Once returned from Las Vegas, the everyday activity between waking and sleeping seems quite ordinary. This is the way it happens every time. There is relief at being home, followed by latent endorphin withdrawal, followed by sense of contentment at the normal things in life.

And it is quite normal. Friday night was a ridiculous evening of bar hopping with my fellow thirty-something married male friends. Saturday night was date night with the wife (Portafino's chicken marsala was good, "I Am Legend" was about what you'd expect). Sunday was making ziti, taking the kid to "Alvin and the Chipmunks," and then watching "Good Night, and Good Luck."

You know, normal.

In fact, apart watching my wife jump out of her seat during "I Am Legend," the most significant event of the weekend was the arrival of my first-ever Netflix DVDs. Sure, I know I'm late to the game. In the past, I had a hard time justifying the cost of the service. Even I couldn't understand my resistance to the service. I mean, I spent $20 in a jukebox battle on Friday night, but 'm not going to spend $15 a month to get unlimited movies? I didn't make sense.

A few nights ago, however, I figured it all out.

I have had HBO for as long as I have been an adult. With DirecTV, HBO cost me $13 a month. The wife and I also spend about $12-15 a month renting DVDs. Once "The Sopranos" went off for good, I realized that HBO had nothing more to offer me but Inside the NFL and Real Sports. I decided I could live without those shows, canceled HBO, and signed up with Netflix.

The decision turned out to be pretty easy. I signed up for the plan that gives me unlimited DVDs (two at a time) and unlimited streaming movies on my laptop. Within a week, the subscription has already paid for itself. I've been a little giddy over the service and spent more than a little time setting up my queue of films. Any recommendations?

Normal life is a pretty comfortable thing. It rarely lasts as long as I'd like, but when it happens, I tend to enjoy it. If my calculations are right, this normalcy should last about two weeks before life gets odd again.

I'll take it while I can get it.

Labels: Film, Mental Massage, Mt. Otis

I just spent nearly three weeks on the graveyard shift. You'd really be surprised how dead the world becomes between midnight at 6am ET. People must really like this sleeping thing. By 2am, I'd usually found the end of the Internet and didn't have much else to do but watch TV. Again, you'd be surprised how badly programmed TV is at 3am. I mean, how about a little consideration for the hotel clerks, Taco Bell drive thru workers, and security guards? If advertising is any indication, the only people who are awake at this time are men who would like bigger penises.

Fortunately, satellite TV had some halfway decent movie programming. So, here's a list of what I watched while you were sleeping.

The Weatherman--Nicolas Cage flick that I really thought was going to be a comedy. It. Is. Not. Somehow I couldn't stop thinking about my buddy Uncle Ted.

Deceiver--Tom Roth, Chris Penn, and Michael Rooker. I really like watching all three actors. The movie felt like it was inspired by Usual Suspects but never really got there.

The Untouchables--I'd watch it again right now (for the 97th time) to see Bobby DeNiro do the baseball speech.

Live From Baghdad --I'll admit, I have both a Michael Keaton and Helena Bohham Carter fetish. Different reasons, of course. Because I was a TV guy for a long time (and always thought--before I got married and had a kid--that I'd end up in a war zone), I watch this movie for a little vicarious living. Of course, it's fictionalized to a degree, but I like HBO films and this is no exception.

Singles--Another movie I've seen more times that I should've. If you've ever ever heard me use the phrase, "If you're going to have the operation, have the operation," this is where I picked it up.

Inside Deep Throat--Pretty good documentary on the making and fallout from the most famous porn film of all. Also, rather explicit. If you've never see Deep Throat, this documentary is a good excuse to watch The Scene. "Honey, it's educational! It's a documentary!"

The Omen--It's a really bad day when you realize your son is the Antichrist. At least Damien was adopted.

Sleep With Me--Mid-90s Eric Stolz flick that I had actually never seen before. I thought the movie was terribly miscast, but was very happy to see Parkey Posey half naked.

I Like Killing Flies--This one, I really enjoyed. It was a low budget doc about a famous New York restaurant's closing. The foul-mouthed owner is a cross between the Soup Nazi and an amalgam of your favorite social commentators. If you find the time, watch this one. It is poignant and funny.

