9/11 Anniversary: World Remembers, Reflects On September 11th

Look, I have a friend who has posted 32 different videos about September 11th. I guess we all mourn and remember things in different ways. But, well, really? I’m sad and blue today, to be sure, but having angst rubbed in my face isn’t going to cure the nation. Still, as I ask to you to remember the date—the purpose behind it still is not defined. We are still, as a people, reeling and mulling for an answer. 

9/11 Anniversary: World Remembers, Reflects On September 11th

Wisconsin Official Instructs Staff Not To Mention Free IDs For Voting

You do realize, of course, Wisconsin was the first state to pass a state-wide gay-rights ordinance in the seventies. Then this happens! Seriously? Believe it or not, I’m fine with the showing of IDs. I’m NOT fine with trying to get money for nothing. I’d tell everyone, frankly.

Wisconsin Official Instructs Staff Not To Mention Free IDs For Voting

I guess I should, at some point, rehash all my geekiness, and pretend that you are all incapable of rereading or remembering previous posts about my personality quirks. Yeah, I could do that.

But I like to think that most of my readers are smart people and don't need a teacher-lecture on how they should review my history. You're being spared.

So, yeah, I knew I'd probably like Thor before going to the theater. This summer has a long list of titles ready to go-Pirates 4, X-Men prequels, Green Lanterns. Probably each one of them following the formula for cinematic success-Fate forbid that a studio invest a few million on an original concept.

Thor is formula, if ever there was one. It's predictable in so many ways, like that very comfortable sweatshirt, it fits the summer of movies like a glove. Everyone in the movie was having so much fun and was so beautiful, it was like watching the beach from a telescope and taking pictures with my phone to prove it to people. Dirty fun, the kind you know you should be enjoying but do anyways.

In other words, even if you weren't invited to the party-you'd still get a kick out of it. THe film tells the story of the Norse God and his abrupt landing on Midgard, or Earth. The scope of the film is actually quite good. He doesn't stop bankrobbers or terrorists--instead, it has to do with his history coming to haunt him and how he comes around to being an honest man. I'd say it's original, but if you were following in the comic book, you'd know pretty much what was coming.

I know I did. But I didn't mind the journey.

Now the movie is created by Kenneth Branagh, one of my first crushes since coming out of the closet in the early ninties. I thought he was a hottieMcbeefcake with an accent in Henry the Fifth, and his selection of material is at once both inspired and surprising. He's one of those Royal Shakespeareans who's voice can make reading ingrediants a sensual experience by inflection alone. Shakespeare is far from an easy read, but he gets it and it showed on the screen (and I assume, his stagework). But, he, well, picked a comic book to return to directing movies. I think this is a trend right now. You have Chris Nolan making Batman completely legit; Ang Lee's Hulk was heady stuff, but an attempt, nonetheless.

It was surprising, but here's the inspiring part-it works. He is completely able to bring a certain gravitas to scenes involving the 'royal play' that the Norse gods bicker through. In fact, he makes Earth a light and forgiving place, full of love and creativity and excitement--a place worth going to. Then he makes Asgard, the home of the gods, a cold place without love and tons of backstabbing and trickery.

Okay, I'm going to mention something else that I don't normally pay attention to--as part of the "cold" of the world of Asgard, Bo Welch, the film's production designer should be applauded. He does something I didn't think was possible. He blends a modern chic with ancient design. It's a technology world, but the tech is all magical. Everything is well lit, but metal; lines lead everywhere, one thinks you're standing inside of a giant clock (especially in the gatehouse...watch for it and tell me what you think).

All things being considered, the movie has its flaws, but I was so busy looking at the Abercrombie and Fitch catalog, I didn't care. And don't think it was only the boys. Natalie Portman is in there and makes the prettiest scientist since Doctor Goodhead in Moonraker. And just as awful of a placement in the piece. She's an excellent actress, so much so, that you can see the weaknesses in the story by her batting her eyelashes enough trying to flutter energy into something. Still, she's just got an Oscar. Maybe this is some kind of movie star break or something.

Yeah, the story is weak becuase, Shakespeare or reading comic books, we've been down this road before.

Go see the movie. It's stupid fun but still fun. I loved it, but we knew that. But I think you might too.

TRON: Legacy

TRON: Legacy was sneaked into a presentation at ComicCon in San Diego back in 2008. The crowd went wild. Cellphones were held up high to try to capture a bit of video-a segment of film that didn't even end up in the final film-to post on YouTube and keep the buzz alive. Disney didn't even worry about the copyright infrindgement.

They had stumbled across their Star Trek. Tron had legions of fans that would happily overlook any flaws and pay full price, maybe even extra for 3-D, regardless of the quality of the film. That is the beauty of Marvel comics and serials. You know you can bring those audiences in again and again and again, no matter what the quality.

The first Tron, I will admit, I was smitten. But I like to think I'm smart too. The first Tron was crappy. It was like a Tim Burton movie; it looked great and that rose above the shitty material. It was all over the map, but like a really big train wreck, it was amazing to see in action.

And it played to the geek factor. The same group of techno-saavy boys who knew how to type, were probably gay and could actually see the applications of technology in this movie. These years AHEAD of the Matrix, but pretty much covered the same territory.

