Odds and Ends- Sports Edition

Ladies, I’ll keep it simple. We like sports because-

1). There are sensible rules and physical dimensions that rarely if ever change.

2). We completely understand these rules and have since we were children.

3). When playing, we know that if we play hard and correctly, most of the time we’re going to win and if we don’t at least we’ll feel satisfied with our performance.

4). Communication is stripped to its bare minimum in all sports, much of it being non-verbal, and we never have any problems understanding the other guy. This is considered a plus. A HUGE plus.

5). When watching we feel like those children that we used to be; that is to say happy and not concerned about the future, jobs, relationships, money or lack of same.

6). Unless, of course, we’ve got a bet down, in which case there is no single more compelling non-sexual experience in life than watching your team trying to cover the spread.

7). In sports, most of the time, it’s better if you don’t think too much.


Also.......


I recall once seeing Walter Payton go duck hunting with Curt Gowdy (circa '77) on “The American Sportsmen”. I forgot who the celebrity guest was and while the show didn’t make me want to blast birds out of the sky it did look like a damn good time. Howabout Jimmy Johnson going Bass fishing with Neon Deion Sanders with Kevin Costner along for the ride? You can’t sell that as a half hour of fun TV?


The 1985 Chicago Bears defense was the hands-down best of all time. The roughest, toughest, fastest, strongest and meanest. Don’t try to argue just watch the tape.


Isn’t it time to bring back the “Wide World of Sports”?
C'mon..................... "The thrill of Victory..dun..DUN...dun...DUN...and the agony of Defeat!"


I really miss the late, great Mel Allen’s voice on “This Week in Baseball”.


I believe that the NBA has some of the most powerful, graceful, talented and exciting athletes in the world among their ranks and, further, that these godlike specimens consistently demonstrate an absolutely uncanny mastery of their sport.
So why are so many games so fucking boring to watch?


Athletes are getting bigger, faster and stronger all the time but, as of this moment (2007), any Major Leaguer anywhere can hit a hard grounder to any infield position and I guarantee that he will never, ever beat that throw to first.
That’s because the dimensions of a Baseball diamond (60’ 6” from rubber to home plate, 90’ between bases) are COSMICALLY perfect and cannot be bested through size and strength. It’s all about the SKILL!
In the last couple of decades there’s been a boom in brand new ballparks and I don’t know if anyone’s noticed but, by and large, the parks are actually slightly smaller than they were in the past.
Think about this-
The best football team from the 1960’s (Lombardi’s Packers?) wouldn’t have a snowballs chance in hell against an even above average 2007 NFL squad.
Not a PRAYER!

But the ‘60’s Yankees against today’s version. BET!
The 70’s A’s vs. their '07 counterparts. Please.
The Big Red Machine vs. the 2007 Cincinnati’s. Don’t make me laugh.
Baseball will always rise to the occasion and it doesn’t need any Senate committees to help it along.

GO CUBS!

Odds and Ends

Getting cracked on the ass by some thug 10 times your size- for your own good, they say- seems quite an appropriate entrance and an absolute fitting start to life in this crazy world.

What if your God is a comedian? Sex is unmentionable but war is allowed and, indeed, celebrated? It's a joke of cosmic proportion.......get it? I'm talking about a profound gagster with a deeply unique and viciously wicked sense of humor. What if- when we make it to that final reward- He cracks a shit-eating grin and cackles.

"BRO.....I was just fucking with ya!"

Think about it. Anyway.....laugh it up 'cuz he's got plenty more up his sleeves and he never runs out of material.

This is no original thought but...................

Can you even begin to imagine what biological tides flow in the mind and body of a woman? Great Christ...They willingly engage, with no small amount of joy, in the gift of pregnancy which insures 9 months of drastic body distortion and consistent discomfort followed and ending with the absolute promise of desperate pain and prolonged agony before the job is, finally, done. And then...somehow...subsequent to this violent trauma, they voluntarily submit to sex again. You really gotta tip your cap.

Lee Harvey Oswald did it. Alone. It was the luckiest day of his loser life. Deal with it.

The theory of "Occam's Razor"- basically, and I paraphrase, that the simplest solution to any problem is almost always the correct one- makes more irrefutable sense to me with the passing of each day.

But it never applies to human relationships and I still don't know why, or why not.

Without the existence of "Schoolhouse Rock" I would've never passed my H.S. Constitution test. And I still get tears in my eyes when I recall the

"A man and a woman had a little baby...........It takes threee..ee..eee for a family, it's a magic number" rap.

And has there ever...ever...ever been a more effective educational tool created in the history of mankind than "Conjunction Junction"? I think not.

Whatever they paid the creators of that show it wasn't damn near enough.

Happiness is supremely overrated. I'll settle for satisfaction everyday.