Shadow of a Doubt--Old Hitchcock film that I surprisingly hadn't seen before. While a little long, it was really enjoyable. Based on the relationship between a daydreaming girl and her uncle (who may or may not be a serial killer). Movie was just as funny as it was suspenseful.

Call Northside 777--Another old one. While completely inconceivable plot line, it's the story of a journalist's quest to get a good story and simultaneously prove a convicted killer innocent.

Vertigo--Classic Hitchcock.

Black Dahlia--Damn, how many damn movies are going to be made on this subject. Let it die. Only enjoyed this movie because I got to see sweet, sweet Scarlett.

Rank--A pretty good documentary on professional bull riding. Yeah, I didn't think I'd enjoy it either, but I really did.

Friends of God--Alexandra Pelosi's take on Evangelicals in America. About what you'd expect after her Journeys With George doc. Some really funny stuff with Ted Haggard talking about how Christians have the best sex.

Jarhead--I didn't expect to enjoy this one as much as I did.

Die Hard--Yeah. Like every time it's on.

Our Brand Is Crisis-- The War Room re-set in Bolivia.

Swingers--You always double down on eleven.

Broadcast News--A movie my wife and I bonded over about a decade and a lifetime ago.

Serpico--Pacino, Pacino, Pacino. Tough to be a bad cop in a good town. Wait, that's not right.

The Right Stuff--Can you believe I'd never actually seen this one before?

Labels: Film

This week finds me too overwhelmed with make-money work to do the not-make-so-much-money work here. I'm working some odd hours and find myself up late most nights watching whatever I can find on TV. I'm actually planning a post on this subject, but I couldn't let my favorite scene from Alfred Hitchcock's "Shadow of a Doubt" go by. To understand it properly and in context, you should see the movie. Regardless, I find it to be both funny and poignant.

Charlie: What's the matter with you two? Do you always have to talk about killing people?

Joe: We're not talking about killing people. Herb's talking about killing me, and I'm talking about killing him.

Emma: It's your father's way of relaxing.

Labels: Film

It's a guilty little pleasure, I suppose, my repeated viewing of the movie "Days of Thunder." It's the type of thing I'd never mention in front of my more enlightened friends, but when the NASCAR flick comes on TV, I don't turn it off. When Robert Duval jokes, "We're eating ice cream," I laugh. When he lumbers off into an old man's run at the end of the movie, saying, "I'll race your ass," I can't help but think, "Damn, right!" Like riding mopeds or enjoying the song "Lucas with the Lid Off," we all have things we do that we wouldn't want our friends seeing.

That, I hope, serves as some explanation for what ran through my mind last night as I stood in the kitchen with my hands buried in a giant bowl full of dough. Everything in my amateur culinary mind screamed, "This is going to be a disaster. Abort! Abort, you arrogant son of a bitch!"

But, on a more subconscious level, I heard the voice of Tom Cruise as Cole Trickle. It said, "There's nothing I can't do with a race car."

I didn't consider the Dianetics involved or whether I was under the influence of a psychiatrist at the time. Instead, I thought to myself, "There's nothing I can't do in the kitchen."

In reality, I know this to be untrue. It's not been six months since I made an uneducated and overconfident foray into the world of Thai food. My noodles ended up looking like something that came from a monkey's skull. A couple of years ago, I tried to experiment with a chile pepper and incorporate it into fairly simple Mexican dish. We ended up ordering a pizza.

Still, for a guy who is so afraid of failure, I have a bit of hubris when it comes to things involving pots and pans. I received an early education from my mom and grandma, two women who I still consider to be the best homestyle cooks I've ever known. Since then, I have spent countless hours reading, practicing, experimenting, and believing that, indeed, "There's nothing I can't do in the kitchen."

I know people who cook better than I do. I don't think I'm the best by any means. For instance, when we invited my friend Shep on an annual camping and music festival trip we take, I was only looking forward to his company. He showed up and built a mobile kitchen. He ended up cooking two meals a day for 20 people, all of whom raved--after the food was gone and there was nothing left to shove in their mouths. No, I am not the best, but cooking is something at which I am competent. I am not afraid to cook for people. In fact, I enjoy it.

That's how I ended up covered in flour and using a particular twelve letter phrase indicating Oedipal lust.