And I loved it as such.

So, yes, I watched those YouTube videos.

And I remember whispering to my husOtter, "dearest, wouldn't it be great to see that movie actually IN Florida AT Disney World?"

So the movie took on a whole other quality--that of the quest of me and my family moving to Florida.

I point out all of these things because I believe a movie got lost in this muddle. Really, I do. And not only my personal muddle of moving and Disney-fandom, but in a public muddle of Generation X, still trying to find legitamcy in surviving the Reagan era, tend to celebrate things and then realize, well, they weren't that great to begin with.

I mean, a Transformers...MOVIE? Now a sequel to a mediocre movie! 

This is not The Empire Strikes Back, I tell you.

TRON: Legacy tries to be several movies at once and since it is spread too thin, it never really achieves greatness beyond visual effects. It's power was stolen by the Matrix films, the inside of a computer being elaborated on in those movies. Yes, the inside of the computer is a neon playground, we got that, and with computers being even more advanced than ever before, you could just sit back and get your money's worth watching this piece unfold.

But this is a sequel and written by people who know computers, but not much aobut storylines and energy. The film takes it's power and watches it fizzle, as if it stole the better parts of other movies. The plot goes like this. Remember how Flynn, Jeff Bridges character in the original movie, got zapped into the computer back in 82? Well, at the start of this movie, he's disappeared, but the audience figures out that he kept going back and eventually was taken prisoner. Artifical Intelligences started forming, basically 'free programs,' but because Jeff's original monitoring program was supposed to keep order, 'Clu' (a digital, younger Bridges) has been killing them off. Where's Tron? The original anti-virus from the first movie? He's now a sideline character, kidnapped and brainwashed by Clu to help rebuild the World Inside of the Computer.

Flynn is living in the computer and has been, his son never knowing where his father was. Clu, however, zaps the kid into the computer and the we're back into the system.

And, well, I liked it. I knew I would. I had moved to Florida, I had my dreams come true. I loved the texture of the film, I loved the feel of the sequel.

But I'm not an idiot. The movie has zero momentum. It starts strong enough and takes the audience into the "Grid." But then does nothing much beyond that point. It was as if they knew we would buy tickets and all they needed to do was get us to willingly buy tickets.

Here's the deal. The first Star Trek movie sucked big time. Then they made a sequel that the geeks would love, not really thinking of the others. Then PUFT, they hit big time.

TRON:Legacy would have worked better if they just stuck to their guns and just made a movie. I kept feeling like Disney was doing their product placement, giving something for everyone. The action sequences are slow, making sure you see the images;  the dialogue was stlited and humor was nonexistent. I kept wanting to see something more--Tron is patroling the Grid, becoming a police state, funded by the government. I would have loved to seen a situation more relevant than ever before--where net neutality is underfire and the technology to make people go INTO the Grid is about to go international.

Instead, I got good guys and bad guys.

I do hope there's a part three--and it's a better one!

Getting into writing and practicing again...with a movie review!

I read a scientific report once that talked about why normal adults completely lose it when watching animated Disney movies. It was facinating and pretty much hit the mark. The films bring on a recollection of childhood while offering true human emotions...without the baggage. Sure, Meryl Streep can make even the most stalwart vagabond cry, but since you might find her sloped-face a bit unattractive, it may not always hit its mark. However, a collection of talking toys, colorful fish or perfectly rounded balloons gets that center-lineman from the local high school to complete their waterworks.


The emotions are real. They are tucked away, where you can't physically see them, in the story, but they are there-not unlike a subliminal message that infers you to drink more water and vote for that GOP candidate.

I suppose that's what keeps bringing me back. I watch kids today, who lose themselves in the worlds created by video games, and, in many ways, that animated world is a large chunk of the world they know. And for my generation? Transformers was a huge hit--but based on a cartoon. Proof that the Gen-Xers are really into their animation in some form.

My partner loves Netflix's online option. He's always just listing whatever films they have available and watching. Recently we found two titles. I knew one had been nominated for an Academy Award; the other was something he stumbled across.

And both hit me in places, in a shorter time, than other films. And though I didn't bawl like an infant, I realized there is a lot of work in expressing emotion in an unfamiliar world.

The first of the movies was The DragonHunters. The descriptors had everything he and I would enjoy. We've got fantasy, sword-fights, dragons and a recommendation from Netflix. And it was streaming online. Quick fix, new movie,on a rainy Wednesday night. Feeling adventurous, it was worth a quick view.

The story is the one we we've heard a thousand times before. Brute with a heart, his obnoixous manager, a screaming but smart princess and some kind of weird creature with a funny voice. It was like the Wizard of Oz or Star Wars--where an unlikely group of comrades join together for a common goal. I've never really argued that they shouldn't do that-I'm all for taking an old theme and making it new again.

But this lacked any magic. We'd been down the road before. We knew the storyline in the first five minutes. We could talk between ourselves and our predictions were one hundred percent. Yet we watched until the very end. And the discussion got furthered. Why did we keep watching what was basically a rehash of stuff we'd been exposed to before?

It clicked when we nuked the popcorn in the kitchen.

