might hit home to certain Japanese Amercian types.
Contrary to popular belief my life hasn't always been about fleeing spontaneity at all costs, locked up in a safe environment where a burnt out light bulb can just add to growing days of darkness. Nope, there have been periods (granted brief in tenure like a sudden super nova) that would actually make some pretty good material in the hands of one of them strong black coffee swigging, Capri cigarette holding, effeminate young male Germans, decked in black with an equally bleak look on the nature of things.
I remember seeing a German flick once about a guy who had a bit of an emotional breakdown. All hope was gone. They locked him up for a while in a hospital and the only memories he would have of the place years later was the first time his doctor took him outside for a stroll and they ended up on the roof (of all places!) that was of course encased in a wire fence cage. Ultimately he left the place against the doctors wishes to try to figure his way out on his own terms (a much better way to die he thought than being zonked out on medications and zapped by electric shock therapies.) (Ironically by the way, I recently gave up my addiction to Sweet Tarts just as the news hit the wires that placebos are just as effective as anti-depressants in fighting the blues.)
The hero of this foreign movie ultimately stumbled across his Australian soulmate and the two of them hit the road on an unforgettable (and rather haunting) road trip. He ended up writing a novel about the experience. A reporter ends up asking him the story behind the novel and he reveals it is more interesting than the story in the book itself. The traveling partner ended up a purse sewing seamstress living off one of the Great Lakes. A decade after their trip he still wasn't quite over her and he missed the way she got his sense of humor to such a degree she actually encouraged him to smile whenever possible. He eventually died in a freak accident where he, entirely at random, got in the middle of a shooting in a downtown area. We see the scene over and over and that he dies wearing his favorite grey felt hat, the one he rarely ever wore just in special care free moments, seems to have some special significance.
I don't remember the name of that film if it ever existed. But this past week I saw another German movie that took my breath away equally as much as that other one. The Princess and the Warrior (Die Krieger und Die Kaiserin for all you German speaking people that literally translates "The Empress and the Warrior") is a fairy tale and a fable and a stunningly perceptive movie. It is the follow up effort of Run Lola Run director Tom Tykwer and actress Franka Potente.
In its story the movie in a way reminded me of last year's fabulous French film Amelie. That movie was about a waif of a repressed woman who spends her life doing anonymously good things for people while searching for the person she thinks is her soulmate- a face that keeps showing up in various photo booths across the city. The Princess and the Warrior is about a similarly peculiar yet engaging young woman Sissi (Potente) who is a nurse at a mental institution.
Sissi becomes involved in an accident, ending up under a semi-truck with a blocked breathing passage. The man that caused the accident (a fact Sissi is never made aware of) crawls under the truck to escape the authorities and he performs a tracheotomy in a sequence that is difficult to watch and has an effective sexual overtone that makes it vital to the rest of the story.
The man disappears and after she recovers from her injuries Sissi devotes her time in trying to track him down. When she eventually finds him she learns that Bodo wants nothing to do with her. He is a sad man stuck in time, a moment when his young wife died in a gas station accident while he was in the men's room. His brother describes Bodo's situation as being "stuck on that toilet." But Sissi is convinced it is fate that brought the two of them together and refuses to give up figuring out the way forward for the two of them.
The movie is about coincidences and whether or not life is about random events or whether or not a greater plan exists. Potente is terrific in the lead role, giving a subdued performance that ties together the fairy tale elements of the story and roots it all in a bizarre reality. Like Amelie the cinematography is unique and stunning, unlike standard American fare. This is a movie to savor and won't leave you alone as close as it might hit home to certain Japanese Amercian types.
Monday, May 27, 2002
The Night We Called it a Day
OK, as I really should every week I begin this week's piece with an apology. I apologize to all those contributors to the newsletter last week for any mistakes and typos that appeared in your articles. Let's just say that the last week's publication production occurred in a bit of a sleepless induced haze (thanks to some furious law making at the Capitol).