Roberto Duran, as a lightweight, (we'll forgive the welter and middleweight era's) was the most glorious fighter I've ever had the pleasure of watching. There was something so primally savage yet proudly noble in his regal bearing, matched with his raw animal hunger, that seeing his furious fists fly was a truly rare and most genuine thrill. He always promised action and always delivered.

Whatever happenend to Boxing anyway?

Some things the Japanese got right-

1.) Removing your shoes when entering a private residence.

2.) Keeping the toilet in a seperate room from the bath. Why didn't we think of that?

3.) Basically secular society. Much too much like right.

4.) Food. In all it's glory.

5.) Women. Ditto.

6.) Humility as an attractive virtue.

Kubrick's Rubes

“The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave”

Gray – “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”

Lately I consider my satellite dish as my own personal slot machine and I came up winners again last night. Kubrick’s “Paths of Glory” (1957) was starting just after midnight which is just right for me and in no short order I surrounded myself with beer, potato chips, cigarettes, darkness and peace but for the gentle glow of the small screen. I was a caveman worshiping my electronic fire. Life was good.

Set during the middle of WWI in France, the film begins as the hellish stalemate of trench warfare is in its second year of futility with neither the French or German armies able to advance their positions meaningfully and certainly not without a brutally high cost. The first scene shows no battlefield but rather takes place in a literal French Palace between Commanding Gen. Broulard (Adolphe Menjou) and his hand picked choice for the next Big mission, Gen. Mireau (The great George Macready). Broulard is an older oily puppet master with the type of worldly confidence that comes from decades of wielding absolute power absolutely, coupled with the wicked intelligence to bend lesser men to his will and an unshakeable faith in his vision of his world. Mireau addresses him as “Gen.” or “Sir”. Broulard calls his General, “Paul”.

WARNING- NOTHING BUT SPOILERS AHEAD!

Broulard has a mission for Mireau’s army, a “favor” to ask. Will Mireau’s men storm “the Anthill”, a heavily fortified German compound, tomorrow morning, take it and hold it until afternoon?
Mireau thanks the Gen. for the opportunity but ensures him that the price to be paid by his Men in human lives would be terrible and further, that the chances of realistic success would be almost none at any price. He cannot in good conscience commit his men to such a suicidal endeavor.
Broulard, like any good chess player, is at least two steps ahead of him. He expresses his mild disappointment but is sympathetic to Mireau’s predicament; such a shame really since he had been considering Mireau for promotion to his highest rank if the Gen. would’ve been able to accept and complete the mission. Well, they can always find someone else for the job and France must and will fight on without him.

Mireau’s eyes flash with fire as the viewer gets his first real feel for the spongy moral ground we are standing on in that Palace of power and opulence.

Seeing his chances for advancement fly away, Mireau tucks away that pesky conscience and almost immediately acquiesces to his superior’s point-of-view- Yes, perhaps it can be done!
Broulard then sits down to a fine gourmet lunch being served as Mireau gets to work on the order.

Cut to the trenches. Mireau is marching proudly along and exchanging rah-rah patter with the burned out grunts as mortar rounds fall around them.

“Ready to kill more Germans today soldier?”

“YES SIR!”

His last stop is the dugout of the Unit Commander, and man who will actually be leading the charge as Mireau watches safely from a distance, Col. Dax (Kirk Douglas). Amid the squalor of his situation the Colonel is given his order and almost defiantly accepts it. He is promised artillery support and nothing more. Then Mireau launches into his predictions concerning the number and percentage of causalities Dax and his men will likely suffer while we watch Dax’s eyes harden as his stomach, no doubt, turns. This calm discussion of percentages, casualties and lives will become a theme of the film. Mireau finishes his neat little spiel with a jaunty,

“…leaving almost 40% to take and hold the anthill.”

In the filthy slop of that claustrophobic hell that spongy moral ground from the distant pristine Palace turns to bloody quicksand with Dax and his men stuck in the middle as Mireau bids a hearty farewell and good luck.

The first action begins that night as Dax orders Lt. Roget to take two men and recon the forward position in preparation for the morning assault. Roget (who unbeknownst to Dax has been drinking heavily) picks Pvt. Lejuene and Cpl. Paris and the three crawl silently out to the middle of No-Mans-Land where the Lt. orders the Pvt. to scout ahead, while they cover him, find as much intelligence as he can then rendezvous back so all three can return together. Lejuene crawls forward and disappears into the darkness, almost immediately the Germans pop a few flares into the air and drop a few mortar rounds somewhere behind Roget and Cpl. Paris. Shots are fired forward. Lt. Roget panics and orders a bug out, Cpl. Paris sternly reminds him that they have to wait for Lejuene.
“He’s probably dead!” Roget hisses as he flips a grenade forward and beats a hasty retreat leaving Paris all alone.
The grenade explodes, all firing stops and Paris decides to crawl forward and search for the abandoned Lejuene. As he is attempting to quietly call out to his comrade he slips and tumbles into a mortar hole where he discovers the freshly grenaded, still smoking corpse of Pvt. Lejuene.