The main characters were hinting at being a gay couple. Two males wanting to collect cash after killing a dragon and moving to a tranquil farm. They had an adopted daughter. They worked together well.

And it worked in that department. A bit of research discovered a few more details--it was made in France. Aha! Something like this would never have taken hold in America. And better, there was even a television series based off of it.

The change from that one singular character standpoint was enough to make these animation hounds keep watching.

The same thing happened with our next movie. On the surface, it was far from great, but futher discussion hit us. The movie was called The Secret of the Kells and it hit us from a different angle. Animation is under going something of a resurgence these days. People can now make cartoons on their home computers. With such quickness, other aspects of filmmaking suddenly become important. Writing, and, more specifically, plot, theme and nuance.

And artwork.

The Secret of the Kells tells the story of a monasteary in Ireland's history during the time of the Vikings. They are writing the illuminated Bible, something that still exists today in at Dublin College. The film is a cultural slice, explaining the creation of this famous text but also tying in the strong beliefs of the countryside, including fairies and Catholic tradition.

And stained glass windows.

The film does something Disney and Dreamworks had never tried; evidenced by it being an independent film and even getting nominated as an animated short by the Academy. The movie focuses on its art and culture. There is conflict, to be sure (those Vikings are drawn as vicious brutes with no faces), but it isn't the center. Instead, there's internal conflict of the characters and, frankly, it isn't for children. Even we yawned. But we didn't break away. In fact, we were remined of those individuals who stare at art. This was animation as artwork. It was, truly, beautiful to behold.

Just like a moving stained glass window. I think that was what the creators wanted to do. I recommend it, with reservations, as well. It was incredible. Not only that, there is a strong sense of cultural heritedge going on with this flick. You can sense the pride in being Irish with every frame.

Two cartoons, one review. Let me know what you think.

New Year's Resolutions, finally

RESOLUTIONS:


Okay, so here’s the deal. I like to make resolutions, but, well, I’m weird. I don’t really look at them again until the year is over. Works this way—a good resolution related to self-improvement should be inherent in your daily living. I mean, it shouldn’t be such a radical change that you can’t function. It should be organic, a natural part of a human’s life.

I believe strongly in competitive theory. I told everyone when I was quitting smoking, so it was much more motivating knowing people were going to ask me about the process. If I didn’t do it, I’d have to answer to that. So I’ll go ahead and post my resolutions right here and right now. That way, I cannot escape them!

SPIRITUAL:

--I really want to get back to some kind of spirituality. It’s something that my weekly living is missing. Yeah, we all know the church is no friend of mine, that’s for sure, especially recently, but I cannot help thinking I’m missing something. I used to meditate daily. But with the daily early mornings and the need to get so far south, I reduced and then eliminated for ease of getting to work. Night time had never been a good time for me to meditate. Still, I need something.

OPTIONS: When the house in Colorado sells—I’ll probably think I need to be in the ‘thanking’ position. There’s a cute little congregational church right in the heart of downtown. I’d love to go once or twice and see what they have to offer.

Return to meditation in some format. It’s been too long.

PHYSICAL:

--walk the dog, at least once daily, at least 4 nights a week. It’s difficult to do twice a day when you have to be on the road by 6:30 am. HusOtter has promised he’d walk her those mornings. Still, I cannot help think that this is a wonderful thing in terms in meditation and physicality. Plus, I cannot with el puppo. And I get to listen to some of the greatest podcasts.

--investigate lawn bowling. One of the drawbacks of going to the gym is that I don’t really have a goal BEYOND just going to the gym. Grant you, the gym should be a reward upon itself, but I cannot help thinking there needs to be an event, some kind of test to see if it is actually working. I thought for a while that I was going to join some Celtic events, but since I couldn’t find any athletes in that area, how could I know or detail what I was doing? That may still be an option, I’ll keep looking around. However, our new landlord is on the committee for the International Lawn Bowling Association. They are looking for further players. I remember lawn bowling a bit too fondly. My aunts and uncles would play it, smacked out of their gourds when I was a kid, usually with a beer or wine glass in hand. There’s a HUGE set-up in walking distance of my new condo. And there are usually around 25 people competing. They are all retired. They take the lawn bowling very seriously.

But it’s a sport. And I’m here in Florida to grow as an individual. Might be time to learn. Besides, my hair is already gray.

---The gym. I want to go 100 times. I’ve given up on trying the whole weight loss thing. I’ve given up on measuring my biceps. I tend to go alone as it is, and so I have to reject the whole ‘comraderie’ bit. So, I’m keeping this goal simple. 100 times. I’ve done ten (actually, I’ve done more than ten times, but I’m rewarding myself only ten!). That means going to the gym. The rest? Well, we’ll see.

SOCIAL:

--This was a terrible year past for queer youth, frankly. And husOtter and myself have really, repeatedly returned to the fact that we have a stable home and decent income. We’re happy with our queerness and are Out and Proud. But we lack a uterus. And my job affords me an insight to something related to parenting…it basically sucks large codcock. I mean, really. But it also affords me an insight of successful ways of working around problems. I’ve also learned to ask for help whenever possible. I came across an article in the Orlando Sentienal the week that all those teens took their lives and it made an impression on me. They have so many gay and lesbian teens out there-thrown from their homes or runaway due to the fact they live in a red state—without a place to go. Foster systems try to place them, but since churches tend to be their conduit, those kids move into a place and find a bed and more hysteria. They live a life of being closeted.