Not to whine about my work (day and night) because when it comes to work I know we all have it tough, but I worked Friday evening into Saturday morning watching a mostly empty committee room where the stadium conference committee was supposed to be meeting to finalize the Twins' ball park bill. I got home around 1:30 a.m. Saturday morning. I was back at my desk at 2 p.m. after having stopped at the warehouse to pick up all the newsletter copy that was ready to go. I spent the next few hours half paying attention to the House floor activity and one-fourth paying attention to typing and editing the articles. The other 1/4th of my attention? Either it was thoughts of my ailing kitty, or my dear sweet sweetie, or it was just off in the ether somewhere.
By the time the House finally adjourned at 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning I zipped on back to the warehouse to pick up any remaining copy. I then went home, fed said snarly kitty and took a brief nap so I would have enough time (and some energy) to finish the newsletter. I was thankfully reminded that the all time best music to listen to after pulling an all nighter on top of nearly another all nighter after putting in godless other hours during the previous week is without a doubt Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. That thin mercurial sound and daffy lyrics are best absorbed if your mind has no defenses left. "Now the rainman gave me two cures/Then he said, 'Jump right in'/The one was Texas medicine/The other was just railroad gin/An' like a fool I mixed them/An' it strangled up my mind/An' now people just get uglier/An' I have no sense of time/Oh mama can this really be the end?"
I was mostly recovered by Tuesday or as recovered as I can ever truly be. Tuesday of course is the big night for TV viewing, and this Tuesday was bigger than most featuring the season finales of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and 24. After watching both shows I was struck by an insight (or as insightful as I can ever be especially with a fried brain)- there is a huge difference between good TV and good artful TV. The episode of Buffy was again, one of the most thought provoking, emotionally wrenching things I've ever seen. 24 on the other hand has been a pretty decent show was straight ahead this is what TV usually is, stuff.
I shared my 'been too long since the last time' enlightenment with Mr. Max but he didn't seem to get it. He just seemed overly alarmed that I was acting rather wound up after I had been comatose for so long. Buffy was intense. It was the kind of two hours that you aren't sure if you can continue to watch, as gut gouging and unlike anything you've ever seen and spooky as it is, yet you can't take your eyes off because it is so masterfully done. After an extremely dark season of the show the finale ended with a edifying release, a stepping into the light, an affirmation of friendship and family that I'm sure left viewers nationwide from teens to dorky males in their late 30's, from lesbians to Wiccas, marveling at the magnificence and unpredictable storytelling with so much to reveal.
I began watching Buffy five and a half years ago on a lark and quite by accident. I happened to be channel surfing like a bloated and bored Beach Boy and stumbled across the show. I thought I'd continue to watch to see if it was as stupid as its name implied. Instead its wit, and the clever writing and acting immediately impressed me. As big of a fan of the show as I've become I doubt anyone could ever have envisioned the incredible and uniquely rewarding journey that writer/producer Joss Whedon and cast have taken us on over the years.
A lot of my all time favorite works of art have been validated by the most prestigious critics (or maybe because someone with a mind greater than mine authenticated the works is what made them my favorites in the first place): Citizen Kane, The Great Gatsby, Pet Sounds all have a regular place in my art appreciation attention rotation.
And now the undisputed bible of the highest art, TV Guide has again reinforced my own critical beliefs. A couple of weeks back, the magazine selected its list of the 50 greatest shows of all time. Seinfeld, The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, and The Sopranos all deservingly topped the list. Buffy thankfully was recognized, finishing number 41. "Stylish, scary, sexy, and smart, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (has any series ever been less well served by its title?) is a genre-busting original, defying and impressing skeptics with cleverly crafted allegories of good and evil," those speakers of truth spoke.
This year's season finale pitted the once upon a time shy and self conscious brainiac now all powerful grieving Wicca witch Willow against the still not so sure why she is here fast food slinging slayer Buffy. It wasn't exactly a premise I could relate to but sometimes it's good to use your imagination. I marvel at those of you out there that still have friends that you made in grade school and growing up. I'm lucky to have a friendship that lasts more than a few months (something about my really annoying personality may account for that). In the show Buffy was at a loss at what to do- she had to stop Willow from ending the world and she watched in horror as Willow literally skinned the man responsible for the loss of her lover, yet at the same time before destroying just the latest apocalyptic threat Buffy couldn't forget the thought that this was her long time friend, a friend who has repeatedly been the steadying force in her own life.
