It's probably not even true, but they say that everyone gets jitters on opening night. And, oh yeah, I definitely had been nervous before the show had started. But now, as the curtain fell for the final time and I heard the muffled applause through its tattered layers, I was filled with a totally different sensation. I was furious. I could feel the anger coursing through my veins as the rest of the cast ambled off into the darkness. Picking the chintzy fedora off my head, I threw it - literally threw my hat across the stage. And then, because I was only thirteen years old and didn't know what else to do, I walked over, picked it up and threw it across the stage again, as if to really drive home to that hat just how irate I really was.
It wasn't the hat's fault, of course. In fact, in all likelihood, it was actually my fault, although I'm getting ahead of myself. The hat I really liked, and on a better opening night, I would certainly have treated it better. That plastic-and-felt fedora represented not only that I had been granted a part in the all-school play, but that the role was even pretty cool. I was a hardboiled 1930's detective, complete with trench coat, candy cigarettes, and that all-important fedora. Maybe not as hardboiled, or as significant a detective as my best friend, who played the lead, but I was excited nonetheless. I'd grown up watching old movies on PBS with my Dad, and my middle school English/drama teacher was inexplicably a fan of 30's murder-mystery-comedies. It was a perfect match.
Throw in the fact that this was the second middle school play I'd tried out for, and the first in which I had gotten a part. I distinctly recall my first audition, standing alone onstage and being so impressed with the acoustics of the auditorium, how I didn't really need to speak any louder than usual to be heard. After that ended predictably well, with my name nowhere to be found on the posted cast list, I had vowed to do better next time. By the time Any Body for Tea auditions rolled around, I projected my lines with the gusto of a tween Kenneth Brannagh (In my own mind anyway), and was rewarded by being cast in the probably expendable supporting role of police detective Kramer. I was determined to do well.
Weeks of auditions followed, until opening night finally arrived. Draped in ill-fitting costumes from the school's collection, faces gaudily caked with excessive amounts of makeup, and nervous tension flowing, nine middle school students huddled offstage, waiting for the curtain to go up and the magic to begin. And for a while it really seemed magical. We had rehearsed so much, run through lines over and over, perfected the blocking (and in my case, had a small enough part), that things became effortless. I didn't need to think about what my next line was or where I needed to stand; it just flowed. The conniving old ladies staged murder after murder while Detective O'Finn investigated, and the sardonic Kramer rolled his eyes and quipped wittily. We were in the zone.
Until the script required Kramer to spot a pair of binoculars on an end table, hand them to O'Finn, and lead them both to realize that the view from the ladies' window opens directly toward O'Finn's apartment. It's about as significant scene as a play like this can have, but it really sort of hinges on physically having binoculars. You can then imagine how I felt when I turned, mid-scene, with all the stage lights shining down on me, to the end table where the binoculars should have been, only to find bare wood. My heart racing, my pulse pounding in my ears, I did the only thing I could think of - pantomimed the binoculars like we had done in rehearsals before we added all the props. The results... weren't pretty.
"Maybe they used these binoculars." [Holds out empty hand]
"Where, Kramer?"
"Uh, I don't know."
We somehow got through the scene with some terrible ad-libbing, but the damage was done. The play, which had been going so well, was now surely a disaster. The play ended without encountering any further mistakes, but I couldn't stop thinking of that one glaring screwup as I chased my hat around the darkened backstage. I sheepishly went to go find my Dad afterward and tell him how bad I felt about the play. He responded with a question asking what part had gone wrong. Could this be true? Had he witnessed the depth of our failure and not even realize we had gone off-script? Now, in retrospect, I realize this means either A) he wasn't really paying that close attention to our otherwise dazzling performance, or B) he did notice it but decided not to say anything to spare my feelings. I wouldn't blame him for A (middle school play, everybody), and give lots of kudos for B if true. Either way, at the time, it was just what I needed. I knew, probably better than anyone, that the play hadn't been perfect. But I realized that it didn't need to be perfect to be just right. We went home and had ice cream, and totally rocked the performance the next day.
96) ST Voyager: Lineage. If anyone needs the lesson that perfection isn't necessary, it's B'Elanna Torres in this episode of Voyager. She finds out that she is pregnant, and becomes positively obsessed with removing any "flaws" she can find through in utero genetic modification. Some of these are good/necessary, like correcting an spinal defect that occurs in Klingon/Human hybrids. But others go a little further, and highlight Torres' own inner conflicts between her two races. And we see in flashbacks why that is, although it seems a bit stilted and unrealistic. I guess I'm fortunate that I haven't lived through childhood strife like her character has, but I just wouldn't think an adult would make the assumptions she does about the situation, particularly the Chief Engineer, who one assumes would think more logically. Had the flashbacks been more nuanced and less after-school special, this would probably have been better. 6/10
95) ST Next Generation: The Most Toys. Here we have a guy consumed with accumulating the perfect collection of rare items when really any one of his "toys" should be enough to satisfy him. And what better item to add to a collection, than a walking, talking humanoid, the only known android in existence? As you can imagine, Data and this collector, Kivas Fajo, have philosophical differences about Data being added to the collection, and a struggle of wits ensues as Data tries to find a way to escape. There's a lot good here, including Data's repartee with Fajo, and his empathy in trying to help Fajo's assistant. And the B-story is quite good as well, showing crew members dealing with Data's (faked) death, and working to uncover the truth. My sole gripe with this episode would entail a major spoiler, so let me just say that I have a hard time accepting Data's actions at the end. 7/10.
94) ST Enterprise: Disaster. Now this episode is exactly why I wanted to write about things not needing to be perfect to be just right. By any objective measure, this should not be a great episode. It only rates a 7.8 average on IMDB. But this episode of TNG, despite its imperfections, is still absolutely great, Sure, the plotline sounds recycled, with some space anomaly knocking out power on the ship and putting all members of the crew in unpleasant/dangerous situations. But it's so great! Picard is stuck in a turbolift with kids! And he hates kids! Worf is stuck in Ten-Forward when Keiko goes into labor, so he becomes a midwife! Troi is the ranking officer on the bridge! And don't get me started with how Data gets through the plasma discharge thingy in the Jeffries tubes. If you can't have fun seeing all your favorite characters dealing with these bizarre and unfamiliar situations, this might not be the show for you. Maybe the overriding theme of achieving things while out of your element isn't as deep or philosophical as some other episodes get, but it's something. And with all the other zaniness going on, that's good enough for me. 10/10, believe it or not.
Speaking of zaniness, I mentioned earlier that the Any Body for Tea fiasco may have actually been my own fault. I swear to this day that I don't know for sure, but it may have been my responsibility to get the binoculars from offstage and put them on the table during the scene change immediately before we used them.As a small production, we had a single crew person, who had control of the curtain and the four main light levers. Everything else was divided up between the cast. So there were definitely items that I had to put in place at various points in the play, and the binoculars sure could have been one of them. If so, nearly 20 years later, I can take the blame for that one. I'm sure my hat would appreciate me taking it out on someone else.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
Friday, March 20, 2015
Under Winning's Spell
Do you know how to spell lacerate? You can bet your ass that I do. Some nice guy sitting at a table spelled it aloud to me while I was standing on a stage in a school library. That word, lacerate, landed me 4th place in the regional spelling bee, and knocked me solidly out of the remainder of the competition. A win would have gotten me into the state competition, where I could compete for a chance at the national Bee. The one you can watch on ABC, the one where you see a 5 second clip on every news show once a year of a tiny kid spelling a word few adults have any business knowing how to spell. In other words, glory. So, did a misspelled lacerate cut me like a knife (terrible pun intended)? No. I simply listened, nodded, smiled at my Dad in the audience and took my seat.
Flash back three years, and it was a different story. My elementary school gymnasium, the mild din of parents moving about to find their children, the bursts of laughter and conversation from school kids returning to their classrooms. And the combination of bright lights and tear-streaked eyes blurring the scene as my parents approached me and told me they were proud. I numbly hear their words as they tell me I'd added an extra "r" to the word I was to spell, which seemed an impossibility to me. How had it gone wrong? I knew that word. How could I have possibly misspelled it? How had I lost?
To understand the whole story, we have to go back one year further, when I was in second grade, and told that I was now eligible for the school spelling bee. This was the primary grades bee, which meant that the winner couldn't move on to the regional competition, but there was still a trophy for the winner. A trophy. I hadn't seen it yet, but I knew this was something I wanted. I knew kids who did organized sports, who did martial arts, who had trophies for all kinds of activities that I wasn't involved in, but here was something I could win. I recall an easy written spelling test, and then I was sent home with a list of words from which the spelling bee would pull.
Now, there are a few things to understand here. When you watch the National Spelling Bee on ABC (which I know you do), you see kids hearing unfamiliar words and working through etymologies to try to deduce the spelling. That works and likely is truly necessary at the higher levels of the spelling bee. At the local level, there was simply a list from which words would be randomly chosen for each participant's turn. It's a long list, but it's finite. If you have a good base to begin with, a decent memory, and are willing to put in the time, you can simply learn the entire list. That's item 1. The other thing to know is that my Mom wanted each of us to be successful as we could in all things, but particularly academics. A report card with a B on it meant we were in trouble. We read voraciously. We took trips to educational places, and watched Nature and NOVA on TV. And, lest you get the wrong idea, we also played sports with the neighborhood kids, went to amusement parks, and watched Star Trek on TV, too. But that report card had still better be all A's.
Put those two things together, and my Mom pragmatically decided that the best way to go would be for me to memorize the entire list of spelling words. I had a good vocabulary from reading all the time, so I already knew a significant fraction of the words on the list anyway. From that point it was just a matter of practicing until I had the other words ingrained in my head. So we sat down on the couch, every day after school, she would read a word, and I would spell it. She knew I wanted to win, and looking back, I'm pretty sure she wanted me to win, too. We did this every day from the date the list came home until the day of my first spelling bee. That day was a bit of a nervous blur, but I remember my confidence in every word I received until I was the last one standing. I spelled skiing, and I was handed the most beautiful trophy I'd ever seen. A glimmering golden angel stood atop an ornate pedestal, arms upholding a disc with a bee on it. I had never been prouder of myself.
And every year, that was what we did. We'd get the list, I'd practice every day with my Mom, and eventually we'd get to the spelling bee. When I was older, I'd do my paper route and come home to practice spelling. Some days I'd whine and complain that I didn't want to practice, but my Mom would make me. She believed I could do it, and knew beneath my lazy veneer that I believed it too. In five years, I won three times, lost twice, and made it to regionals once, where, arguably, I also lost. So what was the difference between ending the contest in a blur of tears, and an accepting smile?
In third grade, I don't know what word I misspelled, but I distinctly remember that I knew it when I heard it. If I added an "r," as historians will claim, it was a mistake, a slip. I knew I could have done better, could have gotten it right, could have won. Lacerate, though? Didn't know it. We either hadn't gone over it, or the memorization hadn't stuck. I heard it, realized I didn't know it, and tried my best. I had done all I was capable of and it wasn't enough. Even though it meant I lost, I could accept it.
The real key, of course, is that my Mom was proud of me either way. To her, that huge difference between the two losses simply didn't exist. She didn't care that one time I made a simple mistake and the other time I just didn't know the word. She had seen the work I had put in and my excitement at a contest I could be competitive in, and she had encouraged me. To her, all of it was me doing my best, not whether or not I hoisted the trophy at the end of the day. It took me some time to see that, but I'm glad I experienced it all: the wins, the devastating losses, and the acceptance. You can do your best and sometimes it will go your way, and sometimes it won't. That's easy to understand. But knowing not to beat yourself up for a little error that kept you from the glory, and knowing that that is still giving your best? That's a valuable lesson.
And it might have been a good lesson for Malik and Arik Soong, the main antagonists for this week's batch of Star Trek episodes. In this case, #99 on the list was a three-parter, so I'll be talking about those. In this trilogy of episodes we have another parent who wants the best for his kids, but in this case he gets things kind of mixed up about what that all really means.That message gets majorly warped when his son misunderstands the concept, and things just go from bad to worse. But I'm probably getting ahead of myself.
97) ST Enterprise: Borderland. ZOMG, it's Brent Spiner! I believe that's the proper response on seeing the first few scenes of this episode. This time playing Arik Soong, great-great-grandfather or so to Dr. Noonien Soong, inventor of Data. He seems a little more ill-tempered than his descendants, and this time he's all about genetic engineering, making superhumans. Of course, that's illegal, but some of his "prior work" has escaped and is gallivanting around the galaxy stealing Klingon Birds of Prey. Whew! What a setup! Throw in a trip to the Orion planet (scantily-clad green women), lots of action sequences, and a bit of moralizing about genetic engineering, and this is an action-packed episode. I liked it. It sets the stage well for what might be to come while being exciting enough to keep your interest. I could see how Soong thinks of the "augments" as his children, and I could believe his somewhat rash behavior as a dad who just wants to corral his kids before they get into trouble. Dang kids. 8/10.
97 again) ST Enterprise: Cold Station 12. Now here's where things start to get really interesting, where Soong realizes his kids may have gone a little off-message with his experiments to make them superior to everyone else. You see, if they buy into that a bit too much, they might start to find non-augmented people disposable, which certainly doesn't seem to have been Soong's intent. In this episode we visit Cold Station 12, where many more genetically modified embryos are being kept. Through tracking efforts that almost strain credulity, the Enterprise manages to follow, and an intense standoff ensues. Here's where Dr. Soong starts to see just how twisted Malik's ideas have gotten after a lifetime of being told he's superior to everyone else, and you can start to see doubts creep in. And when he learns the truth about the one augment whose modifications didn't really take, you see him less as the villain and more as someone who might be about to realize he's inadvertently created a monster. Spiner does a great job expressing those feelings while his character tries to keep on a veneer of control and smug superiority, which is right in character with the Soong we've seen so far. Oh, and the ending of this episode/start of the next is just awesome. 8/10.
97 once more) ST Enterprise: The Augments. Ok, so without giving any details away, the first sequence of this episode was incredible. After that, things slowly unravel and the start of an awesome trilogy peters out in a fairly predictable way. Where the prior episode hinted at some level of nuance and character evolution, the finale decides to split everything into black-and-white, have people make uncharacteristically stupid decisions, and finally end the episode with foreshadowing that has all the subtlety of a photon torpedo to the head. In short, the bad guys get badder, and the most interesting character (Soong) goes from a conflicted father to a 1-dimensional dictator who is constantly snapping out orders and ultimatums. It's not at all how I would have ended this trilogy, but the first few scenes and a few good moments here and there save it from a lower rating. Trying to avoid spoilers, that's probably about all I can say about this ep. 6/10.
Dr. Soong wanted his kids to be the best, not just the best they could be, but literally the best humans that ever existed. Unfortunately he seems to have focused on the physical and ignored the emotional and empathetic. I don't think he would have accepted one of his augments misspelling a word they definitely knew by heart. And just like I misconstrued what was an acceptable outcome at the spelling bee, Malik way misconstrued what his being genetically enhanced allowed him to do in life. That's a recipe for trouble, and for a pretty good group of Enterprise episodes. Because as intense as spelling bees can get, it does appear that the consequences of misunderstandings are higher in interstellar conflict than they are in spelling. Who knew?
Flash back three years, and it was a different story. My elementary school gymnasium, the mild din of parents moving about to find their children, the bursts of laughter and conversation from school kids returning to their classrooms. And the combination of bright lights and tear-streaked eyes blurring the scene as my parents approached me and told me they were proud. I numbly hear their words as they tell me I'd added an extra "r" to the word I was to spell, which seemed an impossibility to me. How had it gone wrong? I knew that word. How could I have possibly misspelled it? How had I lost?