Why can’t we help them? We have the means. Me? A parent? That might take a bit of getting used to. But it could be done, I believe. I hate to put a schedule on this, but I’d like to get the house sold first. My hopes are that it will happen in 2011. And when it does—this moves up on the list. I just hope we don’t get a lesbian teen who wants to play softball. I wouldn’t know what to do, other than to cheer her on.

The other option? Big Brothers and Big Sisters. I did it as a “little” for years. It’s time to return the favor!

INTELLECTUAL:

--I need to write more, that’s for sure.

--I have to blog once a month. I figure that is the minimal and will reduce my stress a bit. And I’m keeping an ongoing memo on my phone of writing ideas, so there’s really no excuse. Every movie can be reviewed. Every new eatery is open. And there’s always room for fiction.

--there’s a writing contest coming up for the local writing market in Mount Dora. I can’t help thinking I should enter it. However, the timing is short, very short.

--National Novel Writing Month is November. I need to look into trying that again. I’d like to get a break from the gym by then anyways.

---There’s a writing group at the public library when it’s open late by my new condo. There’s no excuse. I have several files of works I can bring in as a start.

Two Point Five Reviews

The power of a good movie is its rewatchability-every time you see it, something new pops off the screen. Now here’s the trick, mind you, it has nothing to do with the movie. It has everything to do with you in the audience. To admit that you’ve changed since the last twenty minutes since you’ve seen such a picture seems like a silly notion, but there is a truth to it. I used to work in a movie theatre. I remember having Batman on four different screens. However, even on days I saw it twice (we only had five screens, so my options during break were limited), I’d notice something different. Sometimes it was the choice of advertising by the filmmakers (“Is that a Camry she’s driving?”) or something deeper, like his house is like a bat’s cave—he hides in there even when he’s in there. But it happened.


I came to the documentary Man on Wire (a play on the words, ‘man of fire’) with a ton of baggage. My life is just starting to settle a few months into moving to Florida. I am starting to enjoy some of the simple pleasures a bit more of living among the palm trees and I can sit and watch a Netflix DVD without wondering about when my husOtter was going to move out or what I’d nuke for dinner this evening. Now, with a clearer head, I can see details that I didn’t see before.

In fact, I felt I probably liked this movie a bit more because of where I am standing and not so much for its actual content. The story surrounds a fascinating Frenchman named Phillip Petit. I call him fascinating, because if you were to bump into this gent in a 7-11, you’d go home with him. Not because he was hot or rich or even particularly good looking. He’s one of those men that has such an intensity that his personality brims with its own luminosity. I’m sure this is what happened to the filmmakers when they ran into him. He is unavoidable. Not only is he a man of powerful enthusaim, he was a circus performer. And, truly, he made it into a performance art-he walked tightropes.

I used to think of them as nothing much at the circuses I’ve experience. But think of your best friend talking about the hottie they just encountered. You never really cared for the person they are infatuated with. But your friend’s attitude is so high strung and involved, you can’t help but get sucked in. And that is what Phillip Petit did with this tiny art. His attitude caught me and brought me in. And, like a true artist, he had high hopes on what wires he’d like to walk on.

Really high hopes.

See, Phillip walked across the Twin Towers. Eight times.

And it was amazing.

Or was it.

Phillip saw the buildings as a challenge early in his career and made it his goal. All of his choices surrounded to making this a goal for himself. He prepared for it. He practiced. He even climbed other famous structures including the Sydney Bridge and the two towers of Notre Dame in Paris. Amazing stuff. His friends worked in tandem to help his dream come true. Truly amazing. And the film is structured like a documentary should be. We already know the outcome, as we tend to do in documentaries—so it is staggered between the actual moment of the act and meetings with his friends about the planning process.

So why did I like it so much?

Much like Rose in the musical Gypsy, I had a dream. I’ve always wanted to move to Florida. I really have, for quite some time. Even as a kid, vacationing here periodically, I saw the potential. I memorized the streets and drive times. I studied Disney World like Eisenhower planning the Omaha Beach invasion. I was a man with a purpose.

The purpose waned over time, an annoying gift brought on by the pangs of adulthood and the responsibilities of daily living. But when I met my husOtter and he confessed the same goal-it was back on the table. Now I’m thinking I’m publishing a blog entry on this move to Florida-but, in the meanwhile, let’s just say, well, I had much in common with Monsieur Petit.

So what I brought to the movie is what made this title even more potent. I enjoyed it—much like you might enjoy a Discovery Channel special on something you’ve never heard of. The novelty brought the audience in, the tenacity-about having a dream for your life—is what keeps you interested.

Now the holidays are over, but I get the time afforded to me to watch those good-but-boring movies you can’t just pop into the DVD player when running the dishwasher and dusting. The second title I watched also had volumes of baggage, my own personal baggage that is, attached to it.