While it must be nice to have friendships that last that long what do you do when one turns against you and turns into something monstrous? The ultimate answer came in the episode's climax with the last person you'd expect to be the hero, the self pitying Xander who earlier in the season chickened out of his wedding because he questioned if he was good enough to spend "eternity" with the once vengeance demon Anya, gently bringing Willow down (and back) by expressing his love of her as a friend. It's nice when friends actually listen to what you have to say (even if you are a chronic mumbler). The season has largely been about how the various characters have struggled and have found a lack of comfort from those they once felt closest to, and to have the season end on such a reaffirming message was nice to see.
Buffy, bummed out all season that her friends brought her back from the dead thinking they were rescuing her from some hell dimension but instead were ripping her from heaven, finally is able to come to see some light again. Contrast this with one of the darkest episodes I've ever seen in any mass medium, the episode a few weeks back when Buffy poisoned by a demon (and others), finds herself bouncing between realities. One is the one she has always known; the other a life in a mental institution being talked to by her now gone parents trying to convince her that the world she thought she always knew (and we did too), where she is a slayer and where vampires and demons intermingle and intertwine with human every day life is a delusion. What is to believe? She's not sure and she's equally unsure what world she really wants to return to even if the one she chooses is the mirage. The arc of the alternate story line was as impressive as the depth of the variety of emotions evoked. This is really special stuff and the finale, unlike other series almost impossibly brings everything we've seen thus far together while leading us down a continuing unpredictable but constantly rewarding path.
As experiencing the greatest art allows us to blessedly do, those of us watching along even the bleary eyed among us, got to share in her vision. The timing couldn't have been more impeccable- it was a necessary release, like a puff on a filtered cigarette, a welcome cleansing after yet another icky all night law making session.
Not to whine about my work (day and night) because when it comes to work I know we all have it tough, but I worked Friday evening into Saturday morning watching a mostly empty committee room where the stadium conference committee was supposed to be meeting to finalize the Twins' ball park bill. I got home around 1:30 a.m. Saturday morning. I was back at my desk at 2 p.m. after having stopped at the warehouse to pick up all the newsletter copy that was ready to go. I spent the next few hours half paying attention to the House floor activity and one-fourth paying attention to typing and editing the articles. The other 1/4th of my attention? Either it was thoughts of my ailing kitty, or my dear sweet sweetie, or it was just off in the ether somewhere.
By the time the House finally adjourned at 7:30 a.m. Sunday morning I zipped on back to the warehouse to pick up any remaining copy. I then went home, fed said snarly kitty and took a brief nap so I would have enough time (and some energy) to finish the newsletter. I was thankfully reminded that the all time best music to listen to after pulling an all nighter on top of nearly another all nighter after putting in godless other hours during the previous week is without a doubt Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. That thin mercurial sound and daffy lyrics are best absorbed if your mind has no defenses left. "Now the rainman gave me two cures/Then he said, 'Jump right in'/The one was Texas medicine/The other was just railroad gin/An' like a fool I mixed them/An' it strangled up my mind/An' now people just get uglier/An' I have no sense of time/Oh mama can this really be the end?"
I was mostly recovered by Tuesday or as recovered as I can ever truly be. Tuesday of course is the big night for TV viewing, and this Tuesday was bigger than most featuring the season finales of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and 24. After watching both shows I was struck by an insight (or as insightful as I can ever be especially with a fried brain)- there is a huge difference between good TV and good artful TV. The episode of Buffy was again, one of the most thought provoking, emotionally wrenching things I've ever seen. 24 on the other hand has been a pretty decent show was straight ahead this is what TV usually is, stuff.