The cinematic knife twists a little deeper.

Back in the relative safety of his dugout the cowardly murderer Lt. Roget collects himself and threatens to bring Paris up on charges if he reports what he saw. Col. Dax enters demanding information and Roget, unwisely, chooses to remain silent. Dax smells a rat but has no time to deal with it as the morning attack will commence in only hours.

We begin to guess that there may be no happy endings.

Dawn brings the French artillery barrage as the men crouch in their trenches and prepare to charge into the German barb wire, bullets, grenades, mortars and their…..duty. Gen. Mireau lustily eyes the impending battle through a telescope in his fortified faraway bunker.
The barrage ends and Col. Dax leads his men into the breech.

It is a slaughter.

Dax and his men stumble and crawl forward as they’re being cut to pieces and blown apart. A few sickening minutes into the battle Dax collapses into a mortar ditch perhaps 30 yards and numerous lives away from the mornings start. Mireau observes from his safe distance that nearly half of Dax’s unit have not joined the charge and remain in the trench. He is incensed and orders his artillery to fire on their own troops in a twisted attempt to move them out of the trenches and into the battlefield.

It is then that our hero, such as it is, arrives.

Capt. Rousseau, the artillery Commander, flatly refuses the order. Mireau is enraged and grabs the field radio himself to personally intimidate Rousseau into following his personal order. Rousseau, in the first truly noble moment of the film, again flatly refuses the General. He will not fire on his own men without a hand-written order from the Gen. himself, hand-delivered to him as per Army regulations. Mireau slams the receiver down in frustration as he, correctly, assesses that he has met his match and Rousseau will not be budged. Simultaneously Dax realizes his situation and fights back to the trench in a vain effort to rally the remainder of his men for one final charge.

The murderous Lt. Roget, who hasn’t left the trench, cowers and whines,

“We can’t, sir…we can’t…it’s impossible!”

Dax stoically gives it his all,

“C’MON MEN……ONE MORE TRY….WE’VE GOT TO TRY!”

He blows his whistle to lead the charge and jumps on the ladder to be the first man out. At that moment the survivors of the initial force come desperately tumbling back into the trench beaten, bloody and out of their minds with fear. As Dax climbs the ladder the corpse of a freshly shot soldier collapses onto him and knocks him back into the trench.

The battle is over.

The film has only begun.

Mireau is enraged and orders charges to be brought on the troops as he delivers one of the classic lines from the film.

“If those sweethearts won’t face German bullets then, by God, they’ll face French ones!”

Back to the Palace-

Broulard is in a meeting with Mireau to discuss the specifics of the charges. He has invited Dax to the table and the three hammer it out. Mireau wants blood, Dax is level headed and properly sarcastic, Broulard is above it all. The negotiations begin and eventually Dax manages to talk them down to only 3 (Mireau began at 100) men facing trial and almost certain execution. The trial will begin in 2 hours. Col. Dax will defend the accused. Lt. Roget will pick the 3 lucky soldiers.

The least of the men will decide the fate of the best.

Kubrick shot this film in 1957 by the way.

The decision is that Pvt. Ferol, Pvt. Arnaud and Cpl. Paris will face charges and execution. Pvt. Ferol has been chosen because he is an undesirable personality. Cpl. Paris, of course, has been singled out so that his execution will permanently erase any possible record of Lt. Roget’s homicidal cowardice. Pvt. Arnaud has been chosen by lottery.

Lottery.

The film spins on it’s axis as all sense of justice is mocked. This is war, not a tea party.

The trial, like most in real life, is perfunctory. It’s a play to assuage the guilt of the prosecution, it is cruel, ugly, swift and inevitable. The men are brought to their communal cell to begin the wait for dawn and their deaths by firing squad.

Cpl. Paris attempts to grasp some meaning in his sickening and short existence as a fat cockroach moves across a table that Ferol is sitting at and Kubrick delivers the biggest blackest belly laugh I’ve ever felt at the movies-

Paris- “Look at that roach…tomorrow morning it’ll be alive and I’ll be dead….it’ll have more contact with my wife and children than I will. I’ll be nothing and it’ll be alive.”

Ferol- (Smacks his hand down on the roach) “Now you got the edge on him.”

When I finally stopped laughing and wiped the tears from my eyes a priest enters the cell to offer the condemned………don’t know……….absolution?.......solace?.....bullshit?

Pvt Arnaud (the lotto pick) is offended by his presence and platitudes and lets the Padre have it with both barrels. The priest babbles on and Arnaud snaps, smacking the Padre in the jaw, knocking him to the ground then advancing to finish the job. Cpl. Paris, who has found some comfort from the man of religion, leaps up to defend the fallen cleric and, being the bigger and more powerful man, knocks Arnaud down with a roundhouse right where the Pvt. cracks his head on a large rock immediately losing consciousness. Medics are summoned.
Arnaud has suffered a serious skull fracture and will most likely not survive the night to face the morning’s bullets. The Palace officers order that he be strapped to a 4-wheeler and propped up before the firing squad in the event that he lives through the night. By this point in the film madness is the only reality and we accept it as the doomed soldiers accept their fate.