To understand the whole story, we have to go back one year further, when I was in second grade, and told that I was now eligible for the school spelling bee. This was the primary grades bee, which meant that the winner couldn't move on to the regional competition, but there was still a trophy for the winner. A trophy. I hadn't seen it yet, but I knew this was something I wanted. I knew kids who did organized sports, who did martial arts, who had trophies for all kinds of activities that I wasn't involved in, but here was something I could win. I recall an easy written spelling test, and then I was sent home with a list of words from which the spelling bee would pull.
Now, there are a few things to understand here. When you watch the National Spelling Bee on ABC (which I know you do), you see kids hearing unfamiliar words and working through etymologies to try to deduce the spelling. That works and likely is truly necessary at the higher levels of the spelling bee. At the local level, there was simply a list from which words would be randomly chosen for each participant's turn. It's a long list, but it's finite. If you have a good base to begin with, a decent memory, and are willing to put in the time, you can simply learn the entire list. That's item 1. The other thing to know is that my Mom wanted each of us to be successful as we could in all things, but particularly academics. A report card with a B on it meant we were in trouble. We read voraciously. We took trips to educational places, and watched Nature and NOVA on TV. And, lest you get the wrong idea, we also played sports with the neighborhood kids, went to amusement parks, and watched Star Trek on TV, too. But that report card had still better be all A's.
Put those two things together, and my Mom pragmatically decided that the best way to go would be for me to memorize the entire list of spelling words. I had a good vocabulary from reading all the time, so I already knew a significant fraction of the words on the list anyway. From that point it was just a matter of practicing until I had the other words ingrained in my head. So we sat down on the couch, every day after school, she would read a word, and I would spell it. She knew I wanted to win, and looking back, I'm pretty sure she wanted me to win, too. We did this every day from the date the list came home until the day of my first spelling bee. That day was a bit of a nervous blur, but I remember my confidence in every word I received until I was the last one standing. I spelled skiing, and I was handed the most beautiful trophy I'd ever seen. A glimmering golden angel stood atop an ornate pedestal, arms upholding a disc with a bee on it. I had never been prouder of myself.
And every year, that was what we did. We'd get the list, I'd practice every day with my Mom, and eventually we'd get to the spelling bee. When I was older, I'd do my paper route and come home to practice spelling. Some days I'd whine and complain that I didn't want to practice, but my Mom would make me. She believed I could do it, and knew beneath my lazy veneer that I believed it too. In five years, I won three times, lost twice, and made it to regionals once, where, arguably, I also lost. So what was the difference between ending the contest in a blur of tears, and an accepting smile?
In third grade, I don't know what word I misspelled, but I distinctly remember that I knew it when I heard it. If I added an "r," as historians will claim, it was a mistake, a slip. I knew I could have done better, could have gotten it right, could have won. Lacerate, though? Didn't know it. We either hadn't gone over it, or the memorization hadn't stuck. I heard it, realized I didn't know it, and tried my best. I had done all I was capable of and it wasn't enough. Even though it meant I lost, I could accept it.
The real key, of course, is that my Mom was proud of me either way. To her, that huge difference between the two losses simply didn't exist. She didn't care that one time I made a simple mistake and the other time I just didn't know the word. She had seen the work I had put in and my excitement at a contest I could be competitive in, and she had encouraged me. To her, all of it was me doing my best, not whether or not I hoisted the trophy at the end of the day. It took me some time to see that, but I'm glad I experienced it all: the wins, the devastating losses, and the acceptance. You can do your best and sometimes it will go your way, and sometimes it won't. That's easy to understand. But knowing not to beat yourself up for a little error that kept you from the glory, and knowing that that is still giving your best? That's a valuable lesson.
And it might have been a good lesson for Malik and Arik Soong, the main antagonists for this week's batch of Star Trek episodes. In this case, #99 on the list was a three-parter, so I'll be talking about those. In this trilogy of episodes we have another parent who wants the best for his kids, but in this case he gets things kind of mixed up about what that all really means.That message gets majorly warped when his son misunderstands the concept, and things just go from bad to worse. But I'm probably getting ahead of myself.
97) ST Enterprise: Borderland. ZOMG, it's Brent Spiner! I believe that's the proper response on seeing the first few scenes of this episode. This time playing Arik Soong, great-great-grandfather or so to Dr. Noonien Soong, inventor of Data. He seems a little more ill-tempered than his descendants, and this time he's all about genetic engineering, making superhumans. Of course, that's illegal, but some of his "prior work" has escaped and is gallivanting around the galaxy stealing Klingon Birds of Prey. Whew! What a setup! Throw in a trip to the Orion planet (scantily-clad green women), lots of action sequences, and a bit of moralizing about genetic engineering, and this is an action-packed episode. I liked it. It sets the stage well for what might be to come while being exciting enough to keep your interest. I could see how Soong thinks of the "augments" as his children, and I could believe his somewhat rash behavior as a dad who just wants to corral his kids before they get into trouble. Dang kids. 8/10.
97 again) ST Enterprise: Cold Station 12. Now here's where things start to get really interesting, where Soong realizes his kids may have gone a little off-message with his experiments to make them superior to everyone else. You see, if they buy into that a bit too much, they might start to find non-augmented people disposable, which certainly doesn't seem to have been Soong's intent. In this episode we visit Cold Station 12, where many more genetically modified embryos are being kept. Through tracking efforts that almost strain credulity, the Enterprise manages to follow, and an intense standoff ensues. Here's where Dr. Soong starts to see just how twisted Malik's ideas have gotten after a lifetime of being told he's superior to everyone else, and you can start to see doubts creep in. And when he learns the truth about the one augment whose modifications didn't really take, you see him less as the villain and more as someone who might be about to realize he's inadvertently created a monster. Spiner does a great job expressing those feelings while his character tries to keep on a veneer of control and smug superiority, which is right in character with the Soong we've seen so far. Oh, and the ending of this episode/start of the next is just awesome. 8/10.
97 once more) ST Enterprise: The Augments. Ok, so without giving any details away, the first sequence of this episode was incredible. After that, things slowly unravel and the start of an awesome trilogy peters out in a fairly predictable way. Where the prior episode hinted at some level of nuance and character evolution, the finale decides to split everything into black-and-white, have people make uncharacteristically stupid decisions, and finally end the episode with foreshadowing that has all the subtlety of a photon torpedo to the head. In short, the bad guys get badder, and the most interesting character (Soong) goes from a conflicted father to a 1-dimensional dictator who is constantly snapping out orders and ultimatums. It's not at all how I would have ended this trilogy, but the first few scenes and a few good moments here and there save it from a lower rating. Trying to avoid spoilers, that's probably about all I can say about this ep. 6/10.
Dr. Soong wanted his kids to be the best, not just the best they could be, but literally the best humans that ever existed. Unfortunately he seems to have focused on the physical and ignored the emotional and empathetic. I don't think he would have accepted one of his augments misspelling a word they definitely knew by heart. And just like I misconstrued what was an acceptable outcome at the spelling bee, Malik way misconstrued what his being genetically enhanced allowed him to do in life. That's a recipe for trouble, and for a pretty good group of Enterprise episodes. Because as intense as spelling bees can get, it does appear that the consequences of misunderstandings are higher in interstellar conflict than they are in spelling. Who knew?
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
Cathedrals of Memory
I can close my eyes, and it's like I'm right there. Like Santa's Village never shut down and decayed away for years into chipping, fading paint and crumbling pads where rides once sat. No, in my mind, the cloying scents of funnel cake batter and cotton candy mix with the oily aroma of sunblock, and the tinny carnival music can fill the air if I only stop to remember it. The icy chill of the "North Pole" on even the most sweltering summer's day, the brightly painted concrete of the ponds and fountains, and the numerous Alpine buildings that housed gamerooms, gift shops, or restaurants. And the rides.
Oh, yes, the rides. So many beloved memories, like treasured friends from long ago. Here's the convoy, gleaming in the sun, the newest ride a cacophony of bulb horns ringing out. There's the 15 seconds of whiplash from a ride on the dragon coaster. And down the hill toward Coney Island are a pair of favorites: the antique cars and the dodge-em. The antique cars click along their prescribed track with a measured cadence, lanternesque headlights glowing as they drive through "tunnels" and a small boy carefully steers along with every turn. Just down the path the bumper cars crash together under jangly rock n roll songs and the crisp smell of burning electricity.
I could keep going, talking about the clanking chains of the yo-yo, the terror of weightlessness at the top of the galleon's arc, but I'll stop with one last ride. The fire truck. This was an actual truck, towing a trailer that for all intents and purposes was a set of bleachers on wheels, driving along the paths in one corner of the park. It stops at a small metal house, through the windows of which burns an actual fire. As the truck lurches to a halt, the small hose ends in front of each kid spring to life with streams of water that always seem to fall just short of the burning house. Clutching the hose, aiming with marksman precision, and gritting my teeth, willing the water to spray just a little further, I finally get the water to reach the flame. After (what seems like a predetermined amount of) time, the flame extinguishes, and the truck returns to the boarding area, victorious and triumphant.
Now, of course, I know that the fire was a simple gas flame that was turned on and off. Similarly, the rides I cherished were simple carnival amusements, the buildings cheap flimsy constructions, and the brightly painted Christmas trees were clumsy hunks of fiberglass. If I'd been an adult back then, what would I have thought of Santa's Village? Would I see all those imperfections, or would I be able to feel the magic I now recall? Or how would I feel about other places from my childhood? The Piano Factory, an outlet mall that probably should have been structurally condemned, is a place whose uneven stairs, dim hallways, and collections of weird mismatched shops I remember so fondly. The rough wood and scalding aluminum slides of the now-defunct playground equipment at my old school was a kid's palace. Or even something as simple as the McDonald's where my Mom used to bring me for a chocolate milk while we waited to pick up my brother from school. It's since been completely renovated, but I can remember every corner of how it used to be from those trips. To anyone else, just a burger joint, but to me a sacred cathedral of memory.
That's the funny thing about nostalgia. You never know what seemingly insignificant item or place will insinuate itself indelibly onto your memory while remaining totally meaningless to someone else. And that's really the main connection between the first three episodes of io9.com's list of the top 100 Star Trek episodes (link). What, you didn't think that's where I was going with all this? Well, regardless of the rambling way I got here, io9 has provided me with a list, a "complete-them-all" opportunity, and it's all about Star Trek. In my usual way, I'm going to start (and likely never finish) watching all of the episodes. Here are the first three:
100) ST Voyager - Bride of Chaotica! Here's where nostalgia can differ so much from person to person. This episode is your typical "trapped in the Holodeck" scenario as we've seen repeatedly since these things first came to be on The Next Generation. And it seems each series needs to find its own Holodeck niche. For example, TNG had Data as Sherlock Holmes and Picard as the 1940's detective Dixon Hill, both of which were lots of fun. DS9 continued the trend with Sisko's baseball obsession (slightly less fun) and Bashir's 007-esque exploits (fun again). So by the time Voyager got to play with a Holodeck, most of the best ideas were already taken. Rather than repeating one of these, they decided to go with Tom Paris being a connoisseur of old Sci-Fi serials like Buck Rogers or Lost in Space. And they did a wonderful job recreating that kind of world: black and white photography, cheesy sets, overacting everywhere. But the problem is that's all they did. The main story was so bland, the baddie was defeated in a (very non-Star Trek) unintelligent way, and so many plot holes were left totally unaddressed. What about even trying to communicate with the aliens trapped in the Holodeck? Eh, leave that part out, let's just have more death ray. I'm too young to feel nostalgic for old campy Sci-Fi serials, and without that, this episode is pretty skippable. 5/10.
99) ST Original Series - Day of the Dove. Again, if you grew up with something, you are more likely to appreciate it than someone approaching it later on. That applies for me to essentially the entire original Star Trek series, which I credit more for spawning great shows later on than for any merits of its own. Cuz let's face it, original Star Trek was pretty bad at times. Day of the Dove wasn't one of the worst offenders, but it wasn't great either. This episode had a pretty good idea and really poor execution. The main gist is there's an alien that feeds on hatred and is encouraging humans and Klingons to fight for its amusement/nourishment. Great, except that is made abundantly clear to the viewer in the first 10 minutes of the show, then we spend more than half an hour watching Kirk and co. flail around trying to figure out what we already know, all for a 5 minute conclusion that is almost embarrassing. I wanted to like this much more, but the plot was so poorly written that I was actually bored watching it. The most interesting part was seeing Spock overcome by the alien and his almost bigoted comments to Scotty (in response to Scott's outright racism), as well as the overall theme about why we fight. That said, not being a child of the Kirk/Spock era made this one harder for me to get into. 5/10.
98) ST Deep Space Nine - Paradise. Fair warning, I probably rated this episode lower than I ought to have because I felt a slight personal affront from it. Here, Sisko and O'Brien decide to visit a planet that they subsequently discover renders technology of any sort unusable. The colonists seem to relish their old-fashioned ways despite the Starfleet folks' protestations that technology is totally better, right? The leader of the colonists is smug and self-righteous, a perfect love-to-hate style antagonist. As she becomes more and more Dolores Umbridge, Sisko and O'Brien fight back more and more, and the tension eventually comes to a fairly unexpected climax. Good episode, with my gripe that the conflict between self-sufficiency and technology was presented in a total technology-good, old ways-bad kind of view. As someone who grows his own food, cans and preserves the harvest, whose wife knits clothes and hats, etc., this is kind of insulting. Sure, technology can grow more food than I can, and preserve it quicker, but there are costs to that, too, and there is satisfaction in doing something yourself. Painting the people who look back fondly on low-tech ways as simpletons or manipulated is kind of irksome. But for the oh-so-nasty antagonist and her standoff with Sisko, I can overlook some of that and rate this 6/10.
So whether it's nostalgia for old TV shows (serials or the original Star Trek), or just for days without so much technology in our lives, each of these episodes ties in somewhat to the theme of remembering the past in a positive light. Perhaps the only oddity is that for someone who admittedly pines for the good old days of shows like Star Trek, I sure didn't rate these three very highly. I would expect that to change as we get further into the countdown, and particularly once we spend some time with my favorite crew, the members of NCC-1701-D. Until then, it was at least interesting to see some episodes I had somehow missed in my years of watching the various Star Trek series. And given the tendency of memory toward the nostalgic, maybe one day I'll look back at this blog and tell myself these episodes weren't that bad, and wish for the days where I'd wake up early to watch some Star Trek before heading to work. I think I have room in my memory for a few more "good old days," and those could definitely fit the bill.
Oh, yes, the rides. So many beloved memories, like treasured friends from long ago. Here's the convoy, gleaming in the sun, the newest ride a cacophony of bulb horns ringing out. There's the 15 seconds of whiplash from a ride on the dragon coaster. And down the hill toward Coney Island are a pair of favorites: the antique cars and the dodge-em. The antique cars click along their prescribed track with a measured cadence, lanternesque headlights glowing as they drive through "tunnels" and a small boy carefully steers along with every turn. Just down the path the bumper cars crash together under jangly rock n roll songs and the crisp smell of burning electricity.
I could keep going, talking about the clanking chains of the yo-yo, the terror of weightlessness at the top of the galleon's arc, but I'll stop with one last ride. The fire truck. This was an actual truck, towing a trailer that for all intents and purposes was a set of bleachers on wheels, driving along the paths in one corner of the park. It stops at a small metal house, through the windows of which burns an actual fire. As the truck lurches to a halt, the small hose ends in front of each kid spring to life with streams of water that always seem to fall just short of the burning house. Clutching the hose, aiming with marksman precision, and gritting my teeth, willing the water to spray just a little further, I finally get the water to reach the flame. After (what seems like a predetermined amount of) time, the flame extinguishes, and the truck returns to the boarding area, victorious and triumphant.