Some time within the last year, I developed a fascination with gnocchi. For those who don't know, gnocchi are small Italian dumplings. They're made with potatoes, wheat flour, or bread crumbs. The recipes for gnocchi are as varied as you could ever want. I chose to go with the potato variety.

There's nothing I can't do with a potato.

If there had been a camera on me and a camera on my food, they would've shown two different things. Over the course of an hour, the bowl went from filled with boiled potatoes to full of the most perfect looking dough you could ever want. The dough formed into balls. It morphed into perfectly sized snakes and then into small, fork-pressed dumplings which eventually found their way into a boiling pot of water.

During that same time, the camera on me would've been something that would show up on You Tube...a sweating, cursing, flour-covered thirty-something man shoving raw dough into his mouth and shaking his fist at an unseen culinary deity. I think I knew halfway through the process that I was going to fail. However, I couldn't admit it to myself. There's nothing I can't do with a boiling pot of water.

Duval's character would've finally had it up to his trucker hat with me. As I constructed my sauce, sauteed shallots and garlic, and tossed it all with with some shrimp, I could almost hear the disembodied voice of Harry Hogge saying, "I can't talk to that son of a bitch. I really can't."

I looked at the clock. The dinner hour had passed. Hell, the dessert hour had passed. My kid was in bed, the dog was sleeping, and the wife was starting to look ill. I strained the gnocchi from their watery grave and popped one in my mouth.

I muttered that twelve letter phrase and forced myself to swallow the lump. Something was wrong.

I grabbed another dumpling and swirled it in some Extra Virgin and herbs. I can't remember what bad word I used then, because I was too busy forking a third dumpling and dunking it in a pot of Mornay sauce. It was like the moment Cole Trickle just couldn't take it anymore, jammed down on the clutch, and blew his engine. I couldn't decide if I hated myself more for blowing the gnocchi or spending my time making a Mornay. What in the hell was I thinking? Mornay with a dumpling? I might as well have fed my wife Elmer's Glue Soup with a giant matzo ball.

In any amateur cook's life, there is a visible moment of concession that usually begins with a resigned sigh and ends with the sound of a whirring garbage disposal. In between, for me, was a trip to the pantry where I pulled out a half-full box of Spaghetti Rigati and threw it at the boiling pot of water. I can't even remember how I plated the food. I only remember my wife saying, "This is good," and me wanting to ask her how often she lies to my face. I was afraid to go to bed with her for fear of being lied to there as well. An hour or so later, my plate was sitting--still full--on the counter. My wife's was empty in the sink. Her lies, apparently, extend to the ability to hold down my culinary missteps.

"Days of Thunder" ends with Trickle in victory lane. My day ended in a two pound lump at my curb. The trash man had a little extra weight to carry this morning. Me? I carry the burden of knowing that there are things I can't do in the kitchen, and apparently making gnocchi is one of them.

Labels: Cooking, Film, Food

Alright, that last post was written really early this morning and I don't think it makes much sense. Because I wanted to laugh today, I went back and watched Little Lost Robot's "Last Girlfriend." Nothing like a post apocolytpic love tragedy to get my week started off right.

Labels: Film

I'm sad.

I've had this idea for a book for a long time. It would be funny if I could just sit down and write it. The working title of the book was "Gollywood."

Then, a bunch of stars (Renee Zellweger and George Clooney) invaded town to film some romantic comedy about football. It has the local small towns all abuzz and a few papparazi in town. We often call this place G-Vegas, so, it seemed appropriate to call it Gollywood this week.

So, I was going to write a big, funny post and call it Gollywood.

And then, just to make sure I had a good idea that nobody had come up with before, I Googled it...and realized that my little title is a little used up.

So, forget it.

Labels: Books, Film

There are some actors I seek out. There are actors that serve as the only reason I watch a film. There are some actors who are so consistent that, regardless of how good or bad their last performance was, I will continue to seek them out.

Greg Kinnear is not one of those actors.

Don't get me wrong. Back in the early days of "Talk Soup," I considered Kinnear to be daily viewing. Not only that, I enjoyed his performance in "As Good As It Gets" and Auto Focus.