The morning arrives and the men are marched out and offered blindfolds by the despicable Lt. Roget who, in a powerful scene, has been forced by Dax to head the execution. Cpl. Paris declines his blindfold and Roget, who will doubtless relive the moment for the remainder of his cowardly life, whispers to the man he has condemned,

“I’m sorry.”

In one abrupt, brilliant low-angle shot, Kubrick delivers the full horror of the execution.

Cut back to the Palace and the final meeting between Dax, Mireau and the all-powerful Gen. Broulard.
Col. Dax has fought valiantly for the length of the film only to lose everything but his life yet he plays his last card in cunning style. He’s gotten wind of Mireau’s order to fire on his own troops and demands that an investigation be held to determine Mireau’s guilt. Mireau is cowed as Broulard casually weighs everyone’s future.
An investigation will be held and Mireau’s eyes visibly change as he stares into his own noose. He is dismissed to await his fate as Broulard regards Dax.
For the only time in the film Gen Broulard incorrectly analyzes the situation. He pegs Dax as a climber and offers him Mireau’s command along with the accompanied stars, prestige and relative safety.
Kirk Douglas is masterful as Dax unleashes his pent up, righteous fury on the serene General Broulard until Kubrick drops us all the way down the moral rabbit hole.

Broulard responds-

“Col. Dax, you’re a disappointment to me. You’ve spoiled the keenness of your mind by wallowing in sentimentality. You really did want to save those men, and you were not angling for Mireau’s command. You are an idealist and I pity you as I would the village idiot. We’re fighting a War, Dax….a War that we’ve got to win. Those men didn’t fight so they were shot. You bring charges against Gen. Mireau so I insist that he answer them. Wherein have I done wrong?”

Indeed. This is the film's harsh answer to the uneasy question that no peace lover wants to ask because we do live in a world of fences and someone does have to protect the backyard.

Cut to the final haunting scene-

The remnants of Dax’s men, on a brief reprieve from the trenches, sit in a café to await their orders. The sleazy MC of the café has a show in store for the filthy, defeated soldiers. He brings out the “entertainment”. She is a voluptuous young German girl who obviously has been chosen for her “talent”. The MC leers as the men hoot, holler and catcall raucously; the anger, frustration, blood and rape in their eyes is the ugly evidence of their experience. The girl will start the show with a song. There are tears in her eyes and it is clear that she is not there of her own free will. She begins to sing as the men pound their fists on the tables, drooling and gnashing their teeth.

Her voice is lovely, clear and strong.

The tears run down her face as she offers the men a simple French folk song. She sings on and on and the room begins to change. The men, in turn, grow quiet and strain to listen to her every note, their eyes no longer filled with bloodlust but something very different. Near the end of the song the men, young, old, scarred, beaten, begin to sing along with her, some have tears in their eyes. All of them are seeing something pure and something they might remember but have forgotten on the battlefield. Something they might have once had but may never again have the chance to hold. Some past that will never be their future.

Dax is dismissed from the Palace and approaches the café where he is met by Broulard’s Staff Sergeant. He and his men are ordered to report immediately back to the frontline. Dax accepts this order as he listens to the men singing inside the café. He is resigned.

“Well………….give the men a few more minutes.”

Credits roll.

I have been shot at three times in anger and have had guns dropped in my face more than once but I’ve never been a soldier in any army or gang and can never know the desperation of that terrible toll. But as I heard Dax’s words I thought, maybe, just maybe………that is every soldiers dream.

Just a few more minutes.

I stared at the screen and wondered if President George W. Bush and all his White House cronies might possibly be watching along with me but……… somehow………..

I kind of doubt it.

You Have No Friends

Recently I loaded a short vid on YouTube. Uh-huh… chew on that a bit before we begin but please don’t spit it out too quick. Thank you.

The reason? None I can think of other than any idiot can do it and I’ve always considered myself at least equal to most idiots and so I posted my vid and pissed into the internets ocean along with the rest of the cyber-rabble. Worry not, I have no intention nor any inclination to review, discuss or comment on my effort here but a curious result of my “work” struck me hard and right between the eyes.
After having registered, filled out forms, gave information, provided passwords…..blah, blah, fucking blah, I finally managed to accomplish what only thousands have managed before me.

Yes, the earth did indeed tremble.

In return for my charitable videography I received a “channel” where I am able to check the progress, and lack thereof, of my maiden effort. This channel and its contents intrigued and enlightened me and so I share my newfound news.
It is now 2007 and I am, by almost any standards, old. I am connected to no generation and speak for no one. I understand little if anything. The world flies past me and I feel lucky if some days I can laugh. But the following chunk of profound information glaring at me from my new channel profile struck a chord in my soul that I haven’t felt since I can remember and rocked me into my most existential. Displayed near the middle of my layout it reads simply and most clearly-

You Have No Friends.