I shared my 'been too long since the last time' enlightenment with Mr. Max but he didn't seem to get it. He just seemed overly alarmed that I was acting rather wound up after I had been comatose for so long. Buffy was intense. It was the kind of two hours that you aren't sure if you can continue to watch, as gut gouging and unlike anything you've ever seen and spooky as it is, yet you can't take your eyes off because it is so masterfully done. After an extremely dark season of the show the finale ended with a edifying release, a stepping into the light, an affirmation of friendship and family that I'm sure left viewers nationwide from teens to dorky males in their late 30's, from lesbians to Wiccas, marveling at the magnificence and unpredictable storytelling with so much to reveal.
I began watching Buffy five and a half years ago on a lark and quite by accident. I happened to be channel surfing like a bloated and bored Beach Boy and stumbled across the show. I thought I'd continue to watch to see if it was as stupid as its name implied. Instead its wit, and the clever writing and acting immediately impressed me. As big of a fan of the show as I've become I doubt anyone could ever have envisioned the incredible and uniquely rewarding journey that writer/producer Joss Whedon and cast have taken us on over the years.
A lot of my all time favorite works of art have been validated by the most prestigious critics (or maybe because someone with a mind greater than mine authenticated the works is what made them my favorites in the first place): Citizen Kane, The Great Gatsby, Pet Sounds all have a regular place in my art appreciation attention rotation.
And now the undisputed bible of the highest art, TV Guide has again reinforced my own critical beliefs. A couple of weeks back, the magazine selected its list of the 50 greatest shows of all time. Seinfeld, The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, and The Sopranos all deservingly topped the list. Buffy thankfully was recognized, finishing number 41. "Stylish, scary, sexy, and smart, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (has any series ever been less well served by its title?) is a genre-busting original, defying and impressing skeptics with cleverly crafted allegories of good and evil," those speakers of truth spoke.
This year's season finale pitted the once upon a time shy and self conscious brainiac now all powerful grieving Wicca witch Willow against the still not so sure why she is here fast food slinging slayer Buffy. It wasn't exactly a premise I could relate to but sometimes it's good to use your imagination. I marvel at those of you out there that still have friends that you made in grade school and growing up. I'm lucky to have a friendship that lasts more than a few months (something about my really annoying personality may account for that). In the show Buffy was at a loss at what to do- she had to stop Willow from ending the world and she watched in horror as Willow literally skinned the man responsible for the loss of her lover, yet at the same time before destroying just the latest apocalyptic threat Buffy couldn't forget the thought that this was her long time friend, a friend who has repeatedly been the steadying force in her own life.
While it must be nice to have friendships that last that long what do you do when one turns against you and turns into something monstrous? The ultimate answer came in the episode's climax with the last person you'd expect to be the hero, the self pitying Xander who earlier in the season chickened out of his wedding because he questioned if he was good enough to spend "eternity" with the once vengeance demon Anya, gently bringing Willow down (and back) by expressing his love of her as a friend. It's nice when friends actually listen to what you have to say (even if you are a chronic mumbler). The season has largely been about how the various characters have struggled and have found a lack of comfort from those they once felt closest to, and to have the season end on such a reaffirming message was nice to see.
Buffy, bummed out all season that her friends brought her back from the dead thinking they were rescuing her from some hell dimension but instead were ripping her from heaven, finally is able to come to see some light again. Contrast this with one of the darkest episodes I've ever seen in any mass medium, the episode a few weeks back when Buffy poisoned by a demon (and others), finds herself bouncing between realities. One is the one she has always known; the other a life in a mental institution being talked to by her now gone parents trying to convince her that the world she thought she always knew (and we did too), where she is a slayer and where vampires and demons intermingle and intertwine with human every day life is a delusion. What is to believe? She's not sure and she's equally unsure what world she really wants to return to even if the one she chooses is the mirage. The arc of the alternate story line was as impressive as the depth of the variety of emotions evoked. This is really special stuff and the finale, unlike other series almost impossibly brings everything we've seen thus far together while leading us down a continuing unpredictable but constantly rewarding path.