I watched the Last Days, a brief segment of the entire “Shoah” library. Now, if you’re in the dark about the Shoah project, it’s an oral history captured on video of the Holocaust in Nazi Germany. The entire project seeks to make sure every aspect is documented by the survivors. Shoah is the Yiddish name for the Holocaust. It also is the name of a French picture that came out several years ago, that showed some of these segments.

This particular picture deals with five survivors during and their ordeal. Now this picture, though it isn’t truly answered, posits something very unique. Hitler, in the last days of World War Two, instead of diverting forces to the warfront, elected to accelerate his “final solution” against the Jewish populace.

Interesting choice. Instead of a final show of force, he chose to kill more and quickly those who had nothing against him other than existing. The question is never really answered. And the documentary does little towards showing new information-just more horror stories. Horror stories that were are somewhat, sadly familiar with.

Here’s the thing: remember what I said about what we get from a movie is what we bring to the table? Well, living in a nation that is so inherently angry with so much, I can see why something like the Nazis were formed. Here? We have the Tea Party, obviously a knee jerk organization that flits between out and out racism and fanaticism. Heck, they’re led by a yahoo who has no platform but is charismatic enough to rally everyone into a lather.

Take for example, The King’s Speech, which I also saw this weekend. I’ll write up something more formal later, but when King George the Sixth saw Hitler completing public speaking, his daughter asks what the Feurer is saying. The King responds, “I don’t know. But he seems to be saying it well.”

The fact is, America is angry (and, believe it or not, for no good reason, IMHO), and they will follow anyone who can rally them. This is what happened in Germany. This is how bad things happen.

It’s no secret I’m a minority. And my parents are Jewish. Such films rip into me like blades covered in iodine. But the fact is, I’m a teacher moreso. Kids today know of the Holocaust, but are still learning it. And we cannot forget. We never shall if I’m alive. But also, I’m one of those zingy happy people. I cannot dwell on the horrors.

But I will acknowledge them. Like by watching this movie. And making sure the good in the world grows just a bit more. And that we see the good everyone has to offer.

Two, (three if you count the King’s Speech) excellent pictures.

The Booth in the Corner

*) it's been forever and a day since I wrote anything. I used my 'story ideas' book to suggest a fictional topic. Weird to write fiction after a bit of time off. It said I needed to write about "the Booth in the Corner."

Needs a window behind it...

Clark had hated it when the state went totally nonsmoking. His own personal experience had been that smokers had tipped better than anyone ever before and since. He was not a smoker himself, but his parents were. He filled his time outside of the coffeehouse with writing and the gym-so the smoke was only temporary until something better came along. Besides, he felt it was another intrustion of the world at large into the private lives of its citizens. He heard the arguments, and he eventually, reluctantly agreed that carbon monoxide was killing others.


But that did not change the fact that he was making less money. His justification? He was going to die anyways. Might as well use the extra cash.

Clark dreamed of college, of all those things that the public at large told him to buy. He thought occasionally of a big house, perhaps a picket fence. But he had lived out of the loop for so long growing up, the product of hippies, that the coffeehouse was more of a career move than a interim placement. He eventually developed a series of responses for older patrons who asked, “what’s next for you?”

Everyone seemed to buy the marriage or the college bit. Occasionally, if the group was young men or women, he would add he was waiting for his big break in modeling. He was not much to look at, but they never seemed to catch the joke when he spit it out like cold coffee.

He also never really minded the Saturdays and the Sundays. Since the quitting-smoking bit hit the Joint Java House, he decided to learn to love them a bit more. The customers were now ruder than the smokers, but more did arrive and so did the trade off. He did realize that the daily counts were not that much different before and after the law took effect. The only thing that really increased were the amount of people who said ‘venti’ instead of ‘large.’

The lunch crowd clears in an hour. He liked the way they came in, filling every booth and seat from the back to the front and left in the same order. During the week? Nothing. Saturday and Sunday? Everyone must need some kind of fix.

JJH was always a coffeehouse, even though it had been built in the fifties. You could tell. The tables were not the rehashed used-shop kinds, but instead, steady booths and decent sized café tables that held up inside and out. Just inside the front door was a huge piece of furniture. That booth was designed for larger groups, or, by the way it looked out on the main floor, mobsters. Strangely, it’s occupancy was low. His boss would find the space needed outside of the loft-office on the hardwood, the wifi keep her connected to the books. Once and awhile a drunken party would hit the space trying to sober up before electing to just call a cab for the night.

Clark was embarrassed when he noticed the light blue silhouette of a tall man lean out.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize someone was there! Let me get you a menu!” he yelped from a nearby four-seater he was wiping. The man did not turn to look at him. Just nodded slowly, crinckling the back of his neck. Good, this means he’s waiting for someone.

Clark ran to the back, wiped down a menu and then returned to the front. The food was terrible, but the coffee menu was all that people looked at anyways.

The man had switched to the other side of the table, as if to get a better view of the empty street.

“Here you go. You think want a coffee off the bat?”

The man twisted his head, leaving his torso aimed at the front of the Joint. He pressed his bottom lip into the top on, curving the area under his nose. His eyebrows rose at the same time and a smile worked its way out. The rest of his body flowed to join the direction of his head.

“Yes. A large one.”