Hmmmnnn. I think I understand.

Now some background. In my formative years I was raised in a somewhat harsh environment- a lot better than most, not as good as some- and so took my lessons where I could find them. The Old Man was a compelling instructor. One of his primary imperatives can best be summed up in his own words.

“The only friends you got in this world is that Old Lady over there and the ones you got in your pocket!”

For my more sensitive readers this was in reference to my mother, and cash, respectively. His meaning was rock hard, crystal clear and quite difficult, in practice, to argue even when I wanted to seeing as how my Mom was always in my corner and green money never let me down. But I'm not attempting to convince anyone of the rightness or wrongness of the Old Man’s proclamation only to state it truthfully and as one very basic point of reference. As the years passed and hard knocks and luck of both kinds accumulated this truth became harder, clearer and just about impossible to wrestle to the ground. I painstakingly came to understand he meant that “friends”- meaning the people you can truly count on when the chips are all the way down- are few and can most likely fit in one hand while those other people……well……they might be nice to talk to or something…………..anyway, he was not a sophisticated gentleman.

Because, please see, that is what “friends” meant at one time.

Someone who will grab your hand and help you up after the world kicks you down whether it’s in their own best interest or not. Someone who will stand next to you in a fight where victory is not at all certain. Someone who will trust your word above all others and vice-versa. Hell- let’s keep it simpler- someone who will actually show up to help you move your damn furniture to the next place you’re going to rest your head or someone who will not only answer the phone but will also come to bail you out of the shithouse whether he’s got work tomorrow or not.

But, of course, it is currently 2007 with the clock running fast and this meaning has seemingly drifted away with the cyber-tide.

Occasionally I look at MySpace (actually rarely because-
1.) it sucks
2.) for some reason it crashes my computer
3.) it sucks)
in frank amazement and a kind of dim bewilderment.

Somefuckingbody42 has got 73 friends.

Dipshitnerd has got 627 friends.

Hotassblondie669 has got 7782 friends.

And I think…………REALLY? WOW!

You know the phone numbers of 73 Samaritans who will bail you out of the slam? You have complete access to 627 human beings who will stand by your side under threat of legal punishment? You maintain the rare honor of being associated with 7782 saint-like mortals who will lift your couch and put it into a truck, then take it out, walk it up the stairs and put it down wherever you want?

Damn! The world must be a much kinder, gentler place to live in than it ever was before.
You crazy kids finally got it all figured out!

And pitiful me- I HAVE NO FRIENDS!

Thankfully certain events infrequently occur in my life that fly in the face of this electronic logic. As a minor example my Brother from another Mother (dare I call him my “Friend”?) recently sent me a thoughtful and hilarious 5 page letter, including some nifty sketches of his artwork, in the mail. For the unaware a “letter” is a message actually hand written on a piece or pieces of paper relating your thoughts/feelings to a fellow human being. These “letters” often require hours of contemplation and concentration before scribbling your signature at the end. In order to send this message it requires one, after full completion of said writing task, to physically affix postage- which may cost you well over 42 cents- on the outside of an envelope (separate piece of letter carrying paper) seal the letter in the envelope then walk, bike or drive to a mailbox or post office (bizarre old fashioned junction where these letters are collected then carried to a central location where they are sorted and, eventually, physically delivered to your personal mailbox) drop your note in and wait several days for intended delivery which you will have no knowledge of unless or until you receive a reply from said recipient.

WHEW!

Exhausted just reading about it, aren’t you? I know I am.

What the hell was Eric thinking? He could’ve just as easily sat at a keyboard and tapped out-

BRO! YO! WTF!
HIT ME UP!
L8R WHEN UR ST8R!!!!
E

-and hit the send key. Approximately 17 seconds of brutal labor ripped from his busy day and his Herculean task would’ve been completed with, well…………. practically all of his sentiment intact.

But I must allow that upon careful review of his words on the pages I can safely say that there is every indication he had something to personally express that he really wanted me to take the time to personally consider. His simple subjects- family, wives, children, work- were important to him and I imagine that he thought they might be equally as important to me and that I might find some small comfort in his sharing his thoughts on paper. Perhaps because we haven’t seen each other or talked, drank or smoked together in over 2 years he wanted to creatively, meticulously convey his feelings in a manner that would cause me to pause and reflect for several minutes, at least, in order to more properly and patiently weigh the meaning and worth of his thoughts.
Or maybe he was just really stoned, who knows.
But either way the manifest consideration of his time and talent via snail mail was much more directly, wholly and joyfully appreciated than any instant message I’ve ever received, well intentioned or not. He sacrificed some of his time and now it’s time for me to write back. This is my privilege and a bargain to be sure. As I say this was but one minor example.

No “Friends”?

I don’t know. Sometimes I think I’m doing fine.