Now, of course, I know that the fire was a simple gas flame that was turned on and off. Similarly, the rides I cherished were simple carnival amusements, the buildings cheap flimsy constructions, and the brightly painted Christmas trees were clumsy hunks of fiberglass. If I'd been an adult back then, what would I have thought of Santa's Village? Would I see all those imperfections, or would I be able to feel the magic I now recall? Or how would I feel about other places from my childhood? The Piano Factory, an outlet mall that probably should have been structurally condemned, is a place whose uneven stairs, dim hallways, and collections of weird mismatched shops I remember so fondly. The rough wood and scalding aluminum slides of the now-defunct playground equipment at my old school was a kid's palace. Or even something as simple as the McDonald's where my Mom used to bring me for a chocolate milk while we waited to pick up my brother from school. It's since been completely renovated, but I can remember every corner of how it used to be from those trips. To anyone else, just a burger joint, but to me a sacred cathedral of memory.
That's the funny thing about nostalgia. You never know what seemingly insignificant item or place will insinuate itself indelibly onto your memory while remaining totally meaningless to someone else. And that's really the main connection between the first three episodes of io9.com's list of the top 100 Star Trek episodes (link). What, you didn't think that's where I was going with all this? Well, regardless of the rambling way I got here, io9 has provided me with a list, a "complete-them-all" opportunity, and it's all about Star Trek. In my usual way, I'm going to start (and likely never finish) watching all of the episodes. Here are the first three:
100) ST Voyager - Bride of Chaotica! Here's where nostalgia can differ so much from person to person. This episode is your typical "trapped in the Holodeck" scenario as we've seen repeatedly since these things first came to be on The Next Generation. And it seems each series needs to find its own Holodeck niche. For example, TNG had Data as Sherlock Holmes and Picard as the 1940's detective Dixon Hill, both of which were lots of fun. DS9 continued the trend with Sisko's baseball obsession (slightly less fun) and Bashir's 007-esque exploits (fun again). So by the time Voyager got to play with a Holodeck, most of the best ideas were already taken. Rather than repeating one of these, they decided to go with Tom Paris being a connoisseur of old Sci-Fi serials like Buck Rogers or Lost in Space. And they did a wonderful job recreating that kind of world: black and white photography, cheesy sets, overacting everywhere. But the problem is that's all they did. The main story was so bland, the baddie was defeated in a (very non-Star Trek) unintelligent way, and so many plot holes were left totally unaddressed. What about even trying to communicate with the aliens trapped in the Holodeck? Eh, leave that part out, let's just have more death ray. I'm too young to feel nostalgic for old campy Sci-Fi serials, and without that, this episode is pretty skippable. 5/10.
99) ST Original Series - Day of the Dove. Again, if you grew up with something, you are more likely to appreciate it than someone approaching it later on. That applies for me to essentially the entire original Star Trek series, which I credit more for spawning great shows later on than for any merits of its own. Cuz let's face it, original Star Trek was pretty bad at times. Day of the Dove wasn't one of the worst offenders, but it wasn't great either. This episode had a pretty good idea and really poor execution. The main gist is there's an alien that feeds on hatred and is encouraging humans and Klingons to fight for its amusement/nourishment. Great, except that is made abundantly clear to the viewer in the first 10 minutes of the show, then we spend more than half an hour watching Kirk and co. flail around trying to figure out what we already know, all for a 5 minute conclusion that is almost embarrassing. I wanted to like this much more, but the plot was so poorly written that I was actually bored watching it. The most interesting part was seeing Spock overcome by the alien and his almost bigoted comments to Scotty (in response to Scott's outright racism), as well as the overall theme about why we fight. That said, not being a child of the Kirk/Spock era made this one harder for me to get into. 5/10.
98) ST Deep Space Nine - Paradise. Fair warning, I probably rated this episode lower than I ought to have because I felt a slight personal affront from it. Here, Sisko and O'Brien decide to visit a planet that they subsequently discover renders technology of any sort unusable. The colonists seem to relish their old-fashioned ways despite the Starfleet folks' protestations that technology is totally better, right? The leader of the colonists is smug and self-righteous, a perfect love-to-hate style antagonist. As she becomes more and more Dolores Umbridge, Sisko and O'Brien fight back more and more, and the tension eventually comes to a fairly unexpected climax. Good episode, with my gripe that the conflict between self-sufficiency and technology was presented in a total technology-good, old ways-bad kind of view. As someone who grows his own food, cans and preserves the harvest, whose wife knits clothes and hats, etc., this is kind of insulting. Sure, technology can grow more food than I can, and preserve it quicker, but there are costs to that, too, and there is satisfaction in doing something yourself. Painting the people who look back fondly on low-tech ways as simpletons or manipulated is kind of irksome. But for the oh-so-nasty antagonist and her standoff with Sisko, I can overlook some of that and rate this 6/10.
So whether it's nostalgia for old TV shows (serials or the original Star Trek), or just for days without so much technology in our lives, each of these episodes ties in somewhat to the theme of remembering the past in a positive light. Perhaps the only oddity is that for someone who admittedly pines for the good old days of shows like Star Trek, I sure didn't rate these three very highly. I would expect that to change as we get further into the countdown, and particularly once we spend some time with my favorite crew, the members of NCC-1701-D. Until then, it was at least interesting to see some episodes I had somehow missed in my years of watching the various Star Trek series. And given the tendency of memory toward the nostalgic, maybe one day I'll look back at this blog and tell myself these episodes weren't that bad, and wish for the days where I'd wake up early to watch some Star Trek before heading to work. I think I have room in my memory for a few more "good old days," and those could definitely fit the bill.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Chariots of marginally warm, slightly smoldering ashes
For as far back as I can recall running being a thing you just did as opposed to a part of an actual game or something fun, I've had a love-hate relationship with it. Well, maybe that's more of a tolerate-hate relationship. In the twenty-plus years I've been running for some purpose or another, I don't think I've ever captured the mystical "runner's high," or finished a run feeling happy and better for having done it. But, that said, aside from the times where I've thought that running is the worst thing ever, it isn't the worst thing ever.
My first memory of running just to run was in middle school, because of the bear. One time a bear attacked my middle school and we all had to run away from it. No, totally kidding, although that would be a good means of motivation. I probably would have run a whole lot faster if it had been a real bear. The bear I'm referring to, letdown though it may be, was simply the vernacular for having to run around the schoolyard during gym class. As in, "that was a bear of a run." Or at least that's how I imagine it came about. According to Google Earth, that run was somewhere just north of half a mile, but everyone dreaded it when we had to run one. I can't recall enjoying it, but I did better than the kids who just strolled along talking to one another. I'd run the straights, walk the corners, and finish solidly midpack. From that point on, it was clear I was a born runner.
Fast-forward to high school, when one day during lunch a friend showed up with a mysterious blue sheet of paper. What was this paper? How could I get one? How many hours of physical activity would I be signing up for if I filled one out? These were the questions that should have raced through my head as I quickly filled one out so I could be cool, too, and I ended up on the track team. Now, track wasn't all bad for me. Everyone knows the ladies love athletes, and this was a sport I could actually do (since Scholastic Bowl allegedly didn't count as a sport). Not that I could particularly do it well, mind you, but I was part of an actual team. I had a smelly old uniform and everything.
Only one problem. They expected you to practice, which meant staying after school and running, like, every day. Fortunately for me, the long-distance coach was an incredible pushover, and I had a clever mind eager to think up excuse after excuse for how I couldn't practice that particular day. It was great. Particularly fond memories include discovering at my first meet that no, track runners don't take walking breaks during their races, and the time my coach, trying to decide what event to enter me in, imparted these words of inspiration: "Greg, you don't run fast, but you can run at the same pace for a long time. How about the mile?" Just to show him, I did go out there and run at a slow, steady pace. And unlike that damn tortoise, I didn't win anything. But it built character, and that's more important than anything... except those cool medals the real winners got.
I know what you're thinking. "Yes, Greg. Running sucks. But why do you need to tell us?" Well, I'm telling you because I'm going to try to start running. It's the twist ending for today's post. You see, this weekend I was in Chicago moving my sister in to college, when suddenly everyone just up and sailed away (literally) and I had three hours to kill. I decided to walk. It was a sunny Saturday in the mid-eighties, so I set off along the Lakefront Trail. And you know what? I wasn't alone. There were scads of people, outside, walking, running or cycling along the beautiful lakefront. Most of these people probably even had TVs at home, too, yet here they were running along the lake for no apparent reason. The more I walked amongst them, the more I yearned to understand them, and to even become one of them.
I will readily admit that some of the appeal may have been the environment, along one of the most gorgeous shores of waterfront in the country. Or it could have been sunstroke. But either way, it was far more appealing than jogging around the sterile McMansions my condo seems to be surrounded by. Could a grand setting truly make such a difference in how I view exercise? I aim to find out. It is true that in college, I always thought I studied better in the opulent surrounds of the library rotunda than I did in my drab dorm room. So, for a while anyway, I'm going to try running in some of the prettier parts of Des Moines and see how I like it.
Of course, hands down, the most scenic part of Des Moines has to be Grays Lake Park, and I certainly aim to use its tidy paths and sweeping bridge beneath the downtown skyline as I try this new program. There's also a nice trail running behind the Des Moines Art Center which should be an option. For today, though, I think I'll give the path around Blue Heron Lake at Raccoon River Park a shot. While it is nowhere near as scenic as downtown, it is significantly closer to home, and it fulfills my Chicago-born desire to run near the water. Depending on how that goes, I'll upgrade my surroundings and maybe even make it a regular occurrence. And maybe one day someone will be walking along Grays Lake, wondering how on earth I could be fool enough to run and actually enjoy it.
My first memory of running just to run was in middle school, because of the bear. One time a bear attacked my middle school and we all had to run away from it. No, totally kidding, although that would be a good means of motivation. I probably would have run a whole lot faster if it had been a real bear. The bear I'm referring to, letdown though it may be, was simply the vernacular for having to run around the schoolyard during gym class. As in, "that was a bear of a run." Or at least that's how I imagine it came about. According to Google Earth, that run was somewhere just north of half a mile, but everyone dreaded it when we had to run one. I can't recall enjoying it, but I did better than the kids who just strolled along talking to one another. I'd run the straights, walk the corners, and finish solidly midpack. From that point on, it was clear I was a born runner.
Fast-forward to high school, when one day during lunch a friend showed up with a mysterious blue sheet of paper. What was this paper? How could I get one? How many hours of physical activity would I be signing up for if I filled one out? These were the questions that should have raced through my head as I quickly filled one out so I could be cool, too, and I ended up on the track team. Now, track wasn't all bad for me. Everyone knows the ladies love athletes, and this was a sport I could actually do (since Scholastic Bowl allegedly didn't count as a sport). Not that I could particularly do it well, mind you, but I was part of an actual team. I had a smelly old uniform and everything.
Only one problem. They expected you to practice, which meant staying after school and running, like, every day. Fortunately for me, the long-distance coach was an incredible pushover, and I had a clever mind eager to think up excuse after excuse for how I couldn't practice that particular day. It was great. Particularly fond memories include discovering at my first meet that no, track runners don't take walking breaks during their races, and the time my coach, trying to decide what event to enter me in, imparted these words of inspiration: "Greg, you don't run fast, but you can run at the same pace for a long time. How about the mile?" Just to show him, I did go out there and run at a slow, steady pace. And unlike that damn tortoise, I didn't win anything. But it built character, and that's more important than anything... except those cool medals the real winners got.
I know what you're thinking. "Yes, Greg. Running sucks. But why do you need to tell us?" Well, I'm telling you because I'm going to try to start running. It's the twist ending for today's post. You see, this weekend I was in Chicago moving my sister in to college, when suddenly everyone just up and sailed away (literally) and I had three hours to kill. I decided to walk. It was a sunny Saturday in the mid-eighties, so I set off along the Lakefront Trail. And you know what? I wasn't alone. There were scads of people, outside, walking, running or cycling along the beautiful lakefront. Most of these people probably even had TVs at home, too, yet here they were running along the lake for no apparent reason. The more I walked amongst them, the more I yearned to understand them, and to even become one of them.
I will readily admit that some of the appeal may have been the environment, along one of the most gorgeous shores of waterfront in the country. Or it could have been sunstroke. But either way, it was far more appealing than jogging around the sterile McMansions my condo seems to be surrounded by. Could a grand setting truly make such a difference in how I view exercise? I aim to find out. It is true that in college, I always thought I studied better in the opulent surrounds of the library rotunda than I did in my drab dorm room. So, for a while anyway, I'm going to try running in some of the prettier parts of Des Moines and see how I like it.
Of course, hands down, the most scenic part of Des Moines has to be Grays Lake Park, and I certainly aim to use its tidy paths and sweeping bridge beneath the downtown skyline as I try this new program. There's also a nice trail running behind the Des Moines Art Center which should be an option. For today, though, I think I'll give the path around Blue Heron Lake at Raccoon River Park a shot. While it is nowhere near as scenic as downtown, it is significantly closer to home, and it fulfills my Chicago-born desire to run near the water. Depending on how that goes, I'll upgrade my surroundings and maybe even make it a regular occurrence. And maybe one day someone will be walking along Grays Lake, wondering how on earth I could be fool enough to run and actually enjoy it.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
GGF - North By Northwest (1959)
Have you ever been mistaken for someone you're not? I can't recall a specific time that I have, though I do have vague memories of times I've thought a total stranger was someone I knew. It would start with a wave or a hello, returned by a look of puzzled consternation, all culminating in a me giving a muttered apology and quickly walking away in embarrassment. Since I naturally tend to over-analyze myself, those occasions have probably given me more grief in the short term than they should have, but they certainly could have been worse. What if a simple case of mistaken identity lasted longer than that awkward moment; if the stranger wouldn't accept your actual identity; and worst of all, was convinced that you were a super spy he wanted to snuff out? That one accidental interaction could change the course of your entire life, just as it does for Cary Grant in Alfred Hitchcock's North by Northwest, one of my favorite movies.
Grant plays Roger Thornhill, a dapper advertising executive in New York City, kind of a Don Draper before there was one. His case of mistaken identity occurs at a lunch with clients, when he inadvertently insinuates that he is one George Kaplan, just as a couple of goons working for the bad guy du jour are watching. In a matter of moments, the clients and the lunch are forgotten, as Thornhill is swept up into an elaborate cat-and-mouse game as he tries to figure out just who George Kaplan is, and the other guys try to kill him off for being Kaplan. I won't give too much away here, but suffice it to say that they have increasingly unusual ways of trying to go after him, including one of the most iconic scenes in film history. Even if you don't like mysteries or action movies or Cary Grant, you simply have to see this film for the plane chase.
I love this movie for the action and the convoluted plot - you have to keep on your toes a bit to know what's happening. I also enjoy Cary Grant as the protagonist. In a way, he's the everyman, just a regular guy thrown into the deep end of international espionage. But unlike the average man, he reacts to these ever-changing situations with wit and charm that few of us would be able to muster under the circumstances. The script is full of snappy exchanges, his suit stays immaculate through myriad explouts, and (of course) he gets the girl. This all helps keep the movie from getting too dark, and it remains a fun adventure throughout. A great example being Thornhill recognizing he is surrounded by the bad guys at an art auction, and the ingenious way he finds to save himself. You can't help but smile, even though he's sure his life is in serious jeopardy. I won't say what it is: you'll just have to watch the movie to find out.