As experiencing the greatest art allows us to blessedly do, those of us watching along even the bleary eyed among us, got to share in her vision. The timing couldn't have been more impeccable- it was a necessary release, like a puff on a filtered cigarette, a welcome cleansing after yet another icky all night law making session.
Monday, May 20, 2002
Long Time Listener, One Time Caller
I perused my college's alumni magazine and came across a news item that the long-time geography department secretary, Barbara Wells-Howe passed away recently after a long battle with cancer. From the outside looking in, any connection probably wasn't immediately apparent. I never took a geography class. Our paths didn't naturally cross and I didn't know her hardly at all yet the news of her death saddened me because a shared love gave me a glimpse that she was a kindred coo coo kind of gal.
The story is this: Every week a mostly lone voice would at a regular time yelp out in the wilderness in the Macalester Groveland neighborhood. Sometimes the lone voice would be joined by his friend Spunky. The forum was a Saturday morning radio show on WMCN-FM 91.7, a show that featured all Frank Sinatra music. It was an odd show; a weird mixture of the wonderful music from the great American balladeer and the less than professional sounding host(s) of the show. Between songs the show was an uncomfortable mix of Soucheray/Reusse type humor with a little amateur Letterman thrown into the mixture. But mostly it came off as a soon to be Howard Beale looking into the abyss edginess with the madness minus the substance.
It wasn't exactly a shining moment in the history of the college radio station. The lone voice was both disturbed and comforted somehow that the 'you haven't heard anything like this before and thankfully you'll never hear anything like this again' style of the show wasn't exactly being heard by a lot of people. One show the voice went so far as to declare on the air that he knew no one was listening so he was just going to sit there in silence. A few moments later the phone rang with a request. The caller wanted to hear "One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)." When the DJ told the caller that he didn't have that song with him that day, the caller questioned how much of a Sinatra devotee the DJ could possibly be if he didn't have perhaps the most moving song in the man's entire catalog.
The next week the listener sent a note to the lone voice. This time Ms. Wells-Howe was a bit more complimentary saying she never missed the show, a show she really enjoyed. She mentioned she appreciated the effort put in. The lone voice left the radio station that morning with a bit more of the by then missing lilt in his step. A little bit later an insane mutual acquaintance of the two let the lone voice know how big a fan of the show the listener was. "She talks about it all the time," he was told by the one he really never should have met who had Ms. Wells-Howe as a work study supervisor. You never know when someone is paying attention or where one's efforts might lead.
Ms. Wells-Howe's obituary quotes Professor Jim Laine who said, "Barb was not, how shall I say, a repressed person. She taught us all how to be a little less repressed."
In memory of the listener the lone voice grabbed his favorite Sinatra disc Songs for Swingin Lovers and as it has with every listen since he discovered it twenty years ago, the music, with its irresistible charm, made his heart feel a little bit less heavy. The true Sinatra fan, Ms. Wells-Howe, seemed to prefer Frank's down and out drink a whiskey with me torch songs. But for anyone who doubts the true genius of Sinatra's work, it is always such a wonderful reminder at how magical the best music can be. It can transform hearts and whole worlds. It can connect people, if only for a moment and a lifetime that otherwise probably wouldn't have shared anything else. Until I came across the obituary I hadn't thought of Ms. Wells-Howe for many a year. Now every time I hear a Frank song, I will remember her.
So for those of you tuned in, the message remains the same even if the singer and the listener are now gone: Just make it one for my baby and one more for the road.
The story is this: Every week a mostly lone voice would at a regular time yelp out in the wilderness in the Macalester Groveland neighborhood. Sometimes the lone voice would be joined by his friend Spunky. The forum was a Saturday morning radio show on WMCN-FM 91.7, a show that featured all Frank Sinatra music. It was an odd show; a weird mixture of the wonderful music from the great American balladeer and the less than professional sounding host(s) of the show. Between songs the show was an uncomfortable mix of Soucheray/Reusse type humor with a little amateur Letterman thrown into the mixture. But mostly it came off as a soon to be Howard Beale looking into the abyss edginess with the madness minus the substance.