Several levels of unreality crash my transient existence

Unfaithful readers may be surprised to hear that last night I willfully dove into the bottle with great good joy. My plan, if it can be legitimately named that, was to get pleasantly wasted and enjoy many cigarettes while bathing in the moonlight. The TV also happened to be on.
My Wife, in her wisdom, easily perceived my simpleminded intentions and so busied herself with her own activity (internet variety) while I slid into my drunken solitude. Peace and happiness reigned over all.
I peered into the TV screen and luck was mine. Wim Wenders “Wings of Desire” was just beginning on the satellite. Now, since moving to Japan, I normally abstain from films in languages other than Japanese or English due to the Babel-like confusion that generates in what passes for my brain whenever I hear a 3rd language being spoken- I spend approximately 70% of my time thinking in English so that I might come up with something intelligible to write, and the other 30% is wasted on trying to figure out what the fuck everyone is talking about so I am hesitant to add additions to the mix- but Wenders visuals immediately piqued my curiosity and, beside this, I’ve never before seen the film. So…..
I settled in……..sipped my drink…………..listened to German subtitled in Japanese………….the wife tapped her keys and peered into her own flowing electrons. Bliss!

The story is simple and brilliant. Shot in Berlin it tales the tale of angels who inhabit our world unseen, untouched yet attempting to comfort our human woes spiritually. The Angel Damien soon falls in love with a trapeze artist, Marion, and begins to yearn for a more earthly existence as my own personal Matrix began, at that point, to shift. Marion’s trapeze and rope act reminded me so powerfully of my genius ex-girlfriends’ performance art, who until that moment I believed was distinctly unique and who I haven’t seen or spoken to in over a decade, that I had the slightest of urges to find her and ask her fresh questions about the nature of her art. I refrained and, instead, got deeper into the film and drink.

Peter Falk - yes, that Peter Falk- appears in the film intermittently, playing himself and speaking English, and eventually it begins to dawn that his presence serves a purpose other than smiles. Damien, after giving up his Angelic existence to pursue his earthly love for Marion and being treated to an unceremonious conk on the skull as a reward, begins to wander the streets of Berlin searching for a prearranged meeting place with Marion. He is bleeding and ecstatic. He is alive and will one day die. He knows this.
Marion, despairing of finding him, leaves early as Damien arrives late. Damien stumbles across a film set where Falk is shooting and their eyes meet in recognition. He immediately realizes that Falk, like himself, is a former Angel who has given up the wings for more human delights. They speak to each other briefly through a fence. Falk explains his joy patiently, Damien listens anxiously. Falk is called away to the set and says goodbye. Damien, desperate, calls to him,

“Wait…Wait…..you were going to talk to me…..explain everything?”

Falk turns and smiles his beatific smile,

“That, you have to figure out for yourself…….but that’s the fun of it!”

Damien continues his search as I began mine.

We are approximately 103 mins. into the film and the Wife and I have not exchanged a word. This is by design.
Being wise far beyond her years she has always realized that when into meaningful drinking I am basically allergic to human communication and any pursuit of same will be met by grunts, growls or manful indifference, hence she sagely chooses to leave me to wallow in my drunken foolishness as she silently gets things done and any questions, requests, complaints or comments are almost always saved for a time when I can assemble a somewhat coherent response. I constantly marvel at the simple genius of her tolerance.

And so it hit me hard when, out of the bluest of left fields, she calmly and clearly asked me in the 104 min.,

“Do you like Nick Cave?”

I turn to look at her for the first time in 103 minutes.

“I’ve never heard his work or read his words.”

It was my only response and a damned honest one, so struck was I by her context less question.
It turns out that she was logged onto Mixi (the Japanese version of MySpace or Facebook or whatever the fuck network you people use) and was at that moment viewing a mutual friends’ (Daina- born in Japan, we met him in Chicago) page on which he had recently loaded a Nick Cave video, being quite the fan. The Wife contentedly clicked on the vid and ignored me. I happily went back to my 105 min.

At her finish the Wife closed the laptop and began to walk across the room to the kitchen. I stopped her in her tracks with these words.

“That’s Nick Cave.”

At that precise moment in the film, as Damien wanders the streets of Berlin and the Wife stood still next to me, he comes across a wall covered in posters for that nights’ Nick Cave performance in a nightclub. He enters, Marion is there. The Wife and I stared into the screen. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds do their thing. We enjoyed.

Please allow me to review.

I’m an American living in Japan watching a German film in German (with a little English) subtitled in Japanese while the Wife is simultaneously connected to an electronic world where she is linked to a Japanese friend who now lives on the other side of the planet which causes her to engage in the, heretofore, unheard of behavior of talking to me while I’m drinking about an obscure, if important, Rock singer who, also simultaneously, happens to be flashing on my TV with what is almost certainly his sole contribution to the history of cinema in that aforementioned German film(1987) now (2007) being played at midnight in Japan starring an American actor speaking in English and a trapeze artist who reminds me of one of my exes.