On a lesser note, this movie is fun in that it really brings out the romance of rail travel. I've always wanted to take a trip by train: eating in the dining car, spending the night in a sleeper car, and I think a lot of it has to do with this film. Now, there is some literal romance to the rail travel, in that Thornhill meets the female lead (Eva Marie Saint) on the train, and things go rather, ahem, quickly. But I also just like the feel of sophistication, of something a little more special than driving or flying that you feel from the train in this movie. Granted, some of that may be due to the time period, but it still holds some allure for me. This has to be my favorite rail travel movie: on board the train is the one time Thornhill kind of "gets away" from the chase. And who wouldn't want to be incognito, hiding away in a sleeper compartment while the countryside rushes by?
At its heart, though, North by Northwest isn't a train movie - it's a thriller, and it ends in spectacular fashion. I won't give away the ending here, but I'll just say that for some reason the chase ends up in South Dakota. Perhaps you can imagine how a grandiose finale would go down in that state? And if everybody there has houses like the bad guy does in Rapid City, I don't know why we all don't live in South Dakota.
North by Northwest is a great film because of the action, the plot twists and turns, the debonair protagonist, and the great ambiance/feel of it all. This is one that I've seen so many times, but if I spot it on TV, I have to keep watching. It might not be Casablanca, and it doesn't have a ton of deeper meaning, but it's a lot of fun. And at 50 years old, it sure looks good for its age.
AFI notes: 40th best movie of all time (dropped to 55th in the 10 year version of the top 100), 4th best thriller, nominated movie hero, nominated film score, 7th best mystery.
Grant plays Roger Thornhill, a dapper advertising executive in New York City, kind of a Don Draper before there was one. His case of mistaken identity occurs at a lunch with clients, when he inadvertently insinuates that he is one George Kaplan, just as a couple of goons working for the bad guy du jour are watching. In a matter of moments, the clients and the lunch are forgotten, as Thornhill is swept up into an elaborate cat-and-mouse game as he tries to figure out just who George Kaplan is, and the other guys try to kill him off for being Kaplan. I won't give too much away here, but suffice it to say that they have increasingly unusual ways of trying to go after him, including one of the most iconic scenes in film history. Even if you don't like mysteries or action movies or Cary Grant, you simply have to see this film for the plane chase.
I love this movie for the action and the convoluted plot - you have to keep on your toes a bit to know what's happening. I also enjoy Cary Grant as the protagonist. In a way, he's the everyman, just a regular guy thrown into the deep end of international espionage. But unlike the average man, he reacts to these ever-changing situations with wit and charm that few of us would be able to muster under the circumstances. The script is full of snappy exchanges, his suit stays immaculate through myriad explouts, and (of course) he gets the girl. This all helps keep the movie from getting too dark, and it remains a fun adventure throughout. A great example being Thornhill recognizing he is surrounded by the bad guys at an art auction, and the ingenious way he finds to save himself. You can't help but smile, even though he's sure his life is in serious jeopardy. I won't say what it is: you'll just have to watch the movie to find out.
On a lesser note, this movie is fun in that it really brings out the romance of rail travel. I've always wanted to take a trip by train: eating in the dining car, spending the night in a sleeper car, and I think a lot of it has to do with this film. Now, there is some literal romance to the rail travel, in that Thornhill meets the female lead (Eva Marie Saint) on the train, and things go rather, ahem, quickly. But I also just like the feel of sophistication, of something a little more special than driving or flying that you feel from the train in this movie. Granted, some of that may be due to the time period, but it still holds some allure for me. This has to be my favorite rail travel movie: on board the train is the one time Thornhill kind of "gets away" from the chase. And who wouldn't want to be incognito, hiding away in a sleeper compartment while the countryside rushes by?
At its heart, though, North by Northwest isn't a train movie - it's a thriller, and it ends in spectacular fashion. I won't give away the ending here, but I'll just say that for some reason the chase ends up in South Dakota. Perhaps you can imagine how a grandiose finale would go down in that state? And if everybody there has houses like the bad guy does in Rapid City, I don't know why we all don't live in South Dakota.
North by Northwest is a great film because of the action, the plot twists and turns, the debonair protagonist, and the great ambiance/feel of it all. This is one that I've seen so many times, but if I spot it on TV, I have to keep watching. It might not be Casablanca, and it doesn't have a ton of deeper meaning, but it's a lot of fun. And at 50 years old, it sure looks good for its age.
AFI notes: 40th best movie of all time (dropped to 55th in the 10 year version of the top 100), 4th best thriller, nominated movie hero, nominated film score, 7th best mystery.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Greg's Great Films
I read a fascinating blog post the other day, and I truly think it changed my life. I may try to write more on it later, but the way in which it pertained to my movie project is this: it is impossible to see every incredible, meaningful film in a lifetime. Try as I might, as dutifully as I work down lists from AFI, Oscar winners and nominees, all of IMDB's top 250, I'll simply never see them all. In my spreadsheet for AFI movies alone there are 1,951 movies nominated or awarded for some category. That would take me 5 and a half years of viewing, if I watched a movie every single day. If, instead I watch one or two a week, as is my typical pace, it ends up being between 18 and 37 years. And then what? By time I'm 65, when I finally check off the last movie off my list, will it be with a sense of accomplishment that I've spent 310,000 minutes (estimated) watching a screen?
Not that I'm trying to say there's anything wrong with watching movies - far from it, as I do enjoy it. But doing so simply to "check a box" as we like to say here at work isn't worth it. Why, just sitting here with the spreadsheet open, I can see that Madagascar is on the list, as a nominee for one of the best animated movies. I don't want to have to watch Madagascar. So I'm once again discovering what a normal person would do in this situation, and trying to adapt my strange self to accept it. I'm going to (gasp!) watch movies that I like, and similar ones that sound interesting. Now, I've certainly enjoyed several of the movies on the AFI lists and plan to mostly choose from their ranks, but recognizing that more of my favorites fell between the 1930's and 1950's I'll tend to focus on that era. If Casablanca is my favorite film of all time, that's a good starting point to look for similarities - in year, actors, writers, director, etc.
The other thing I want to do is try to be more present when I watch these movies. With a list of movies that I'm "working" on, I'd try to rush through things so I'd get one more check mark, sometimes missing out on truly enjoying the movie experience. I'd also tend to break things up, watching movies in 20 minute or so increments whenever I caught a little spare time. From now on, if it's a movie I really want to watch, I'm going to treat it like it is - make it more of a real movie night. That can mean popcorn and dim light, or not, but at a minimum I had better keep off Facebook, like I've been known to browse during a movie. If it can't hold my attention sufficiently to keep me from seeing what my high school friends are up to, it's probably not worth watching. Last week, I watched two classic movies, but I was really there for both of them. One was phenomenal - one of my all-time favorites. The other, not as good, but I chose it for a reason and gave it an honest shot.
I think this should make things more fun for me to blog about. Not trying to cram five films into one entry, not needing to rate movies I hated - should make the posts more positive overall. And although there is some benefit in warning people away from bad movies (M*A*S*H, anyone?), I'd rather focus on recommending ones that are truly great. Let's give it a whirl and see what happens.
Not that I'm trying to say there's anything wrong with watching movies - far from it, as I do enjoy it. But doing so simply to "check a box" as we like to say here at work isn't worth it. Why, just sitting here with the spreadsheet open, I can see that Madagascar is on the list, as a nominee for one of the best animated movies. I don't want to have to watch Madagascar. So I'm once again discovering what a normal person would do in this situation, and trying to adapt my strange self to accept it. I'm going to (gasp!) watch movies that I like, and similar ones that sound interesting. Now, I've certainly enjoyed several of the movies on the AFI lists and plan to mostly choose from their ranks, but recognizing that more of my favorites fell between the 1930's and 1950's I'll tend to focus on that era. If Casablanca is my favorite film of all time, that's a good starting point to look for similarities - in year, actors, writers, director, etc.
The other thing I want to do is try to be more present when I watch these movies. With a list of movies that I'm "working" on, I'd try to rush through things so I'd get one more check mark, sometimes missing out on truly enjoying the movie experience. I'd also tend to break things up, watching movies in 20 minute or so increments whenever I caught a little spare time. From now on, if it's a movie I really want to watch, I'm going to treat it like it is - make it more of a real movie night. That can mean popcorn and dim light, or not, but at a minimum I had better keep off Facebook, like I've been known to browse during a movie. If it can't hold my attention sufficiently to keep me from seeing what my high school friends are up to, it's probably not worth watching. Last week, I watched two classic movies, but I was really there for both of them. One was phenomenal - one of my all-time favorites. The other, not as good, but I chose it for a reason and gave it an honest shot.
I think this should make things more fun for me to blog about. Not trying to cram five films into one entry, not needing to rate movies I hated - should make the posts more positive overall. And although there is some benefit in warning people away from bad movies (M*A*S*H, anyone?), I'd rather focus on recommending ones that are truly great. Let's give it a whirl and see what happens.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Life Lessons from Wisconsin
Photos intended and should be coming soon
Four weeks ago this morning, I was in a car headed Northeast out of Madison, Wisconsin. With a full tank of gas, a stomach full of "breakfast" courtesy of the AmericInn, and my wonderful wife beside me, we were on our way to the beaches, boutiques and orchards of Door County. In terms of impressive sights and far-flung destinations, it certainly wasn't going to compare with prior vacations to Washington, D.C. or California's Sonoma Valley, but it was a beautiful respite from an otherwise busy schedule and the source of an important lesson for me.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I was like an addict suffering the symptoms of withdrawal. No, not from any exotic substances, nor do I mean any sort of wanderlust from lack of travel (though it certainly had been a long time). Instead, I was struggling with my overwhelming desire to plan things out. I've noted on here my desire for preplanning, and touted its virtues when I talked about our trip to DC. And maybe it is a good thing in a big city like that, where you have one week to see countless memorials and world-class museums, many of which require prior reservations. But I'd noticed this need to control events sneaking into my life in general, and it was starting to cause me some anxiety in making sure everything did go to plan. The perfect antidote, it seemed, was a trip to a resort on the shore.
This was easier said than done, though. My usual routine in planning a trip was to go to TripAdvisor.com (a fabulous site, incidentally), and scour through all the categories - hotels, restaurants, activities, putting them into a spreadsheet that I'd gradually winnow down into a rough itinerary for the vacation. Cross-checking that info with stuff from the visitor's bureau, reviews on Yelp.com and pictures on the web added up to a monumental task to be sure we'd have the best possible vacation. It's what I've done on nearly every prior vacation I've planned. This time, though, I wanted to do things differently.
I will admit, on the hotel, I caved to my inner self and made my spreadsheet, pored over things and chose what seemed to me to be the very best. But all the while I kept telling myself I needed to keep things under control. I started lists of restaurants, but made myself delete them so I wouldn't overanalyze them. The weeks leading up to the trip were agonizing in some ways, as I wanted to do more research, but I forced myself to just go with it. Finally we hit the road, with a snazzy resort room booked, the Door County visitor's guide brochure and my mental notes on what had looked nice/sketchy/etc, and nothing else. No Excel sheets, no printouts of itineraries, nothing. Trust me, that was a big step.
We arrived in the county on a simply magnificent summer day, temperature around 80 beneath a sunny sky and with a gentle but cool breeze blowing inland from Green Bay (the body of water, not the city). We wanted to pick cherries, so I consulted the guide. They listed six options, not one like my itinerary would have. We asked our GPS, Beyonce, which one was closest, I thought back to a few things I'd seen online, and... we took a chance and tried one. And it was incredible. Friendly people, abundant delicious cherries, gorgeous orchards - I doubt I could have picked a better one had I tried. We picked cherries until our cooler was full. Counting another visit to the same orchard later that week, we ended up with 35 pounds of cherries!
After all that effort, we were pretty hungry so we needed to find a restaurant. Again, another place where my itinerary would have guided us had I actually made one. But operating without, Stacia leafed through the visitors guide once more and tossed out ideas. I commented on how nice a water view would be, and before I knew it we were sitting down at a restaurant I hadn't even seen online. As we gazed out onto Green Bay, sipping Spotted Cow beer and munching on cheese curds, I finally started to really relax. Was this place the best restaurant in all of Door County? Probably not - it was like a typical bar-and-grill, but with a Wisconsin flair. But who cares? In that moment it was perfect for us. After that point, I was ready to just chill out and take the vacation as it came.
So we spent the week doing whatever happened to strike our fancy at the moment. We went to the beach, we visited various shops, we visited (and quickly left) a mediocre winery. We discovered a delicious wood-fired pizza place and a groovy dinner restaurant, both of which featured local and sustainable ingredients. We lounged in the hot tub or at the pool, and even played shuffleboard at the resort! (more fun than you might guess) We ate ice cream from a local dairy nearly every single day. I can't imagine an itinerary that I'd crafted in advance featuring all of that, but it was so great I doubt I would change a thing.
Rereading some of this, I can see how you might wonder if I'm some sort of an alien. Who needs to learn that a vacation is about relaxing? Me, apparently. I always used to say I was innately a planner, and that making spreadsheets and charting out itineraries was just the way I am. But with one successful trip in the books without that level of detail, I'm now all about trying to just live in the moment. It's difficult, but I'm making progress. I think the main takeaway for me can be summed up in this quote from Dwight Eisenhower:
Plans are worthless, but planning is everything.
He makes a finer distinction between plans and planning than I do, but the idea is the same. In Door County I needed a small base level of knowledge of the area - what some of the more interesting attractions and dining options were, but I didn't need, and truthfully didn't want a master plan dictating which of those items needed to be done at any given time. Everything turned out well without it, and I was a lot less anxious about keeping our schedule and seeing what we "had to" see. I still think it was probably good to preplan Washington D.C., but life in general can be a lot more random and that may well be a good thing.
I'm heading back to Chicago this coming weekend, and I know for at least part of the time my brother and I will be in the city with a few hours to kill. The old me might have decided in advance how we should try to spend that time, but I think we'll just wing it this time.
Four weeks ago this morning, I was in a car headed Northeast out of Madison, Wisconsin. With a full tank of gas, a stomach full of "breakfast" courtesy of the AmericInn, and my wonderful wife beside me, we were on our way to the beaches, boutiques and orchards of Door County. In terms of impressive sights and far-flung destinations, it certainly wasn't going to compare with prior vacations to Washington, D.C. or California's Sonoma Valley, but it was a beautiful respite from an otherwise busy schedule and the source of an important lesson for me.
In the weeks leading up to the trip, I was like an addict suffering the symptoms of withdrawal. No, not from any exotic substances, nor do I mean any sort of wanderlust from lack of travel (though it certainly had been a long time). Instead, I was struggling with my overwhelming desire to plan things out. I've noted on here my desire for preplanning, and touted its virtues when I talked about our trip to DC. And maybe it is a good thing in a big city like that, where you have one week to see countless memorials and world-class museums, many of which require prior reservations. But I'd noticed this need to control events sneaking into my life in general, and it was starting to cause me some anxiety in making sure everything did go to plan. The perfect antidote, it seemed, was a trip to a resort on the shore.
This was easier said than done, though. My usual routine in planning a trip was to go to TripAdvisor.com (a fabulous site, incidentally), and scour through all the categories - hotels, restaurants, activities, putting them into a spreadsheet that I'd gradually winnow down into a rough itinerary for the vacation. Cross-checking that info with stuff from the visitor's bureau, reviews on Yelp.com and pictures on the web added up to a monumental task to be sure we'd have the best possible vacation. It's what I've done on nearly every prior vacation I've planned. This time, though, I wanted to do things differently.