It wasn't exactly a shining moment in the history of the college radio station. The lone voice was both disturbed and comforted somehow that the 'you haven't heard anything like this before and thankfully you'll never hear anything like this again' style of the show wasn't exactly being heard by a lot of people. One show the voice went so far as to declare on the air that he knew no one was listening so he was just going to sit there in silence. A few moments later the phone rang with a request. The caller wanted to hear "One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)." When the DJ told the caller that he didn't have that song with him that day, the caller questioned how much of a Sinatra devotee the DJ could possibly be if he didn't have perhaps the most moving song in the man's entire catalog.
The next week the listener sent a note to the lone voice. This time Ms. Wells-Howe was a bit more complimentary saying she never missed the show, a show she really enjoyed. She mentioned she appreciated the effort put in. The lone voice left the radio station that morning with a bit more of the by then missing lilt in his step. A little bit later an insane mutual acquaintance of the two let the lone voice know how big a fan of the show the listener was. "She talks about it all the time," he was told by the one he really never should have met who had Ms. Wells-Howe as a work study supervisor. You never know when someone is paying attention or where one's efforts might lead.
Ms. Wells-Howe's obituary quotes Professor Jim Laine who said, "Barb was not, how shall I say, a repressed person. She taught us all how to be a little less repressed."
In memory of the listener the lone voice grabbed his favorite Sinatra disc Songs for Swingin Lovers and as it has with every listen since he discovered it twenty years ago, the music, with its irresistible charm, made his heart feel a little bit less heavy. The true Sinatra fan, Ms. Wells-Howe, seemed to prefer Frank's down and out drink a whiskey with me torch songs. But for anyone who doubts the true genius of Sinatra's work, it is always such a wonderful reminder at how magical the best music can be. It can transform hearts and whole worlds. It can connect people, if only for a moment and a lifetime that otherwise probably wouldn't have shared anything else. Until I came across the obituary I hadn't thought of Ms. Wells-Howe for many a year. Now every time I hear a Frank song, I will remember her.
So for those of you tuned in, the message remains the same even if the singer and the listener are now gone: Just make it one for my baby and one more for the road.
Monday, May 13, 2002
A Not So Happy M.D.
I learnt everything I knows just by watching television. I didn't need no nothing else. I doubt yous could tell that just by seeing at me. They say that too much TV watching stunts you emotionally. I see no evidence of that. I must admit I knowed far more from watching Welcome Back Kotter than I ever did actually going to some lame 10th grade class. Now I'm reminded that we're fast approaching my twenty-year high schools reunion. It's hard to believe it's been twenty years. Feels more like 23.
Somebody once said that when you reach the point where you repeat yourself, where you are redundant, where you say something more than you need to, where you repeat yourself over and over, it's time to hang it up. I was a bitter bitter young man by the time I was in my senior year of high school, spinning my wheels and biding my time, counting the days until graduation. I just wanted out. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. Everybody that signed my yearbook essentially wrote the same comment, "you're a funny guy but you are so anti-social..." I was so looking forward to going to college where I'd be around people that cared about things other than what high school life was like in Roseville, Minnesota. One of the reasons I chose my alma mater, that fine institution of higher learning Macalester, was that no one else from my high school was also going there.
The one thing I remember enjoying about my last few months at Frank B. Kellogg Senior High was striking up a nice little friendship with the class party girl, Rachel Fasciana. Not only did Rachel like to hang out smoking with all the druggie boys, she also spent a record amount of time in detention. Rachel and I were assigned seats next to each other in shop class and for some reason we really hit it off. One of us was a burn out the other one was burnt out. She used to think I was extremely smart. I used to think she was extremely unpretentious. In the end only one of us was right.
One of our few common interests was music. I was in my Beatles phase and would occasionally serenade Rachel with a Paul song. She was into Black Sabbath and every morning we'd greet each other with the goal post like index finger, pinky finger erect, thumb to the side devil worshipping salute. "Sabbath rules," we'd chortle to each other.