“We can, hey,” Clark noticed, “hey, have we met? Is this your first time to the joint?”

“I have that kinda face. No, can’t say I have. But, then again, do you think that your coffeehouse is any different than others?”

“Yeah, it’s different! It’s got me!” Clark twirled his mug, creating a pinstripe splatter on his shirt. He winced when the damage was apparent.

“Ah, I see. Guess that’s the attraction, then.”

They both rolled their eyes for different reasons.

When Clark returned with a mug and the carafe, the gentlemen seemed to have moved once more. “Bad lighting?”

“Excuse me?”

“The lighting? In the booth? Is it bad?”

“No. Why?”

“Why did you move?”

“I was called away.”

“Oh, did you find the bathroom okay?” He moved his head back towards the rear of the Joint.

“Something like that.”

Clark wished the guy was a smoker. At least the tip would have been better than the repartee. When the older women at table four decided to go, Clark felt a bit dejected. It was him and the corner booth alone. No distractions. The barista and the cook were discussing politics. He failed at finding his paperback. And he hated folding napkins.

He headed back to the table to justify taking a small break.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Clark got a clearer look at the man. He was chunkier than he first realized, the lower parts of his body caught off by the high rise of booth’s table. The visitor had moved to the end of bench now, but did not make any indication on if he planned on leaving. His shoes were boring leather-fare, worn but comfortable. He had on black shorts made of denim and a wrinkled polo shirt. But the clothes covered up someone who appeared massively clean. His hair was clipped to it’s severe edges, as if recently cut; the smell of perfumed soap still floated away. His teeth, when the illuminated, were brisk and white, their bottoms lined up as if pressed from ivory.

“Ah, okay, I was going to take a break and I’ll be right back.”

“Excellent.”

“So?”

“So.”

“So? Do you need anything?”

“I need someone to talk to.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need, I need someone-oh, never mind.” He returned his gaze to the front window.

“I,” Clark looked back to the kitchen window. The barista was now giving the finger to the cook. He figured the cook was probably returning the gesture back to the barista, but he was out of sight. “I can take my break here then.”

Clark was not the friendly type, he mentioned to himself repeatedly. It was a rouse, brought on by years of working in public service. Over the years, men and women would try to give him their phone numbers or would become dissatisfied if he did not sit and talk to him. He learned that being quaint gave better tips. And the distance meant that he grinned all the way home without worry. He surprised himself when he slid it on the vinyl, “L” shaped booth. The air underneath pressed the stranger vertical about an inch.

“You don’t have to, really, don’t, you can go on your break.”

“Oh, so that’s how you’re going to be then! Alright, don’t worry, I don’t charge a dime. But if you’d rather, I’ll get you another cup,” Clark feigned and hoped the customer would take the bait.

The visitor grimaced as if trying to cover the pain of stubbing his toe, uncertainy riding through his body.

They sat and stared at each other.

“You know, I once had a lady here completely elaborate how she kicked her ex husband in the nuts after her divorce was final. She had made a copy of her housekey, snuck into his, their, house and moved a chair to face the front door. When the bastard came in with his new honey, she stood, walked over and cracked the schmuck in full view of the street. Never filed charges. I never saw her again.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel what, exactly?”

“One, you’re supposed to realize that it is sometimes easier to talk to strangers. And two, that this booth doesn’t really feel alright. Dang, I guess it is pretty lumpy, isn’t it.”

“Hadn’t noticed.”

“I have. Look, you don’t have to talk to me. I’m working a double, you looked like you could have someone to talk to. I feel like talking.”

“Probably too much caffeine from the coffee?”

“Probably. True. Didn’t think of that.”

“Well, I’m just, well. Let’s just say, I lost a friend today.”

“Lost as in ‘lost?’ Or lost as in, um,” the coffee in his system had given him energy and he bit his lip, “passed away.”

“Something like that.”

“Dude, I’m sorry. Then who are you waiting for?”

“I’m not sure.”

An old coworker colleague of mine, someone I’ve kept in touch with over a social network, was bragging about her life. She has two beautiful children and has been able to keep her amazing figure. Her husband is still a hottie even after all of these years and, frankly, she had much to boast to about.


She mentioned in her posts, “The life I prayed for is now here.”

I got it. I understood her on several levels. I got it.

I live in Florida now. I have a beautiful husband. And though I might look pregnant, I’ve been able to keep this figure too. And as a bear, that’s a good thing.

But I had to talk a little about living out your dreams. For eons, I had noticed, I dreamed of living next to or nearer to a Disney Park. Any park really. I spent tons of money to see them and when I did, I hurried through like a kid on a sugar rush hoping to enjoy the moments in a buzzed blitz.

But I never had enjoyed the parks.

Trust me, all those trips with all of those friends were worthwhile and totally perfect. And I would not be able to make such a statement until I lived here. Now that I have a Walt Disney World Premium Annual Pass, the “Diz” world is totally different.

And I never had totally enjoyed the parks.