I will admit, on the hotel, I caved to my inner self and made my spreadsheet, pored over things and chose what seemed to me to be the very best. But all the while I kept telling myself I needed to keep things under control. I started lists of restaurants, but made myself delete them so I wouldn't overanalyze them. The weeks leading up to the trip were agonizing in some ways, as I wanted to do more research, but I forced myself to just go with it. Finally we hit the road, with a snazzy resort room booked, the Door County visitor's guide brochure and my mental notes on what had looked nice/sketchy/etc, and nothing else. No Excel sheets, no printouts of itineraries, nothing. Trust me, that was a big step.
We arrived in the county on a simply magnificent summer day, temperature around 80 beneath a sunny sky and with a gentle but cool breeze blowing inland from Green Bay (the body of water, not the city). We wanted to pick cherries, so I consulted the guide. They listed six options, not one like my itinerary would have. We asked our GPS, Beyonce, which one was closest, I thought back to a few things I'd seen online, and... we took a chance and tried one. And it was incredible. Friendly people, abundant delicious cherries, gorgeous orchards - I doubt I could have picked a better one had I tried. We picked cherries until our cooler was full. Counting another visit to the same orchard later that week, we ended up with 35 pounds of cherries!
After all that effort, we were pretty hungry so we needed to find a restaurant. Again, another place where my itinerary would have guided us had I actually made one. But operating without, Stacia leafed through the visitors guide once more and tossed out ideas. I commented on how nice a water view would be, and before I knew it we were sitting down at a restaurant I hadn't even seen online. As we gazed out onto Green Bay, sipping Spotted Cow beer and munching on cheese curds, I finally started to really relax. Was this place the best restaurant in all of Door County? Probably not - it was like a typical bar-and-grill, but with a Wisconsin flair. But who cares? In that moment it was perfect for us. After that point, I was ready to just chill out and take the vacation as it came.
So we spent the week doing whatever happened to strike our fancy at the moment. We went to the beach, we visited various shops, we visited (and quickly left) a mediocre winery. We discovered a delicious wood-fired pizza place and a groovy dinner restaurant, both of which featured local and sustainable ingredients. We lounged in the hot tub or at the pool, and even played shuffleboard at the resort! (more fun than you might guess) We ate ice cream from a local dairy nearly every single day. I can't imagine an itinerary that I'd crafted in advance featuring all of that, but it was so great I doubt I would change a thing.
Rereading some of this, I can see how you might wonder if I'm some sort of an alien. Who needs to learn that a vacation is about relaxing? Me, apparently. I always used to say I was innately a planner, and that making spreadsheets and charting out itineraries was just the way I am. But with one successful trip in the books without that level of detail, I'm now all about trying to just live in the moment. It's difficult, but I'm making progress. I think the main takeaway for me can be summed up in this quote from Dwight Eisenhower:
Plans are worthless, but planning is everything.
He makes a finer distinction between plans and planning than I do, but the idea is the same. In Door County I needed a small base level of knowledge of the area - what some of the more interesting attractions and dining options were, but I didn't need, and truthfully didn't want a master plan dictating which of those items needed to be done at any given time. Everything turned out well without it, and I was a lot less anxious about keeping our schedule and seeing what we "had to" see. I still think it was probably good to preplan Washington D.C., but life in general can be a lot more random and that may well be a good thing.
I'm heading back to Chicago this coming weekend, and I know for at least part of the time my brother and I will be in the city with a few hours to kill. The old me might have decided in advance how we should try to spend that time, but I think we'll just wing it this time.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Take Me Out of this Ballgame!
Sometimes, timing is everything. It can be fantastic, where you find yourself in a situation where, had you been a moment earlier or later, you would have missed a phenomenal occurrence. Or, as was the case for me last night, you can choose just the wrong moment to run to the car, and return only to ask, "what did I miss?" Yep, in an attempt to take advantage of a slow moment in the action to get my Invisalign trays (invisible braces thingys), I missed out on the cherry on top of the weirdest baseball game I've ever seen.
To set the scene: the baseball diamond at Johnston High School in suburban Des Moines, a fairly well-maintained patch of grass and dirt on the outskirts of town. Beyond left field the test plots of agribusiness giant Pioneer stretch out to the horizon in a scene reminiscent of the original X-Files movie. To right, there are some signs of civilization, as cars sporadically file past the line of trees just outside the outfield fence. The sun is high overhead, baking the simple aluminum grandstands, but there is a slight breeze, and if you stay in the shade of the press box, it's a pretty pleasant day.
I'm there to cheer on my brother-in-law as he plays in a local amateur league game. The word amateur has a definition on a bit of a sliding scale: some of these guys look like they were maybe one bad break away from making it at least into the minors, while others just appear to be ordinary joes who enjoy the game. The same can be said for the officiating crew, unfortunately. The role of an umpire is hardly an easy one, but most of the ones I've seen have at a minimum seemed to try their best to be fair and impartial. Not so yesterday...
I won't recap the entire game here, but the most egregious offense of the night was the bro-in-law being hit by a pitch in three separate at-bats, and being bawled out by an umpire on a power trip on each occasion. Some of it was from the opposing team's assertion that he'd moved in order to get hit, some was due to frustration after the second, clearly retaliatory (except in the umpire's eyes) hit, and most of it was just because there was a dude with a little bit of authority and a lot of short-man syndrome.
I'm far from being a baseball expert - I consider myself just a person who enjoys the game. But I've been to more than a couple games, and I've seen some people get hit by a pitch. There are a lot of different ways people move in such instances: usually a flinch or step back to avoid getting beaned, or sometimes the batting motion itself gets them into the path of the ball, but I don't believe I've ever seen anyone try to get hit by a pitch. Particularly in a recreational league, where everyone is ostensibly playing "just for fun." I don't need to have ever played competitive baseball to know it's more fun to bat than to have a guy throw a ball at your body. Add to that the fact that their pitcher had been hitting batters all day long, and I think someone needed a warning, but I'm not sure the ump wanted to call out the team he was so chummy with.
Be that all as it may, my brother and his team were actually doing quite well, and were ahead of a previously unbeaten opponent. This was when I made my fateful trip to the car, and missed something so bizarre as to hardly be believed. Apparently the umpire told our team that he was fed up with the language he heard from the dugout, and if he heard one more cuss word, he'd throw someone out. I like to think that if I'd heard that in person I would have laughed out loud, but I might just have been flabbergasted into silence. This is an adult league, and the only spectators were a handful spouses and friends, but apparently Little League rules were called for. From what I hear, the angels don't care for swearing...
In the end, all turned out well, though I had a few anxious moments on a couple more bad/biased calls, where I silently urged our team to not fight it, just let it go, a couple more outs and we win. I had a good time overall: by the end of the game it had turned into a beautiful day for baseball. I just wish the umpire had understood it wasn't all about him. These games, and in a sense all baseball games, should be played for the love of the sport. I'm a sentimentalist at heart, but I still truly believe that. Sure, it's great to win, but you want to do it the right way. If you're wound so tightly that you're screaming that your opponent stepped into the pitch, it's time to reexamine why you're playing. And if you seize on that opportunity to use your position of authority to yell at the players, maybe you take another look at whether that paycheck for umpiring is worth it.
Thankfully, a few poor sports didn't ruin my enjoyment of the game. Baseball's bigger than those guys, just as it's bigger than me and my perceptions of how things "ought to be." All in all, I think that's a good thing.
To set the scene: the baseball diamond at Johnston High School in suburban Des Moines, a fairly well-maintained patch of grass and dirt on the outskirts of town. Beyond left field the test plots of agribusiness giant Pioneer stretch out to the horizon in a scene reminiscent of the original X-Files movie. To right, there are some signs of civilization, as cars sporadically file past the line of trees just outside the outfield fence. The sun is high overhead, baking the simple aluminum grandstands, but there is a slight breeze, and if you stay in the shade of the press box, it's a pretty pleasant day.
I'm there to cheer on my brother-in-law as he plays in a local amateur league game. The word amateur has a definition on a bit of a sliding scale: some of these guys look like they were maybe one bad break away from making it at least into the minors, while others just appear to be ordinary joes who enjoy the game. The same can be said for the officiating crew, unfortunately. The role of an umpire is hardly an easy one, but most of the ones I've seen have at a minimum seemed to try their best to be fair and impartial. Not so yesterday...
I won't recap the entire game here, but the most egregious offense of the night was the bro-in-law being hit by a pitch in three separate at-bats, and being bawled out by an umpire on a power trip on each occasion. Some of it was from the opposing team's assertion that he'd moved in order to get hit, some was due to frustration after the second, clearly retaliatory (except in the umpire's eyes) hit, and most of it was just because there was a dude with a little bit of authority and a lot of short-man syndrome.
I'm far from being a baseball expert - I consider myself just a person who enjoys the game. But I've been to more than a couple games, and I've seen some people get hit by a pitch. There are a lot of different ways people move in such instances: usually a flinch or step back to avoid getting beaned, or sometimes the batting motion itself gets them into the path of the ball, but I don't believe I've ever seen anyone try to get hit by a pitch. Particularly in a recreational league, where everyone is ostensibly playing "just for fun." I don't need to have ever played competitive baseball to know it's more fun to bat than to have a guy throw a ball at your body. Add to that the fact that their pitcher had been hitting batters all day long, and I think someone needed a warning, but I'm not sure the ump wanted to call out the team he was so chummy with.
Be that all as it may, my brother and his team were actually doing quite well, and were ahead of a previously unbeaten opponent. This was when I made my fateful trip to the car, and missed something so bizarre as to hardly be believed. Apparently the umpire told our team that he was fed up with the language he heard from the dugout, and if he heard one more cuss word, he'd throw someone out. I like to think that if I'd heard that in person I would have laughed out loud, but I might just have been flabbergasted into silence. This is an adult league, and the only spectators were a handful spouses and friends, but apparently Little League rules were called for. From what I hear, the angels don't care for swearing...
In the end, all turned out well, though I had a few anxious moments on a couple more bad/biased calls, where I silently urged our team to not fight it, just let it go, a couple more outs and we win. I had a good time overall: by the end of the game it had turned into a beautiful day for baseball. I just wish the umpire had understood it wasn't all about him. These games, and in a sense all baseball games, should be played for the love of the sport. I'm a sentimentalist at heart, but I still truly believe that. Sure, it's great to win, but you want to do it the right way. If you're wound so tightly that you're screaming that your opponent stepped into the pitch, it's time to reexamine why you're playing. And if you seize on that opportunity to use your position of authority to yell at the players, maybe you take another look at whether that paycheck for umpiring is worth it.
Thankfully, a few poor sports didn't ruin my enjoyment of the game. Baseball's bigger than those guys, just as it's bigger than me and my perceptions of how things "ought to be." All in all, I think that's a good thing.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Can I go feedlot-free?
Today my workplace threw an elaborate party to celebrate the fact that I've been working there for five years. Well, to be technically accurate, it was for all the employees who'd reached a milestone anniversary so far this year, but let's not quibble, shall we? In addition to the thoughtful visa gift card they selected specially for me, my corporate masters also provided a lunch. They say there's no such thing as a free lunch, and they're right. It took five years of 9 to 5 to get that meal, so I was determined to eat my money's-worth.
So I stepped up to the line, grabbed a styrofoam plate (grrr) and was faced with an array of meat-and-vegetable kababs, from which I had to choose chicken or beef. In the past, that might have been a tough decision based on which I felt more like eating that day, but today it was a no-brainer. Factory beef is something I just haven't had much appetite for lately. Because though that meat may have looked like this on the plate:
(slight exaggeration)
It originally came from a place like this:
(unfortunately no exaggeration)
That picture shows mile after mile of cattle crammed into tight confines, often knee-deep in their own waste, and fed corn, a grain for which they're not adapted to eat and which makes them understandably sick. To combat the illness, they're pumped with antibiotics, which then also become part of our food stream. Even aside from the issues of the animals' welfare being subject to these conditions, mass-produced beef just isn't very good for you. You can't control everything in life, but I've read articles showing a strong correlation between quantity of red meat in one's diet with health issues like colon cancer, which I'd love to avoid having. I haven't done the research to validate those claims, but it doesn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to think that eating meat from malnourished sickly cows doesn't do great things for the human body.
All that said, I am an incredibly lucky individual. I have a nearby producer of grass-fed beef, who makes routine trips into Des Moines to sell just about any cut of beef you can think of (plus poultry, lamb, pork and fish, but that's beside today's point). Nick Wallace, of Wallace Farms, raises cows the way they're evolved to live, eating grass and roaming about in pastureland. As a result, the meat off these cattle is significantly better for you, and has been proven to be much higher in the beneficial Omega-3 fats that our bodies need to stay healthy. I can't really discern a difference in flavor with grocery store meat, but the beef is delicious, juicy and comes from happy cows that are doing their part to keep me well and vibrant. At home, I cook exclusively with grass-fed beef from Nick Wallace. As an aside to any readers who live in Des Moines, look Nick up for his local buying clubs - you'll be glad you did.
So, probably 90% of the time, I do really well. As I just said, I only cook with grass-fed beef. And when I'm eating food out, I usually avoid beef unless it specifically says it's grass-fed. But I'm not perfect. Last week, S and I grabbed lunch at Sonic and I ordered a burger, knowing full well it was conventional/factory meat. It was tasty, but I've lately started wondering if I'm still willing to make that trade-off. Was it delicious enough to offset the welfare of the animals and the unhealthiness that it provides? It's a tough question. Right now my knowledge of the food system in the U.S. gives me pause when ordering, but sometimes the impulse buy wins out over my conscience. I'm considering going full-bore non-feedlot beef, though it is a struggle.
Granted, when you go out to eat and order something that isn't beef, it too comes from a confined feeding operation. There's no perfect solution without exclusively eating at home or at farm-to-table restaurants. But beef feedlots are some of the worst, particularly for the environment, and the poor health effects of their factory production are some of the highest correlated per today's research. So you might feel bad going out for chicken as well, but I feel better about that than I do for beef.
I think I'm going to give it a concerted try. Sacrificing going out for fast food burgers is probably a good idea in general, and there aren't that many other restaurant beef offerings that I find myself terribly tempted by. Of course, there will have to be exceptions - if I'm visiting relatives or friends for dinner, I won't refuse beef that isn't grass-fed; that's just rude. But when I do "control my own destiny," so to speak, I'm going to try not to eat any more feedlot beef. Sure, those burgers at Sonic are pretty tempting, but they're not half as good as the grass-fed beef tater tot casserole I'll be eating tonight. Or for a more apt comparison, the juicy grass-fed burgers we made a few weeks ago. (Sorry, it just happens we're having tater tot casserole tonight.) I don't know if I can succeed at this challenge, but I'm up for giving it a try. I think my body will thank me.
So I stepped up to the line, grabbed a styrofoam plate (grrr) and was faced with an array of meat-and-vegetable kababs, from which I had to choose chicken or beef. In the past, that might have been a tough decision based on which I felt more like eating that day, but today it was a no-brainer. Factory beef is something I just haven't had much appetite for lately. Because though that meat may have looked like this on the plate:
(slight exaggeration)
It originally came from a place like this:
(unfortunately no exaggeration)
That picture shows mile after mile of cattle crammed into tight confines, often knee-deep in their own waste, and fed corn, a grain for which they're not adapted to eat and which makes them understandably sick. To combat the illness, they're pumped with antibiotics, which then also become part of our food stream. Even aside from the issues of the animals' welfare being subject to these conditions, mass-produced beef just isn't very good for you. You can't control everything in life, but I've read articles showing a strong correlation between quantity of red meat in one's diet with health issues like colon cancer, which I'd love to avoid having. I haven't done the research to validate those claims, but it doesn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to think that eating meat from malnourished sickly cows doesn't do great things for the human body.