Last night was movie night on Mt. Otis. After a frustrating hour in the neighborhood movie rental store, I emerged with a movie I knew was good and a movie I hoped would at least keep me entertained.

I had not heard one person say a bad word about "Little Miss Sunshine." In fact, on a recent long flight, I had trouble sleeping. The movie was playing and people were laughing so hard, it cut through my fatigue. Last night, the wife and I nearly woke up the kid. It had been a long time since I'd seen a movie that could make everyone from my parents to my hipster friends laugh until it hurt. And I thought Kinnear put on a great performance. Sure, the rest of the cast overshadowed him at times, but, hey, that cast could overshadow a lot of good actors.

Because the wife and I weren't tired yet, we popped in the second movie. Don't ask me why I rented "The Matador." Maybe it's because I know my wife thinks, "Pierce Brosnan gets sexier the older he gets." Or maybe it's because I like movies with hit men in them. Or maybe it's because I have a habit of renting two movies with the same actor. Regardless, "The Matador" made its way to our DVD player and we watched it from beginning to end. Therein I found myself wondering if I was watching the same Kinnear I'd just seen in "Little Miss Sunshine."

With not a lot of time or desire to make a real argument here, I couldn't help thinking that whoever made the "The Matador" really wanted William H. Macy for Kinnear's role, but couldn't get him. Instead, he got Kinnear and said, "Okay, for this scene, I really want you to act like William H. Macy. Think you can pull that off?"

I know precious little about the movie-making world. What I do know comes from friends who are either actors or in the business of making or reviewing films. I do none of that. I am a consumer and nothing more. That said, I think there are probably smart people out there who would entertain the idea that the script for "The Matador" needed some serious doctoring. Either that, or it was over-doctored. All I know is that after watching Kinnear do a fantastic job in "Little Miss Sunshine," it was rather disappointing to see him in "The Matador."

It makes me wonder how much power writers and directors have over actors. Actors gotta eat, so they take jobs when they need them. I guess actors like Kinnear aren't really in a position to turn down as many scripts as some other high-dollar talent. What's pretty amazing to me, as a lowly consumer, is how much power a script can have over my perception of an actor. If I knew nothing of Kinnear or had not ready any reviews on Little Miss Sunshine, I might have accidentally watched "The Matador" first and then looked at "Little Miss Sunshine" and thought, "Well, that can't be very good."

Of course, one reason I will never work in the review industry is I have a hard time offering criticism for artists of any kind (that and the fact that I have never written anything resembling a review in my life that was anywhere near good writing). In reviewing Kinnear's bio, I just learned that he graduated with a degree in Broadcast Journalism and then went on to be a Hollywood star.

Now I have to back off any criticism of the dude. Why? Well, I think anyone who majors in broadcast journalism and ends up making something of himself deserves some respect.

I, as you know, am still working toward that goal.

Labels: Film

A creature of habit, and a habitual creature, I'm back on a rhythm that makes me think 2am is 6pm. The house is quiet enough for sipping beer and turning my noodle inside-out for a while. Early this morning, while the dog snoozed on a pillow, the kid rustled in bed, and the wife slept off a late-autmn cold, I turned on the TV.

The programming selection, as usual, was poor. For a while, I found myself watching Justine Bateman and Juila Roberts in "Satisfaction" and wondering what programming genius thought it would be good to slip that one back in rotation. I watched it longer than I intended before realizing I had killed just enough brain cells to forget how old I turn on Monday.

Sundance was showing a film titled "Winter Soldier."

I'll admit, though this film was made before I was born and re-released last year, I'd never heard of it. In short, more than 100 Vietnam vets went to Detroit in 1971 to testify in front of TV cameras about atrocities during the war.

Watch it. If you find it at all compelling, be prepared to be called an idiot by anyone who opposes John Kerry. I've done little more research than wiki-ing the movie, but it's pretty clear the film's contents are hot enough to spark the kind of debate that results in moving exactly nowhere. Because the event was put on by anti-war activists, it was largely assumed that much of the testimony was false or exaggerated for effect.

I don't know. I never will know. But I do know this: It would be damned interesting to take 125 vets of Iraq and put them in front of a camera for a day.