I noticed it on my first day there. Sadly, it wasn’t with my husOtter. Instead, it was with some fascinating friends that got me in for free. We breezed down Main Street and though there were throngs of people, I didn’t feel their bulk. Not because I was hurried or focused; it was because my cares and worries were different. I could come back and do what I wanted later, so standing on a queue wasn’t so much of a burden anymore. I noticed the sounds of Main Street for the first time, as if awakening from some sort of long endured deafness. There was the stutter of the omnibus; there was the din of children still happy before the heat of the day tagged them into screaming by night fall.

It was as if I had walked into Disney World for the first time.

This emotion become clearer when husOtter and myself purchased those passes and decided the next weekend would be the perfect time to conquer Disney’s Animal Kingdom. I had stepped away to use the bathroom a good five minutes before the park opened for business. I wandered off alone to the Rainforest Café and hit the bathroom. I returned to find the gates were fully open. I had missed the initial collection of tickets.

And I was okay. My heart didn’t go crazy as I rushed the turnstiles. HusOtter had moved himself just inside and was waiting. There was no rush, no panic. The panic was on the faces of those families who had taken a loan to come down to Disney World and were about to run through the park at breakneck speed to get to everything. Not for my beloved and me. We stood there and Mickey and Minnie came to the front of the guests and welcomed us all to the Animal Kingdom.

And we WATCHED. In my skull, previously, I’d be screaming, “get these mice out of my way! I need my Everest FASTPASS!”

Instead, I plain ole laughed at the skit.

A tear rolled down my cheek and I hugged husOtter, hard. My dreams had come true. I suppose I could go ahead and this point and psychoanalyze why I’d not come down to Florida sooner, why I had refused to acknowledge why I wasn’t happy. I was content in Colorado. I had everything I needed.

So I thought. I guess I figured that happiness is measured, something monitored and calculated. And for some reason, my heart, after meeting David and having a decent boring job for a long time, was ready to keep it’s rhythmic pace. I had no idea that more could be had. That I could be HAPPIER.

Happier without doing drugs or drinking.

But here I was, able to do more with my life than ever before. And my heart soared. And, yeah, I cried a little. Lovebutton husOtter could rediscover the world all over again.

So thanks Disney.

Sure, I’ll become like those old farts that have gone over a thousand times to the parks. They complain about the color of the clouds over mid afternoon while completely ignoring the smiling parade of gay couples marching about. They are allowed, but I won’t listen to them. I look at it from the fact that I used to be a movie critic. I love movies. Yet I’m the movies harshest critic. Could it be it is my way of showing them my true caring? Those who poo-poo Walt Disney World really only do it out of love.

There’s a lot to see and do in Disney World. There are some great employees who smile back at you when you smile at them. There are wonderful characters that let you hug them even though you’re an adult.

And I’m loving it. I get it now.

There’s something here, however, I think I need to point out. When you prayed as a child, was the life you have now what you prayed for? Find out why not. It is surprisingly telling. I was so scared to be happy. My mother suffered such personal loss as I grew up and she did her best to let me know frequently. Maybe I felt I had to do the same.

The truth is: I know she’s happy now. And I know I didn’t have to suffer to by happy, at least not any more.

Zen Driving

Not really Buddhist, but it will help you get into the right mind frame....

My surprise today was that the person who almost hit me was not old. In fact, he was a teenager. Foppy Bieber hair edged his eyebrows as his eyes watched the other column of drivers; the column I was not in. In fact, he turned his tanned face briefly to face our Saturn and I breathed a sigh of relief. He was on his cell. I was nervous that I would have to label this youth some kind of automotive freak-someone who gets into accidents without the usual parameters here in Florida.

Are those cones? Or targets?

Perhaps it is my want-and-need to make this place work out, but I really, truly love it here. That means excusing faults inherent to the place and choosing the positives over the negatives. It also means picking my battles. And some are so large, they are hard to miss. My adaptation to my new homeland does have several snafus that if I do not recognize, people might caulk me up to some kind of selective insanity. So I have to mention one of the largest annoyances since I’ve established this beachhead.

Where ever you see gray or yellow are where the bad drivers are, stastiscally speaking, located....

Drivers suck in Florida.

I admit this freely as one of them. No, not as a Floridian driver, but as a sucky driver in general. I’m afraid to say anything, but though I’ve never really had an accident, my husband’s first comments in a negative sense when we started dating were, “you are kinda slow in the left lane;” and, “do you plan on getting there before the movie starts?” I could not drive quickly. I even once said to an officer who pulled me over for speeding, “really? Me? Can I back up and try again? I doubt that was me.”

I was never an aggressive driver. My stepdad was notorious for creating in me a sense of alarm when I was behind the wheel. He led me to believe that every driver on the road today had a vendetta, and they weren’t afraid to call you on it. Years of driving made me think that he was lying.

Wait, that isn't a steering wheel either...

Now that I’ve moved here, I realized he might have been correct.

I trusted him and his words because, in the years since 1982 when I became his stepson, I never once got the chance to drive any of his cars. I’m forty now. I kept my distance. My stepfather communicated to my low self-esteem that I could not be trusted.

But I also learned what a bad driver was.