I took a good stiff pull on my drink.
I went to my balcony and lit one up.

After, beseeching the Wife for her counsel, I attempted to manhandle the unreality of this situation with my dull headed, masculine logic. It was like trying to pack water into a cardboard box with my bare hands. I was, and am confounded.

The Wife finally, lovingly, patiently regarded me and my confusion and said,
“Things like that happen all the time in this life.”
She smiled slyly and repaired to bed.

It was at that point that I realized I have never, ever kissed her enough.
I felt like a monkey in a tuxedo sitting in front of a piano.

When the movie ended the Wife was sleeping peacefully…………dreaming, I imagine.

WON'T ANYONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?

Been on holiday for awhile so until now I’ve managed to dodge the ‘Hoff’s late night video binge and subsequent half-ass tirade on his teenage spawn from Hollywierd Hell but now that I’m all caught up and have finally, finally stopped laughing my ass off (yes.. asselhoff if you must) I had a lonely thought or three.
Young Ms. ‘Hoff…….Sweetheart……..seriously……while I most assuredly cannot know your intimate parental situation and do not share your what I’m sure is legitimate pain I must say this- I’m certain that you have many, many cringe inducing memories backed up in your emotional teenage toilet to be ashamed of (your Old Man’s acting and, God forbid, singing career chief among them) but this particular moment, now forever frozen in our video consciousness, is most definitely NOT one of them. This is your time to shine, Girl! You’ve hit the Angry Teenage Rebel Lottery! Not only did you completely bust the Old Man at his weakest most pathetic possible moment but you, somehow, miraculously had the foresight to film it and then, God can it get any better, said damning video evidence of your absolute control and domination of your legal guardian managed to leak its way to the internets where your Gosh darn painful shame can be blissfully shared with one and all. BRAVO! LMAO! U R 2 COOL 4 SCHOOL!

One small note of caution as you celebrate your ultimate victory over the entire adult world and pounce on your just desserts- DO NOT DO OPRAH! While this seemingly painless task would appear in your eyes to be the next logical and conveniently supportive step in your short climb to self actualization, TRUST ME, don’t do it. The Fat Lady will suck you drier than a Nevada desert as she engulfs you in her monstrous pudding of televised empathy then oozes her protoplasmic body against yours at least once and maybe many times before she finally pulls the cord and leaves you plummeting towards the ground and wondering where all the cameras went as she slurps up the last drops of your pain and totals up the numbers. MiniHoff, this will not help you in any runs, long or short. Don’t do drugs kid, not even the TV kind.

But let’s consider alternatives. In the future, Ms. ‘Hoff, allow me to clue you in on some conduct that may be more becoming to a gal of your evident smarts. By my alcoholically expert estimation the Knight Rider appeared to be approximately 15-25 minutes away from a comatose-like state of officially passed-out that should have afforded you the golden opportunity of rifling his pants and possessions for any loose cash or plastic thus allowing you to embark on a guilt-free, windfall shopping spree and don’t you deserve it. This is the reward of all kids with drunk-ass parents everywhere and let’s get it straight- it is your REWARD. Enjoy, indulge, go crazy, he did. Many is the time I treated my buddies and me to copious amounts of potato chips and soda pop after the Old Mans’ big night out. Treat yourself BabyGirl, don’t cheat yourself. Whenever the Old Guy gets bent out of shape, it’s your time to spread your plastic wings and fly little birdie. And seeing as how your parental unit is headlining in Vegas and, for some reason unknown to me, still has the bank to maintain an assistant to fetch him cheeseburgers no matter how polluted he gets- and wouldn’t we all love that little perk- I’m guessing that any temporarily absconded plastic from the ‘Hoff still retains the spending power of his Knight Rider heyday and you could go a long way on that particular ride so put down the camera and wise up. You've got the winning lottery ticket, good kid! All you have to do is cash it in.
Don’t waste these precious opportunities on hopeless, pointless, redundant nagging. Make hay while the sun shines and remember that not all of us have the all access pass to fortune that you have in your needy little grasp. I know that it’s hard but consider the future. How long do you imagine the Old Man can coast on his Babewatch residuals and dumb luck? 2 more years? 5? 10? Not too likely if you keep derailing the Hasselgravytrain with your goody-goody snitch vids and then where will you be?
Christ kid you’ll have to get a job!
Despite what you may have believed until now, money actually doesn’t grow on trees and finger wagging videos of a talent challenged 80’s TV “actor” too drunk to stuff his maw with a fatburger ain’t gonna bring home any bacon baby so don’t shit where you eat.
On a more personal note………and I want to express this as sensitively as I possibly can……..nobody likes a narc kid, especially not a snotty, repetitive, teenage, buzzkilling, pint-sized one. If you’re not careful you unfortunately have the absolute potential to turn into a browbeating superbitch and while that species may be popular in Hollywood (or maybe in your household) that road leads only to a slow miserable transformation into the kind of crazy old lonelylady that you and your hard body girlfriends currently mock whenever these dried up crones pop up on your juicy radar, so……… don’t go there girlfriend. Men are stupid, lazy boys who like to be as dumb as they can- and that’s frightfully dumb indeed- but LISTEN UP. Some of us are pretty handy to have around and some of us are damn useful when we’re not drunk as monkeys and almost all of us are easy to trick when we are, so buck up and take the good with the bad because you're holding all the cards.
It’s the only game in town and don’t let anybody tell you any different.