I've always kind of wondered what happened to Rachel and where she ended up. Indeed the memory of her smiling eyes came tumbling back to the forefront of my noggin the past few weeks when a kind co-worker taped a couple of episodes for me of that pop culture smash hit, MTV's The Osbournes. And like just about everyone else who has seen the show, I find Ozzy's rather mumbling, stumbling, ambling current state of being and parenting skills rather humorous to watch.
This past week my sister took her son to Milwaukee for him to participate in a chess tournament. In her absence she asked me to teach her Asian-American studies class at Hamline University. There is a good reason I never joined the rest of my siblings in the teaching profession. It may have to do something with what all my classmates wrote in my yearbook all those years ago.
Going in I was a bit afraid of coming off as an Asian-American version of Ozzy Osbourne- only without the every other word being a "f" word vocabulary. My mind does to tend to wander these days. Instead after hearing presentations about how Asian-Americans are portrayed in movies, the federal government proposal to dismantle the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the history of Asian-American literature in the United States, and the Asian-American gay community's relationship with the rest of the country's gay community, I realized not all has gone downhill in the old mental faculties department since I myself was a college student.
The class and I had a decent discussion. I doubt they learned much from me but I learned from them that there still may be some learning to do outside of watching TV. And I'm sure Rachel Fasciana would have been most impressed by my devil may care substitute teaching performance.
Somebody once said that when you reach the point where you repeat yourself, where you are redundant, where you say something more than you need to, where you repeat yourself over and over, it's time to hang it up. I was a bitter bitter young man by the time I was in my senior year of high school, spinning my wheels and biding my time, counting the days until graduation. I just wanted out. I wanted to be anywhere but where I was. Everybody that signed my yearbook essentially wrote the same comment, "you're a funny guy but you are so anti-social..." I was so looking forward to going to college where I'd be around people that cared about things other than what high school life was like in Roseville, Minnesota. One of the reasons I chose my alma mater, that fine institution of higher learning Macalester, was that no one else from my high school was also going there.
The one thing I remember enjoying about my last few months at Frank B. Kellogg Senior High was striking up a nice little friendship with the class party girl, Rachel Fasciana. Not only did Rachel like to hang out smoking with all the druggie boys, she also spent a record amount of time in detention. Rachel and I were assigned seats next to each other in shop class and for some reason we really hit it off. One of us was a burn out the other one was burnt out. She used to think I was extremely smart. I used to think she was extremely unpretentious. In the end only one of us was right.
One of our few common interests was music. I was in my Beatles phase and would occasionally serenade Rachel with a Paul song. She was into Black Sabbath and every morning we'd greet each other with the goal post like index finger, pinky finger erect, thumb to the side devil worshipping salute. "Sabbath rules," we'd chortle to each other.
I've always kind of wondered what happened to Rachel and where she ended up. Indeed the memory of her smiling eyes came tumbling back to the forefront of my noggin the past few weeks when a kind co-worker taped a couple of episodes for me of that pop culture smash hit, MTV's The Osbournes. And like just about everyone else who has seen the show, I find Ozzy's rather mumbling, stumbling, ambling current state of being and parenting skills rather humorous to watch.
This past week my sister took her son to Milwaukee for him to participate in a chess tournament. In her absence she asked me to teach her Asian-American studies class at Hamline University. There is a good reason I never joined the rest of my siblings in the teaching profession. It may have to do something with what all my classmates wrote in my yearbook all those years ago.
Going in I was a bit afraid of coming off as an Asian-American version of Ozzy Osbourne- only without the every other word being a "f" word vocabulary. My mind does to tend to wander these days. Instead after hearing presentations about how Asian-Americans are portrayed in movies, the federal government proposal to dismantle the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the history of Asian-American literature in the United States, and the Asian-American gay community's relationship with the rest of the country's gay community, I realized not all has gone downhill in the old mental faculties department since I myself was a college student.
The class and I had a decent discussion. I doubt they learned much from me but I learned from them that there still may be some learning to do outside of watching TV. And I'm sure Rachel Fasciana would have been most impressed by my devil may care substitute teaching performance.
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