Since arriving in Florida, I’ve found that driving here is a Zen existence. A true way of training yourself to living in the here-and-now. Zennists aren’t going to daydream about the potential the day might bring forth; they tend to look at what is happening in the moment and react accordingly. It’s surprising that this state is a red state, in the end. Had they looked at their driving on the 1-4 when the tourists arrive from Peoria, Illinois on a Friday night, they might have a different angle. They’d not see red or blue. They’d see a way to connect to their Buddha-self.

My first week here, I had four near misses. Each time the driver was in a larger car (three of them were minivans with fish—sidenote: In Colorado, since I saw this image frequently, I figured the fish meant they had too many children “a school” if you will and that’s why they drove so poorly!) and every time—on the phone.

Not just on the phone, mind you, but not even holding onto the steering wheel. I do not recall seeing them even touching the steering wheel. Now I get it. I live in a massively rural area and every person is a decent car ride away. People really make good use of their phones here. But to have so many near misses in a row with the same reason, I cannot afford to think about anything but the road and getting home in one piece.

How Zen is that?

The one thing is, my job depends on keeping my car intact! Zen or no Zen, this is serious crap. Now I remember in the movie “Cocoon” how they take away the driver’s license of WIlford Brimley (frankly I would anyway-the dude gives me the creeps and I don’t want him near me even if there was a windshield between us); I recall Morgan Freeman’s purpose was to have the voice of God in the front seat when Jessica Tandy got too old to drive as well in “Driving Miss Daisy.” So they’ve even made movies about this older individuals and their driving skills.

These drivers are the voting force of Florida. The AARP is their cudgel and they swing it at laws that would keep us all a bit safer. But it is too much to hope for. Instead, I have learned that the ‘hand wave’ here in Florida means just as much as a turning signal-even if the encouraging hand waves you out infront of them-and they then speed up and almost rear-end you!

This monkey business is the down side of my up-life here in my new found home. I cannot believe how happy I am for all these bad drivers. I mean, really. Now I get to connect to my inner self while taking that forty five minute commute to the south part of town. Amazing.

And thank you, phone youth. I was scared I might have found an new kind of killer-driver. The teenager. But you were smart. You were talking on your phone while driving. Whew. At least it was in Florida!

Restaurant Review

Athens NY Style Diner


18750 US Highway 441

Mt Dora, FL 32757-6723

(352) 385-3592

My family is from New York. Now, I don’t mean, they are from New York as in, they were born there but spent more of their life elsewhere—I mean even thou the entire community makes comments about their heavy accents, they refuse to give them up in suburban Colorado. It’s like a scar from a particularly exciting shark attack. They are so New York that people know that even before they get to experience the accent; it’s like they create a New York-vortex that causes W.A.S.P.s to suddenly swear and want to get very, very fat.

It’s this fat part I want to talk to you about. I live back in the East now, right here in Florida. Most would say that isn’t the East, but when you count the snowbirds and Old World seniors that are starting to float down from Boston and NYC, they bring with them not only that East Coast cynicism, but they bring their palates with them too. So I lucked out. See my family, when asked, and they are always asked, “what do you miss most about New York?” They answer with the speed of a pizza delivery:

“The food.”

The last time I was in New York City, for example, my husOtter and I basically ran from restaurant to restaurant to meet the local family-folk and, well, ate. Even when my best friend, before I discovered which shows he enjoyed, I had to know, “What and where did you eat? How was it?”

It’s borne of the fact that New Yorkers share a huge chunk of the Old World, in that they are directly linked to those cultures they left behind. They celebrate that connection, and have for eons, by creating dishes that use local means to get the desired flavors from their varied homelands.

And we get the spoils.

Why the history lesson? I’m here now. It’s not New York, so a meal is just that here—usually in New York, I’d be visiting family or heading to a show of some sort—but I get to sample a bit more than I ever did in Colorado.

And judging my rotund figure? I like me good eats. That’s what brought me to this restaurant tonight. Let just say when the owner seats you and talks about his little island “Xios” near Turkey, you know you’re in for something halfway decent.

And like my parents, he held onto his Greek accent.

We started this meal with a Fried Greek cheese. Now we’re not talking the kind of ‘fried’ you find in state fairs across America. No. This is a chunk of feta that has been lightly sautéd without breadcrumbs and then covered with lemon garlic sauce and served with warm pitas.

Okay, feel free to reread that wonderment again. It was called sagamaki and was, in the words of my grande dame of a Jewish neighbor, ‘to die for.’

See, in those New York diners, place wasn’t key and this spot was the same. There were a few Greek columns. Some paintings of the Mediterranean, but squat elsewhere. See, here in New York, you’re supposed to be worried about the food. Wait. Did I say New York? I meant Florida. But with all these New Yorkers that were seated around me, I was a bit thrown.

I ended up getting a Mediterranean dish, chicken marsala. Yeah, it’s ubiquitous, served frozen as one of those frying pain meals-but here it almost tastes like candy, a decadent treat for taste buds. My husOtter had the standard gyro. I didn’t taste it, but I will say this-he took it home for lunch tomorrow.

Folks, he doesn’t eat leftovers.

So, for me, I’m now a bit prouder to have moved to Florida and to start tasting these wonderful places. And it helps me understand my New Yorker parents and family, displaced in Colorado, when they say, “we miss the FOOD.”

I hope I can eat enough to keep them happy!