All that said, I am an incredibly lucky individual. I have a nearby producer of grass-fed beef, who makes routine trips into Des Moines to sell just about any cut of beef you can think of (plus poultry, lamb, pork and fish, but that's beside today's point). Nick Wallace, of Wallace Farms, raises cows the way they're evolved to live, eating grass and roaming about in pastureland. As a result, the meat off these cattle is significantly better for you, and has been proven to be much higher in the beneficial Omega-3 fats that our bodies need to stay healthy. I can't really discern a difference in flavor with grocery store meat, but the beef is delicious, juicy and comes from happy cows that are doing their part to keep me well and vibrant. At home, I cook exclusively with grass-fed beef from Nick Wallace. As an aside to any readers who live in Des Moines, look Nick up for his local buying clubs - you'll be glad you did.
So, probably 90% of the time, I do really well. As I just said, I only cook with grass-fed beef. And when I'm eating food out, I usually avoid beef unless it specifically says it's grass-fed. But I'm not perfect. Last week, S and I grabbed lunch at Sonic and I ordered a burger, knowing full well it was conventional/factory meat. It was tasty, but I've lately started wondering if I'm still willing to make that trade-off. Was it delicious enough to offset the welfare of the animals and the unhealthiness that it provides? It's a tough question. Right now my knowledge of the food system in the U.S. gives me pause when ordering, but sometimes the impulse buy wins out over my conscience. I'm considering going full-bore non-feedlot beef, though it is a struggle.
Granted, when you go out to eat and order something that isn't beef, it too comes from a confined feeding operation. There's no perfect solution without exclusively eating at home or at farm-to-table restaurants. But beef feedlots are some of the worst, particularly for the environment, and the poor health effects of their factory production are some of the highest correlated per today's research. So you might feel bad going out for chicken as well, but I feel better about that than I do for beef.
I think I'm going to give it a concerted try. Sacrificing going out for fast food burgers is probably a good idea in general, and there aren't that many other restaurant beef offerings that I find myself terribly tempted by. Of course, there will have to be exceptions - if I'm visiting relatives or friends for dinner, I won't refuse beef that isn't grass-fed; that's just rude. But when I do "control my own destiny," so to speak, I'm going to try not to eat any more feedlot beef. Sure, those burgers at Sonic are pretty tempting, but they're not half as good as the grass-fed beef tater tot casserole I'll be eating tonight. Or for a more apt comparison, the juicy grass-fed burgers we made a few weeks ago. (Sorry, it just happens we're having tater tot casserole tonight.) I don't know if I can succeed at this challenge, but I'm up for giving it a try. I think my body will thank me.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Filmfest 1940-1942 - Loyalty
Picture doodads coming later...
When I was younger, my Mom had a saying that would sometimes need to be repeated to my siblings and me, typically when we were complaining about a family event conflicting with something we wanted to do. "Family comes first." Regardless of the situation, those three simple words reminded us that our first loyalty was to our family. That meant if a sibling was having trouble with something, we automatically had his or her back. It meant that if we had to choose between spending time with our family or with yahoos from school, we picked family. It meant that no disagreement between us was big enough to make us forget that we were brothers and sisters first, and always will be. It's a philosophy that has lead to us being one of the tightest-knit families I've ever seen, and I hope that I can pass it on to my own family someday.
This batch of movies each touch on the concept of loyalty, though not specifically to one's family. Within my family, loyalty means a steadfast feel of fierce unity and support, but these characters explore the various ways loyalty can be interpreted or twisted. Loyal to their professional dignity, their loves, their childhood dreams, their art, to another person or simply to themselves, these are some of the greatest characters in movie history. In most cases that means a spectacular film results, but there's still one that I can't quite learn to love as fervently as most cinemaphiles. Overall, though, it's a good group, and long overdue for sharing.
1940 - The Philadelphia Story (#44) - I first saw this movie in October of last year and liked it quite a bit. When it came back up on my list, I thought for a while about how I'd perceived it and decided it didn't necessitate a rewatch, though I'll certainly enjoy watching it again sometime. Just not in the middle of this project. The film is a pretty standard romantic comedy, by today's formulaic interpretation of the genre. But this incarnation is a rather well done one, with some of the era's best actors to boot. Anytime you have James Stewart, Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant on screen at the same time, you're pretty sure to enjoy the show. The craziness all starts with Cary Grant showing up on ex-wife Hepburn's doorstep just as she's preparing to remarry. You can imagine the zaniness that ensues, especially after newspaper reporter/paparazzo Stewart arrives to document it all. It's clever and witty, and you can't help watching without a smile.
4 out of 5 sailboats that are quite "yar"
1941 - Citizen Kane (#1) - Here it is. The one I just didn't much like, and as luck would have it, the American Film Institute thinks it's literally the best movie ever. Now, there can be some sense of smug satisfaction in not liking what everyone else does, but I'm not just dissing this movie to be some kind of hipster. See my (quite different) response to movie number 2 as proof. No, I just didn't like this film because there was no one to like in it, and no one to truly sympathize with. Sure, plenty happens, but in a "biopic" on fictional news baron Charles Foster Kane, if you don't care what happens to Kane, it's a bit of a bust. The guy was written as kind of a jerk, so you were hard-pressed to feel much besides "serves him right" when ills befell him. For the record, I do understand why he's portrayed that way, but I just didn't feel like it was well rationalized. On the plus side, the story of what does happen to him is fairly interesting, and a second viewing revealed some unique innovations in filmmaking. Strange camera angles, effects of scale, shadow and optics - it was all pretty neat. But without a person to root for, it felt really long and I just wanted it to be over.
2 out of 5 printing presses
1941 - The Maltese Falcon (#23) - It's hard to say for sure, but I think this was one of the first classic movies I sat down on the couch with my Dad to watch on PBS some Sunday afternoon, and I have loved it ever since. You probably can tell by now that I enjoy the genre of film noir, of which Maltese Falcon is one of the best. This movie has it all: hardboiled detectives, a classic femme fatale, a mysterious object of desire, and constant double and triple crosses. Add in some of the best actors of the era: Humphrey Bogart playing Sam Spade as no one else could have, with a devil-may-care attitude and plenty of snappy one-liners. Peter Lorre as the effeminate and sniveling Joel Cairo, and of course Sydney Greenstreet as the enormous and smooth-talking Kaspar Gutman. They're all chasing after the Maltese Falcon, a jewel-encrusted bird statue of immense value. As they go, allegiances are tested, lives become expendable and the audience is kept breathless, guessing whose side anyone is on. It's a suspenseful ride with memorable quotes throughout, set in a well-executed rendition of seedy parts of San Francisco. I love this movie; I'd watch it pretty much anytime.
5 out of 5 black birds (of course)
1941 - Sullivan's Travels (#61) - Finally! We had a gap in our Netflix queue so I nabbed it to get a copy of Sullivan's Travels, the only missing film from this set of five for the past month or more. I don't know if that extended wait raised my expectations for the movie, but I found myself rather underwhelmed by it. It was decent, don't get me wrong, but certainly not on par with the best movies of this era. The concept centers on a big time Hollywood film producer, known for making profitable comedies, who wants to make something truly meaningful, capturing the grit and despondency of the poor at the time. Not a bad premise for a film, and I do think this could have been good. But, ironically enough, the movie suffered from a lack of identity as it wavered at different points between being a slapstick comedy and a serious drama. I do believe that movies can blur that line, but I'm not sure this one did it successfully. Jumping from a painfully bad car chase using sped-up film and ridiculous situations to our protagonist somberly walking amongst the homeless was a bit too inconsistent for me. That said, there were parts of this movie I did like, from the sultry Veronica Lake (inspiration for Jessica Rabbit, don't ya know) and her sarcastic wit to the moving scene at the church picture show. But it just didn't all play well together, and had a convenient ending that I had a major problem with. An okay movie, but definitely not great.
3 out of 5 hobo boxcars
1942 - Casablanca (#2) - Here it is. The greatest and most perfect movie of all time. I realize that I'm hardly being original in that assertion, but sometimes classics are classics for a reason. If the Maltese Falcon was the first classic film I saw, this one has to be the first one I loved. Again featuring Humphry Bogart, this time as a world-weary American expatriate living in Casablanca toward the beginning of WWII. The supporting characters are fantastic, too, including Peter Lorre (again), Sydney Greenstreet (again), Claude Rains, and the lovely Ingrid Bergman. But the thing that makes this film so transcendent is the story. There isn't necessarily a Hollywood happy ending here, the world isn't quite as simple as black and white, and love can mean many things, not necessarily what's expected. Bogart's Rick starts off cold and cynical, but we quickly learn that there's much more beneath the surface. As letters of transit to escape Casablanca mysteriously go missing, the action comes quickly, but always revealing more about what people are willing to do to get what they want. Words can't really describe how much I love the ending of this movie - it is simply the perfect moment, scripted beautifully and atmospherically staged. That scene sums up the themes of the movie, but the whole film is a work of art, that any movie lover simply has to watch.
5 out of 5
When I was younger, my Mom had a saying that would sometimes need to be repeated to my siblings and me, typically when we were complaining about a family event conflicting with something we wanted to do. "Family comes first." Regardless of the situation, those three simple words reminded us that our first loyalty was to our family. That meant if a sibling was having trouble with something, we automatically had his or her back. It meant that if we had to choose between spending time with our family or with yahoos from school, we picked family. It meant that no disagreement between us was big enough to make us forget that we were brothers and sisters first, and always will be. It's a philosophy that has lead to us being one of the tightest-knit families I've ever seen, and I hope that I can pass it on to my own family someday.
This batch of movies each touch on the concept of loyalty, though not specifically to one's family. Within my family, loyalty means a steadfast feel of fierce unity and support, but these characters explore the various ways loyalty can be interpreted or twisted. Loyal to their professional dignity, their loves, their childhood dreams, their art, to another person or simply to themselves, these are some of the greatest characters in movie history. In most cases that means a spectacular film results, but there's still one that I can't quite learn to love as fervently as most cinemaphiles. Overall, though, it's a good group, and long overdue for sharing.
1940 - The Philadelphia Story (#44) - I first saw this movie in October of last year and liked it quite a bit. When it came back up on my list, I thought for a while about how I'd perceived it and decided it didn't necessitate a rewatch, though I'll certainly enjoy watching it again sometime. Just not in the middle of this project. The film is a pretty standard romantic comedy, by today's formulaic interpretation of the genre. But this incarnation is a rather well done one, with some of the era's best actors to boot. Anytime you have James Stewart, Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant on screen at the same time, you're pretty sure to enjoy the show. The craziness all starts with Cary Grant showing up on ex-wife Hepburn's doorstep just as she's preparing to remarry. You can imagine the zaniness that ensues, especially after newspaper reporter/paparazzo Stewart arrives to document it all. It's clever and witty, and you can't help watching without a smile.
4 out of 5 sailboats that are quite "yar"
1941 - Citizen Kane (#1) - Here it is. The one I just didn't much like, and as luck would have it, the American Film Institute thinks it's literally the best movie ever. Now, there can be some sense of smug satisfaction in not liking what everyone else does, but I'm not just dissing this movie to be some kind of hipster. See my (quite different) response to movie number 2 as proof. No, I just didn't like this film because there was no one to like in it, and no one to truly sympathize with. Sure, plenty happens, but in a "biopic" on fictional news baron Charles Foster Kane, if you don't care what happens to Kane, it's a bit of a bust. The guy was written as kind of a jerk, so you were hard-pressed to feel much besides "serves him right" when ills befell him. For the record, I do understand why he's portrayed that way, but I just didn't feel like it was well rationalized. On the plus side, the story of what does happen to him is fairly interesting, and a second viewing revealed some unique innovations in filmmaking. Strange camera angles, effects of scale, shadow and optics - it was all pretty neat. But without a person to root for, it felt really long and I just wanted it to be over.
2 out of 5 printing presses
1941 - The Maltese Falcon (#23) - It's hard to say for sure, but I think this was one of the first classic movies I sat down on the couch with my Dad to watch on PBS some Sunday afternoon, and I have loved it ever since. You probably can tell by now that I enjoy the genre of film noir, of which Maltese Falcon is one of the best. This movie has it all: hardboiled detectives, a classic femme fatale, a mysterious object of desire, and constant double and triple crosses. Add in some of the best actors of the era: Humphrey Bogart playing Sam Spade as no one else could have, with a devil-may-care attitude and plenty of snappy one-liners. Peter Lorre as the effeminate and sniveling Joel Cairo, and of course Sydney Greenstreet as the enormous and smooth-talking Kaspar Gutman. They're all chasing after the Maltese Falcon, a jewel-encrusted bird statue of immense value. As they go, allegiances are tested, lives become expendable and the audience is kept breathless, guessing whose side anyone is on. It's a suspenseful ride with memorable quotes throughout, set in a well-executed rendition of seedy parts of San Francisco. I love this movie; I'd watch it pretty much anytime.
5 out of 5 black birds (of course)
1941 - Sullivan's Travels (#61) - Finally! We had a gap in our Netflix queue so I nabbed it to get a copy of Sullivan's Travels, the only missing film from this set of five for the past month or more. I don't know if that extended wait raised my expectations for the movie, but I found myself rather underwhelmed by it. It was decent, don't get me wrong, but certainly not on par with the best movies of this era. The concept centers on a big time Hollywood film producer, known for making profitable comedies, who wants to make something truly meaningful, capturing the grit and despondency of the poor at the time. Not a bad premise for a film, and I do think this could have been good. But, ironically enough, the movie suffered from a lack of identity as it wavered at different points between being a slapstick comedy and a serious drama. I do believe that movies can blur that line, but I'm not sure this one did it successfully. Jumping from a painfully bad car chase using sped-up film and ridiculous situations to our protagonist somberly walking amongst the homeless was a bit too inconsistent for me. That said, there were parts of this movie I did like, from the sultry Veronica Lake (inspiration for Jessica Rabbit, don't ya know) and her sarcastic wit to the moving scene at the church picture show. But it just didn't all play well together, and had a convenient ending that I had a major problem with. An okay movie, but definitely not great.
3 out of 5 hobo boxcars
1942 - Casablanca (#2) - Here it is. The greatest and most perfect movie of all time. I realize that I'm hardly being original in that assertion, but sometimes classics are classics for a reason. If the Maltese Falcon was the first classic film I saw, this one has to be the first one I loved. Again featuring Humphry Bogart, this time as a world-weary American expatriate living in Casablanca toward the beginning of WWII. The supporting characters are fantastic, too, including Peter Lorre (again), Sydney Greenstreet (again), Claude Rains, and the lovely Ingrid Bergman. But the thing that makes this film so transcendent is the story. There isn't necessarily a Hollywood happy ending here, the world isn't quite as simple as black and white, and love can mean many things, not necessarily what's expected. Bogart's Rick starts off cold and cynical, but we quickly learn that there's much more beneath the surface. As letters of transit to escape Casablanca mysteriously go missing, the action comes quickly, but always revealing more about what people are willing to do to get what they want. Words can't really describe how much I love the ending of this movie - it is simply the perfect moment, scripted beautifully and atmospherically staged. That scene sums up the themes of the movie, but the whole film is a work of art, that any movie lover simply has to watch.