And by the way- “Get” alcohol? “Get”? What the hell is that?
Drink…Use….Abuse. Honey, you have legitimate options so please feel free.

To the ‘Hoff- Damn Bro’! I’m fairly certain I’ve been that drunk before, and many times, but I really can’t remember when. Too faced to snort a cheeseburger? The fuck are you drinking and can I possibly get some? That’s it! If I ever go to Vegas and your moniker is gracing the marquis I AM THERE!
First one is on me!

Lisa says...

For all of them everywhere

There comes a point when one begins to regard the Ex with a certain detached passion and a, perhaps, much too romantic fondness. 44 must be that point and I’ve hit it hard. What is the meaning of this twisted desire for the past and all its miseries? It’s fairly simple really and it all boils down to the distance that is now and almost certainly will always be between me and the long legged, sweet fleshed, heavenly assed fantasy that burns as reality in my brain. She’s gone and will never come back and I celebrate my liberation from chaos each day as surely as I mourn for a past that was so tantalizingly close to fruition, or more accurately, that’s the way I like to remember it all now, now that’s it’s long over and well done.

First and significantly- I no longer have to dwell daily in marital Hell and once free from this particular form of servitude I find (and yes, I am aware that I may be alone) that with the passing of each full moon I can more easily recall the nights in sweaty Heaven as we shook our bed and our world rather than the days of being chained to frustration, lies and sick manipulations of everyone trapped in her poisonous orbit.
It’s becomes increasingly easy to remember her blue pilot light eyes burning through the night and leading me to the end of our physical, animal limits until, at last, she’d finally drift off into her blissful slumber (somehow always first) and I’d watch her leave the waking world, breathing in the scent of her lustrous flesh, as I settled into my own dreams of a pure future.

Her mother died at childbirth and her father was never in the picture. She’d been raised in her Grandfathers’ family and he was, by all accounts, a very decent man. Being a natural rebel she shook the dust of her 2 horse town from her teenaged cheerleading boots and headed for the Big City where she fell into place with a then surging music scene (maybe late 80’s) centered around hard, angry RAWK, a very convenient fit for her and she took to it like a baby to candy. She joined some tours, partied hard and I have no doubt that she was a convenient if minor pleasure to some fairly major players. Her tattoos outnumbered mine.

And then she caught the fashionably high end Heroin wave and found her one true love.

I never minded her past, my own was scattered with greedy behavior, selfish indulgences and woman who once loved me and now never wanted to see me again. With great good reason. My own history of drug abuse was fairly tawdry when compared to the glittering stage lights of hers but by the time we’d met I was done with everything chemical and ready to be the Rock that she’d always needed; I like to think that I was the most solid man she’d ever met.
I was a damn fool.
The drugs and the constant lying that must accompany them? I seem to not quite……..recall the tragedy of her as clearly as the beauty. This is my immature embarrassing romantic failing and I’ve never felt more of the silly teenager for thinking it yet now this illusion sits in my brain like a detective looking at the scene of the crime and finding nothing but innocence and excuses amid the blood and carnage. Stupid Old Man.

But, healthy or no, this age of mine also, gratefully, seems to more and more often lately point me into the direction of forgiveness, whether I can walk the path or not and I find no small comfort in that direction. We’re all human and aren’t the ones that we used to really love deserving of that little bit of compassion that I can manage to bleed out every now and again? Maybe….don‘t know…….hope so.

And, as of last sad report several months ago, her end appears to be approaching much too rapidly but- like most heavy drug users- it's coming like a train with maximum pain, humiliation, degradation and all too everyday horror for anyone still close to her to sickeningly witness and bitterly taste as they desperately try to spit it out. All her bridges burned to the waterline, every lifeline forever severed and all her lifesavers drifting far away with a tide she willfully created.

Me? I’m the soldier who’s been airlifted out of the battlefield with no fatal injury leaving all his buddies behind to catch the shit- safe, almost sound and so sorry in too many ways. Immensely relieved at my escape and gutted by guilt at my failure. Everybody loses but I’m hoping she can pull one last card out her worn out deck and save that luscious ass and that the next moon brings a better word.

So I decided to share a bit of fiction for no particular reason other than that I’ll always love her and believe that she can be worthy of love and maybe they all can and, more hopefully, they all will.

Not for nothing but the fiction is below just in case you have a few minutes to spare and you like raw stories........