5 out of 5
Friday, July 1, 2011
The Race of a Lifetime
After the final laps had been ticked off the counter, after the thick clouds of tire smoke from celebratory donuts had cleared, and after many spectators had long since headed for the exits, I continued to stand on my bleacher seat looking toward the activity in victory lane. I wanted to snap one last picture, getting a photo of the scoring pylon to record the finishing order, but I was literally shaking with too much with excitement to hold the camera steady. I had just witnessed probably the best auto race I have ever seen in my life, and I have to admit I'm skeptical that it can be matched in the future. I knew traffic wouldn't allow us to leave the Iowa Speedway for at least another hour, getting us home some time around midnight, but with all the excitement coursing through my body, I wasn't the least bit worried about staying awake.
The interesting thing was, this race almost didn't happen - at least not for me. As you likely know, I would consider myself a racing fan, with a distinct predilection for Indycars. Sure, I started out with NASCAR and I'll still catch a few laps here and there; I also enjoy the skill, strategy and amazing machines of sports car racing. But for pure entertainment, for inspiring enough passion to yell at the television, for the nervous energy that means I have to stand up from the couch, nothing really does it like the wheel-to-wheel action of Indycars. As such, I've been to the Indycar races at Iowa Speedway with Stacia since they began in 2007.
The first time was all about the experience, seeing and living it all for the first time. The next few years we came almost by default - it was simply the thing we expected to be doing toward the end of June. But last year's event really made us reconsider. Not that the race was bad - it was actually pretty exciting and a guy that we both sort of rooted for ended up winning. The trouble came about by sitting in uncovered grandstands under a blazing sun for 3+ hours on a hot humid summer afternoon. Neither one of us felt great following the race, and Stacia had some pretty significant heat exhaustion symptoms. For ticket face values north of $50 a person, we weren't sure it was worth feeling sick over to be there in person when we could just watch it on TV.
So it came to be that the day before the race we had no tickets and didn't plan to do much more than watch the broadcast. I thought just for the off chance that I might find something, I'd poke around Craigslist. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of tickets for all the support races that day and the big race (now on Saturday night, not Sunday afternoon) for a total of $60. I found the tickets around 9 AM, ran to the bank around 10, and at noon had a couple of guys stop by my office to make the exchange. It was a whirlwind series of events that left me in a bit of a bind. Friday night had a couple of minor league races scheduled as a buildup to the Indy race, plus qualifying for the big cars. It all started at 3:30, and the speedway is an hour's drive from home.
I managed to convince my boss to let me take off at 3:00, and I sped home as fast as our Honda scooter would take me, where I literally took off my helmet and jacket and jumped into the car to zoom out to the racetrack. Google maps predicted it would take me 55 minutes - we had the car parked at the track within 40, still a touch late but not missing much. I opened the door and immediately heard the familiar engine whine that meant cars on track. I smiled at Stacia, knowing we'd made the right choice. By time we got to our seats we'd missed just 4 cars out of 25 making their qualifying runs. As we settled in and each car in line roared to life, I couldn't imagine we thought about skipping this.
And that was just the start. In qualifying, the excitement built as the superpower teams struggled and relative unknown Takuma Sato took the pole with fan favorite Danica Patrick starting second. Then we sat through the caution-filled debacle of a USAC midget race, and the follow-the-leader affair of the USAC Silver Crown cars. The next day saw some practice runs, followed by the buildup to the main event. Star Mazda cars, a kind of mini Indycar, took to the track for a race that was side by side for the lead until one car's engine gave out halfway through. Indy Lights, the development series for Indycar, took to the track for a hard-fought battle between four different cars. It was all pretty fun, but it was just an aperitif to what was to come. As the driver introduction stage was moved into place, I began to jitter with nervous anticipation.
That anticipation built up through the intros, the anthem, as the drivers strapped into their machines, the "start your engines" command, and the first few pace laps. It came to a crescendo as the cars lined up in rows of two, their engines spooled up along the backstretch, and they finally came roaring out of turn four to take the green flag. I excitedly waved the green flag I'd been given at the entrance, along with 35,000 of my closest friends. The cars jostled back and forth, dodging and weaving as they sought to gain positions while so closely packed. Eventually, Dario Franchitti of the dominant Target race team began to pull away, as he had on more than one prior occasion.
But my eye wasn't often on him. I was more interested in the black #26 car with red scales and glaring red eyes on the front wing - the Venom Energy Drink-sponsored car of Marco Andretti. Grandson of fabled race driver Mario, Marco has shown flashes of brilliance throughout his young career, but rarely has been able to close, having only one win in five years of competition. He can come off as aloof and spoiled, supposedly symptoms of shyness (which I can totally understand), but seems like a "good kid." In addition, he is aggressive and has more guts than many of his competitors, frequently putting his car in places few would try. About halfway through the race, having passed many cars from his poor starting position, I leaned over to Stacia and yelled "Marco's using the high line." She smiled and nodded, knowing from prior races that Marco would soon be making breathtaking passes on the outside.
And so he did, bringing his car to the lead briefly, then dicing with former winners Dario Franchitti and Tony Kanaan. As the laps counted down, Dario's car began to fade, but Marco and Tony only upped the intensity of their battle, with Marco sweeping high lap after lap to pull alongside Tony but not quite able to pull off the pass. Then, with about 20 to go, in one of the sweetest moves I've seen, Marco ran high through two turns to build up momentum, pulled up behind Kanaan on the straightaway and darted inside just before the turn-in. Squeezed down as low as he could be by his rival, Marco blasted out of the turn and took the lead. As they had throughout the night, the stands erupted as he blew past the flagstand.
This dogfight wasn't over though. Kanaan fought back, taking advantage of Marco's preference for the high lane to try to duck in underneath. As we nervously counted down the handful of laps we were away from Marco's second victory, I worried whether he could hold off the much more seasoned racer running just inches behind and alongside him. Then in one final show of strength, with 5 laps to go, Marco tightened his apex in turns 1 and 2, disturbing the air in front of Kanaan's car, causing him to lose downforce on the front wing. As Kanaan was forced to lift off the throttle to control his car, Marco powered away and took the win moments later. I stood and cheered, still shaking from the tenacious battle I'd just witnessed.
I did eventually get the picture of the scoring pylon I'd wanted all along, with the number 26 proudly showing at the top. Stacia and I talked about how fantastic a race it had been, and how incredibly furious we would have been had we chosen to skip it. I don't yet know if we'll come back next year - the series is rolling out a brand-new car, and I just don't know if it will provide the thrills this race did. Frankly I'm not sure it's possible. But for one phenomenal weekend, I saw the best race ever. That was well worth the sixty dollars.
The interesting thing was, this race almost didn't happen - at least not for me. As you likely know, I would consider myself a racing fan, with a distinct predilection for Indycars. Sure, I started out with NASCAR and I'll still catch a few laps here and there; I also enjoy the skill, strategy and amazing machines of sports car racing. But for pure entertainment, for inspiring enough passion to yell at the television, for the nervous energy that means I have to stand up from the couch, nothing really does it like the wheel-to-wheel action of Indycars. As such, I've been to the Indycar races at Iowa Speedway with Stacia since they began in 2007.
The first time was all about the experience, seeing and living it all for the first time. The next few years we came almost by default - it was simply the thing we expected to be doing toward the end of June. But last year's event really made us reconsider. Not that the race was bad - it was actually pretty exciting and a guy that we both sort of rooted for ended up winning. The trouble came about by sitting in uncovered grandstands under a blazing sun for 3+ hours on a hot humid summer afternoon. Neither one of us felt great following the race, and Stacia had some pretty significant heat exhaustion symptoms. For ticket face values north of $50 a person, we weren't sure it was worth feeling sick over to be there in person when we could just watch it on TV.
So it came to be that the day before the race we had no tickets and didn't plan to do much more than watch the broadcast. I thought just for the off chance that I might find something, I'd poke around Craigslist. And what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of tickets for all the support races that day and the big race (now on Saturday night, not Sunday afternoon) for a total of $60. I found the tickets around 9 AM, ran to the bank around 10, and at noon had a couple of guys stop by my office to make the exchange. It was a whirlwind series of events that left me in a bit of a bind. Friday night had a couple of minor league races scheduled as a buildup to the Indy race, plus qualifying for the big cars. It all started at 3:30, and the speedway is an hour's drive from home.
I managed to convince my boss to let me take off at 3:00, and I sped home as fast as our Honda scooter would take me, where I literally took off my helmet and jacket and jumped into the car to zoom out to the racetrack. Google maps predicted it would take me 55 minutes - we had the car parked at the track within 40, still a touch late but not missing much. I opened the door and immediately heard the familiar engine whine that meant cars on track. I smiled at Stacia, knowing we'd made the right choice. By time we got to our seats we'd missed just 4 cars out of 25 making their qualifying runs. As we settled in and each car in line roared to life, I couldn't imagine we thought about skipping this.
And that was just the start. In qualifying, the excitement built as the superpower teams struggled and relative unknown Takuma Sato took the pole with fan favorite Danica Patrick starting second. Then we sat through the caution-filled debacle of a USAC midget race, and the follow-the-leader affair of the USAC Silver Crown cars. The next day saw some practice runs, followed by the buildup to the main event. Star Mazda cars, a kind of mini Indycar, took to the track for a race that was side by side for the lead until one car's engine gave out halfway through. Indy Lights, the development series for Indycar, took to the track for a hard-fought battle between four different cars. It was all pretty fun, but it was just an aperitif to what was to come. As the driver introduction stage was moved into place, I began to jitter with nervous anticipation.
That anticipation built up through the intros, the anthem, as the drivers strapped into their machines, the "start your engines" command, and the first few pace laps. It came to a crescendo as the cars lined up in rows of two, their engines spooled up along the backstretch, and they finally came roaring out of turn four to take the green flag. I excitedly waved the green flag I'd been given at the entrance, along with 35,000 of my closest friends. The cars jostled back and forth, dodging and weaving as they sought to gain positions while so closely packed. Eventually, Dario Franchitti of the dominant Target race team began to pull away, as he had on more than one prior occasion.
But my eye wasn't often on him. I was more interested in the black #26 car with red scales and glaring red eyes on the front wing - the Venom Energy Drink-sponsored car of Marco Andretti. Grandson of fabled race driver Mario, Marco has shown flashes of brilliance throughout his young career, but rarely has been able to close, having only one win in five years of competition. He can come off as aloof and spoiled, supposedly symptoms of shyness (which I can totally understand), but seems like a "good kid." In addition, he is aggressive and has more guts than many of his competitors, frequently putting his car in places few would try. About halfway through the race, having passed many cars from his poor starting position, I leaned over to Stacia and yelled "Marco's using the high line." She smiled and nodded, knowing from prior races that Marco would soon be making breathtaking passes on the outside.
And so he did, bringing his car to the lead briefly, then dicing with former winners Dario Franchitti and Tony Kanaan. As the laps counted down, Dario's car began to fade, but Marco and Tony only upped the intensity of their battle, with Marco sweeping high lap after lap to pull alongside Tony but not quite able to pull off the pass. Then, with about 20 to go, in one of the sweetest moves I've seen, Marco ran high through two turns to build up momentum, pulled up behind Kanaan on the straightaway and darted inside just before the turn-in. Squeezed down as low as he could be by his rival, Marco blasted out of the turn and took the lead. As they had throughout the night, the stands erupted as he blew past the flagstand.
This dogfight wasn't over though. Kanaan fought back, taking advantage of Marco's preference for the high lane to try to duck in underneath. As we nervously counted down the handful of laps we were away from Marco's second victory, I worried whether he could hold off the much more seasoned racer running just inches behind and alongside him. Then in one final show of strength, with 5 laps to go, Marco tightened his apex in turns 1 and 2, disturbing the air in front of Kanaan's car, causing him to lose downforce on the front wing. As Kanaan was forced to lift off the throttle to control his car, Marco powered away and took the win moments later. I stood and cheered, still shaking from the tenacious battle I'd just witnessed.
I did eventually get the picture of the scoring pylon I'd wanted all along, with the number 26 proudly showing at the top. Stacia and I talked about how fantastic a race it had been, and how incredibly furious we would have been had we chosen to skip it. I don't yet know if we'll come back next year - the series is rolling out a brand-new car, and I just don't know if it will provide the thrills this race did. Frankly I'm not sure it's possible. But for one phenomenal weekend, I saw the best race ever. That was well worth the sixty dollars.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Keepin' it local
I wish I could remember how I found out about Founding Farmers in Washington, D.C., because dining there was an almost literally life-changing experience. I doubt I sought out its niche, because before we went there I didn't even know that genre existed. No, it must have been while I was scouring list after list of D.C. restaurant reviews that something about Founding Farmers caught my eye. And I'm glad it did, because it was my first chance to dine at a farm-to-table restaurant.
The concept of farm-to-table is simple enough, so logical that you might think more restaurants than just a specialty niche would operate that way. The idea is just this: a restaurant forms close connections with local farms and producers, so their food comes straight from the farm to the restaurant (and your table) without needless middlemen or cross-country shipping. If you're interested in eating more locally, this is the style for you. Or even if you just want to know that the food you're about to eat is grown by an individual farmer who cares about her produce and animals, rather than a ConAgMonsanCargill feedlot nightmare, farm-to-table is a great way to feel better about what you're putting into your body.
At Founding Farmers, I kind of bucked convention by ordering fish, a Sole Meuniere, but it was locally caught by area fishermen and paired with locally grown potatoes and something both green and local (I want to say broccoli, but I could be wrong). Stacia opted to skip all that uppity pretense and got a burger and a beer, also from an area beef producer with local toppings and fries. It was some of the tastiest food I'd had while out to eat, and I was just blown away by the fact that it was all sourced from the greater D.C. area. I returned home, to the more fertile fields of central Iowa, and I was majorly bummed that we had no analogue here.
Or so I thought, until last night. Unfortunately it took a nudge from Groupon (who's still on probation with me from their Super Bowl ad) to take a chance on a restaurant called Mojo's on 86th. I like to think of myself as a Des Moines expert of sorts, but I'd never been out to visit Mojo's. Granted, it is kind of tucked away on the north side of Johnston, a suburb I'd long since written off as haven of reheated chain restaurant slop. Who knew I'd find my farm-to-table restaurant hidden a half mile up the road from Texas Roadhouse and Ruby Tuesday?
On being seated, we immediately noticed something a little, well, different about the menu. Across the top of the page, front and center, was a listing of all the local producers that Mojo's contracts with for their meals. I was happy to recognize some favorites from the downtown Farmer's Market, little guys like Berry Patch Farm, Foxhollow Farms, Iowa Farm Families and Turtle Creek Farms. Further down, almost every item on the menu lists the source for its main component or two. I opted to go for the Lamb Meatballs over spaetzle, from a place called Wirth Farms that I'd not heard of, but learned is just north of Ames, so quite close to home. Stacia opted for the Pork Medallions made from Iowa Farm Families Duroc pork - a heritage breed, more or less an "heirloom" pork. Hers also came with roasted carrots and a chorizo-raisin bread pudding.
Taste-wise, I'd love to say it was the best thing I'd ever eaten, but it's just a touch rough around the edges compared to Founding Farmers. Mine ended up being a fresh take on spaghetti and meatballs, so it was a bit basic, but still tasted quite good. Probably wasn't optimal ordering on my part. Stacia's pork medallions had good flavor, but were a bit well done for my preference. Trichinosis has been all but eradicated, so it's pretty darn safe (and much more delicious) to eat pork medium-rare, especially if you can trust its source. On a return trip, I'd be sure to ask for the pork med-rare to ensure it's as juicy as I like it. But where my entree was fairly basic, hers had a very unique flavor profile, with the salty-spicy chorizo balanced out by a nice honey-cream sauce and the sweetness of roasted carrots. If they'd pulled it from the heat a minute or two earlier, I would have been super jealous for ordering the wrong thing. As it was we were both reasonably pleased with taste, and thrilled that we'd supported the closest thing to a farm-to-table restaurant Des Moines has to offer.
One final note: for dessert we got a rhubarb cheesecake, which just screams local and in season, and tasted phenomenal to boot. We never ate rhubarb when I was growing up, but I've grown to love its in-your-face tartness, especially paired with the smooth creaminess of a cheesecake. That's one to try to replicate at home.
So we left, stomachs full, pockets a bit lighter (it wasn't exactly cheap), but extremely satisfied. It's a sad commentary on our food system today that the concept of bringing food directly from local farms to nearby restaurants is a niche market and not simply the way things are done. We drove back past the Texas Roadhouse on our way back home, and I had to shake my head at the packed parking lots. So many people eager to throw down money for a factory farmed, feedlot finished steak that came off a cow raised "in USA/Mexico." No joke, that's what many of the labels say - they can't even confirm that your steak came from this country, while just up the road is the "fancy" place where your steak is less than 50 miles from home. Not to mention the fact that they get to munch on grass rather than corn and other cows' waste like their feedlot brethren.
It would be great to be able to change that system, but it's part of a whole complicated mess of farm subsidies to keep people growing commodity crops, and the might of a few agribusiness giants dominating the landscape to shift animal rearing into food factories. For now I'm happy that I'm able to source my own ingredients from my garden, the farmer's market and my grass-fed beef buyer's club. And as of last night, even on days when I don't want to cook, I now have an option for a dinner that doesn't come with a side of doubt or regret. That's a good thing, and I can only hope that it starts to take off.
The concept of farm-to-table is simple enough, so logical that you might think more restaurants than just a specialty niche would operate that way. The idea is just this: a restaurant forms close connections with local farms and producers, so their food comes straight from the farm to the restaurant (and your table) without needless middlemen or cross-country shipping. If you're interested in eating more locally, this is the style for you. Or even if you just want to know that the food you're about to eat is grown by an individual farmer who cares about her produce and animals, rather than a ConAgMonsanCargill feedlot nightmare, farm-to-table is a great way to feel better about what you're putting into your body.
At Founding Farmers, I kind of bucked convention by ordering fish, a Sole Meuniere, but it was locally caught by area fishermen and paired with locally grown potatoes and something both green and local (I want to say broccoli, but I could be wrong). Stacia opted to skip all that uppity pretense and got a burger and a beer, also from an area beef producer with local toppings and fries. It was some of the tastiest food I'd had while out to eat, and I was just blown away by the fact that it was all sourced from the greater D.C. area. I returned home, to the more fertile fields of central Iowa, and I was majorly bummed that we had no analogue here.
Or so I thought, until last night. Unfortunately it took a nudge from Groupon (who's still on probation with me from their Super Bowl ad) to take a chance on a restaurant called Mojo's on 86th. I like to think of myself as a Des Moines expert of sorts, but I'd never been out to visit Mojo's. Granted, it is kind of tucked away on the north side of Johnston, a suburb I'd long since written off as haven of reheated chain restaurant slop. Who knew I'd find my farm-to-table restaurant hidden a half mile up the road from Texas Roadhouse and Ruby Tuesday?
On being seated, we immediately noticed something a little, well, different about the menu. Across the top of the page, front and center, was a listing of all the local producers that Mojo's contracts with for their meals. I was happy to recognize some favorites from the downtown Farmer's Market, little guys like Berry Patch Farm, Foxhollow Farms, Iowa Farm Families and Turtle Creek Farms. Further down, almost every item on the menu lists the source for its main component or two. I opted to go for the Lamb Meatballs over spaetzle, from a place called Wirth Farms that I'd not heard of, but learned is just north of Ames, so quite close to home. Stacia opted for the Pork Medallions made from Iowa Farm Families Duroc pork - a heritage breed, more or less an "heirloom" pork. Hers also came with roasted carrots and a chorizo-raisin bread pudding.
Taste-wise, I'd love to say it was the best thing I'd ever eaten, but it's just a touch rough around the edges compared to Founding Farmers. Mine ended up being a fresh take on spaghetti and meatballs, so it was a bit basic, but still tasted quite good. Probably wasn't optimal ordering on my part. Stacia's pork medallions had good flavor, but were a bit well done for my preference. Trichinosis has been all but eradicated, so it's pretty darn safe (and much more delicious) to eat pork medium-rare, especially if you can trust its source. On a return trip, I'd be sure to ask for the pork med-rare to ensure it's as juicy as I like it. But where my entree was fairly basic, hers had a very unique flavor profile, with the salty-spicy chorizo balanced out by a nice honey-cream sauce and the sweetness of roasted carrots. If they'd pulled it from the heat a minute or two earlier, I would have been super jealous for ordering the wrong thing. As it was we were both reasonably pleased with taste, and thrilled that we'd supported the closest thing to a farm-to-table restaurant Des Moines has to offer.
One final note: for dessert we got a rhubarb cheesecake, which just screams local and in season, and tasted phenomenal to boot. We never ate rhubarb when I was growing up, but I've grown to love its in-your-face tartness, especially paired with the smooth creaminess of a cheesecake. That's one to try to replicate at home.
So we left, stomachs full, pockets a bit lighter (it wasn't exactly cheap), but extremely satisfied. It's a sad commentary on our food system today that the concept of bringing food directly from local farms to nearby restaurants is a niche market and not simply the way things are done. We drove back past the Texas Roadhouse on our way back home, and I had to shake my head at the packed parking lots. So many people eager to throw down money for a factory farmed, feedlot finished steak that came off a cow raised "in USA/Mexico." No joke, that's what many of the labels say - they can't even confirm that your steak came from this country, while just up the road is the "fancy" place where your steak is less than 50 miles from home. Not to mention the fact that they get to munch on grass rather than corn and other cows' waste like their feedlot brethren.
It would be great to be able to change that system, but it's part of a whole complicated mess of farm subsidies to keep people growing commodity crops, and the might of a few agribusiness giants dominating the landscape to shift animal rearing into food factories. For now I'm happy that I'm able to source my own ingredients from my garden, the farmer's market and my grass-fed beef buyer's club. And as of last night, even on days when I don't want to cook, I now have an option for a dinner that doesn't come with a side of doubt or regret. That's a good thing, and I can only hope that it starts to take off.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Seeking Sullivan
Regular readers of the blog may have noticed it's been a really long time since I've written about my classic movie project (watching all of the films on the AFI 100 best movie lists). In fact, it has been exactly 56 days since I last posted on the subject. So what gives? Have I, yet again, given up on a project I've started? The good news is that, no, I haven't. I'm just starting to fall behind because of this:
Sullivan's Travels, a 1941 comedy that I'd never heard of prior to starting this project. I don't much know what it's about, but I do know it's apparently hard to come by. I typically get my classic films from either Turner Classic Movies, recorded to the DVR, or else Netflix. TCM hasn't had this on the schedule for quite some time, so I haven't been able to record it, and Netflix doesn't have it available for streaming. That leaves Netflix DVD, or else seeking it out at a local library. Two problems with that, though.
1) I always forget to return things on time to the library. Always. Even with the nice libraries (I'm talking to you, Des Moines and Urbandale) that email you reminders about due dates, I find myself not getting back to the library in time to avoid having to pay. As a result I think I have modest fines on all four of my area library cards. Not that it's a problem; it's good to support the library. But when I have movies piling up on the DVR, it seems silly to risk fines just to get to the next one in line.
2) This is very much my project, not mine and Stacia's. Sadly, S does not share my affinity for old films, so she really doesn't care to watch them all with me. Usually I can convince her to watch the really good ones if I want to see them a second time. Not really a problem, but our Netflix account is a 1-out-at-a-time, and it really is ours, so any old movies have to get worked into the rotation fairly. I finagled Citizen Kane in earlier this month, but to be equitable, there should be some "us" DVDs in queue next before we get to another one of mine. Again, it's not an issue to me, since there are so many others that are streamable and on TCM.
It just means that the next "filmfest" might not be complete for a little while. I'm just missing Sullivan's Travels for the next batch, then similarly one movie for the next group after that. I will get there. But in the meantime, I'm fitting in whichever movies I do have on the DVR, working ahead, if you will. Just last night I watched The Petrified Forest, which is only a nominee for one of AFI's top 100 movie villains, but it sounded interesting so I gave it a shot while Sullivan is still MIA. (Pretty average, incidentally - 3/5 petrified hunks of wood, awarded for Bogie's wooden acting).
So fear not if you haven't seen any movie reviews on here in a while. They're coming, albeit slowly. I'm still having fun with it, and I'm still not overly pressuring myself to finish them all, so everything's good from my perspective. If I can keep patient on this, I'm sure somehow you guys will manage too.
Sullivan's Travels, a 1941 comedy that I'd never heard of prior to starting this project. I don't much know what it's about, but I do know it's apparently hard to come by. I typically get my classic films from either Turner Classic Movies, recorded to the DVR, or else Netflix. TCM hasn't had this on the schedule for quite some time, so I haven't been able to record it, and Netflix doesn't have it available for streaming. That leaves Netflix DVD, or else seeking it out at a local library. Two problems with that, though.
1) I always forget to return things on time to the library. Always. Even with the nice libraries (I'm talking to you, Des Moines and Urbandale) that email you reminders about due dates, I find myself not getting back to the library in time to avoid having to pay. As a result I think I have modest fines on all four of my area library cards. Not that it's a problem; it's good to support the library. But when I have movies piling up on the DVR, it seems silly to risk fines just to get to the next one in line.
2) This is very much my project, not mine and Stacia's. Sadly, S does not share my affinity for old films, so she really doesn't care to watch them all with me. Usually I can convince her to watch the really good ones if I want to see them a second time. Not really a problem, but our Netflix account is a 1-out-at-a-time, and it really is ours, so any old movies have to get worked into the rotation fairly. I finagled Citizen Kane in earlier this month, but to be equitable, there should be some "us" DVDs in queue next before we get to another one of mine. Again, it's not an issue to me, since there are so many others that are streamable and on TCM.
It just means that the next "filmfest" might not be complete for a little while. I'm just missing Sullivan's Travels for the next batch, then similarly one movie for the next group after that. I will get there. But in the meantime, I'm fitting in whichever movies I do have on the DVR, working ahead, if you will. Just last night I watched The Petrified Forest, which is only a nominee for one of AFI's top 100 movie villains, but it sounded interesting so I gave it a shot while Sullivan is still MIA. (Pretty average, incidentally - 3/5 petrified hunks of wood, awarded for Bogie's wooden acting).
So fear not if you haven't seen any movie reviews on here in a while. They're coming, albeit slowly. I'm still having fun with it, and I'm still not overly pressuring myself to finish them all, so everything's good from my perspective. If I can keep patient on this, I'm sure somehow you guys will manage too.
Friday, May 27, 2011
0.00459 acres and some worms
It is an interesting time for the garden. As I've mentioned earlier, we made a plan and a schedule for every square inch of our 96 square feet at the Downtown Community Garden. So far it has all been going well, as our little piece of earth has transitioned from bare soil, to sporadic sprouts and seedlings, all the way to where we are today, with plants up in every single box. And as exciting as it is to watch each plant emerge from beneath the cover of the ground, exclaiming with delight at each new discovery, right now is so much better. Better, because it means we finally have something to eat!
Yes, these are the salad days of the garden. And I mean that in the most literal sense possible: we've been eating salad on a nearly-daily basis for about a week now with no signs of slowing! The master plan, drawn up in the dead of winter, called for planting a full bed each with spinach and lettuce, intending all along to replace them with peppers and zucchini once it's warmed beyond the leafy greens' happy temperature. We haven't reached that part of the growing season yet, though, so it means that every trip down to the garden results in a bag full of lettuce and spinach that seems to grow back almost as soon as it's picked. It's glorious! Last night we had lettuce-spinach salads with homegrown radishes, homemade croutons, and a hard-boiled egg. It was a delicious meal, and practically the only thing on it we didn't raise ourselves was the egg. We're planning to work on that part in the future, but we'll need a bit more land than we have in our little condo.
So things are going almost perfectly according to plan. The biggest concern I can dream up right now is if our heirloom "Slobolt" lettuce decides to keep producing into the summer and I have to choose between pulling our lettuce and planting our peppers or running the risk that the peppers don't have time to mature. Not exactly the worst problem to have, right? But we'll cross that bridge if and when we come to it. For right now, nothing can throw the garden off track.
Unless...
Someone decides they no longer want to garden downtown, putting their plot up as available, while simultaneously we discover that there is a two (2!) plot per household limit. Saying yes to this was a no-brainer, but it really does put a kink in our plans. All the scheduling we've done, all the allocation of how many seedlings to start, was all done based on a 96 sq ft farm. How would we have planned differently if we'd known we had 192??? Things might have been laid out totally differently, but no sense in worrying about that now. Today's reality is we have the wonderful gift of an untouched 8x12 ft rectangle of garden.
And when I say untouched, I really mean untouched. There are literally trees growing in this plot. And weeds. Lots and lots of weeds. And something that looks like leeks, but honestly, I'm not really sure. So regardless of what we might or might not have planned to plant in this space, the plan from this point forward is pretty clear. Weeding. Pitchforking. Weeding. Adding compost. And more weeding. Then we can start thinking about what to plant here. Wednesday we headed down to at least get some of the big monstrosities out of the bed. It's still not perfect, but I think it's an improvement.
At present, and once we get the remaining weeds out, it's looking like this will be the Zink Square Footage vine patch. Zucchini will be relocated to this space, and we grabbed some Seed Savers Butternut Squash seeds. Despite never eating it as a kid, I've grown to really love Butternut Squash, so I'll be very excited to have some of our very own. Maybe throw in a couple of cucumbers or something, possibly some root veggies to help bust up the soil, and we're looking pretty good. Ideally, this will also, in part, become a garlic plot this fall. I can hardly think of a recipe that I cook that doesn't use garlic, so it would be a lot of fun to grow some of the more unique varieties in our plot.
Zink Square Footage is still pretty small, but we're expanding. We don't yet have 40 acres and a mule, but we do have 200 square feet, and a few thousand worms. If that's not a respectable urban farm, I don't know what is!
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Monday (no, Tuesday) Morning Photo
It's been a pretty action-packed several days (hence the Monday morning photo being posted on Tuesday), but strangely few pictures were taken over the last 7 days. In some ways that's not a surprise, since this little project was born of a desire to take more photos in the first place, and actually parse them for good ones before relegating them to the abyss of my hard drive.
There were so many activities over the weekend that would have been good photo ops, but it wasn't til Sunday evening that I actually took a photo. Saturday morning we went to the farmers market, which is frequently picturesque, but we wisely opted to go during the heaviest rain and highest wind of the day ;) so our focus was much more on efficient shopping than photographing. That afternoon we went to see my bro-in-law play his first game in the semi-pro baseball league he joined, but all the seats were behind a big chain link fence, and those kind of pictures almost never turn out.
But we also ended up making three trips down to our garden, so that's today's picture. A worm's-eye view of our progress in one of the raised beds. That giant tree in the foreground is a young broccoli, you can see some neatly spaced kale off to the left, all against the backdrop of our spectacularly climbing peas.
None of these guys are producing food just yet, but they're really starting to come along. I thought the broccoli were doing pretty well under the grow light at home, but they have really taken off once they got into the ground and saw some real sunlight. It should be another month or so and we'll hopefully be eating delicious broccoli we grew ourselves. In the interim, we are feasting on the less photogenic but equally delicious lettuce, spinach and radishes that are starting to ripen. I love our garden, and I kinda love this picture. It really captures the magic in between seed and food - the incredible process that we have set into motion to generate food from the absolute basics. That's a good feeling.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