Labels: Film

Update: Come here looking for an answer on the Jimmy Crack Corn Cingular commcerical? All your answers can be found at Jimmy Crack Corn and Cingular is Forced to Care.

So, after spending nearly four weeks focused on one unspeakable subject, I'm to a point at which I no longer have to sit and worry about whether I'm going to be working in Glendive, MT come 2007. The past four weeks aren't really a subject for for a public blog, but suffice it to say, they involved a lot of life and family choices that I wasn't really prepared to make. My wife was not pregnant and I wasn't deciding whether I'm gay. It was a professional thing that still isn't fully resolved. However, as I wrote to a friend yesterday, it's liberating to accept that normalcy is less the norm than relative chaos. So, there's that.

Now that I'm not unduly focused on whether the view out my window is going to change, my mind has been a wandering mess. My regular daydreams have become even more regular. I'm a silly, sappy fool that, for the moment, is bouncing from subject to subject. So, today you get the silt that's settled in my fingers. The following mental notes are in no particular order.

***

We live on a street that boasts five surburban tract homes. We have lived here for going on seven years and are the longest-running remaining residents of a street that is really hard to spell. Three of the four other houses have sold once apiece since we moved here in 2000. Our neighbors in those three houses are all great people and I could live on the same street with them for a long time without wanting for more or to kill them. The fifth house, the one directly across the street from our's, is owned by someone who doesn't live there. It's been leased several times in the last several years. The first resident was a fairly hot woman who worked in her yard in a bikini. We called her Repo, because the cops came and took all her shit one day. After that, an odd family that only came out of the house on Independence Day moved in. There was an odd People Under the Stairs vibe about them. After that, a preacher and his wife moved in. They didn't stay long. Bradoween 2005 was enough to scare anyone of serious faith.

Now, we have the people my wife has taken to calling The Pilgrims, in most part because the mother occasionally dresses like a Mayflower woman. They are home schooling people and of a faith I neither understand nor believe is actually recognized by the government. The woman of the house can occasinally be seen running into her house from her car. The man of the house ran his car into my curb on Saturday night, destroying a large slab of concrete that covers our neighborhood's drainage system. When I went out to ask if he was okay, he rebuffed me with a simple "yes," and drove his semi-crippled car into the driveway without another word.

I only bring these folks up because they are even odder than the People Under the Stairs who lived here a couple of years ago. That and the fact that the home schooling involves music instruction and one of the kids plays violin. (Some day I'll have to tell you about Halloween and how this house handled it). Now, usually, the kid plays his fiddle inside and plays it loud enough that I can hear it in my house. Recently, he's taken to playing the thing outside.

Here's the thing...the last couple of days "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" has been in heavy rotation on a local rock station. The Pilgrims, Charlie Daniels, and too much time to think...well, they've all got me daydreaming that the kid across the street might be the devil. If I hear anything about chickens kicking out dough, I may start re-examininig my system of faith.

***

Does Iran's President not look like the guy who would sell you a joint at some jam band show? He has this smile that says, "kind bud, fatty burritoes" and a beard that just doesn't fit a president.

If we had a Wayback Machine (and not the kind that reminds me of how Rapid Eye Reality looked over the past five years), do you think we might spend less time beating up the Taliban and Iraq and might have focused a little more on North Korea and Iran? I mean, whether Iran's main man smokes dope is not really worth discussing if he gets The Bomb.

Just askin'.

***

A recent legal ruling has re-affirmed my faith in the courts for five minutes. If you didn't hear, Panera Bread recently tried to get the courts to keep a Mexican eatery from opening in a shopping center in which the over-priced sandwich store had an outlet. Apparently, Panera had a deal with the shopping center that made it clear another sandwich shop couldn't take up residence in the same area. Panera argued that since Mexican restaurants serve burritoes, they shouldn't be allowed to open. A judge finally ruled that a burrito is not a sandwich and Panera lost in its bid to completely piss me off.

Problem about this is, I'm now spending way too much time thinking about the legal implications of this ruling and what other foods are not other foods. Most recently, I've been wondering whether coffee could be considered a soup.

***

I rented two movies last weekend, both featuring William H. Macy. "Thank You For Smoking" was okay but left me wondering if the comedic possibilities of the film were not fully tapped. I also rented "Edmond" because I like Macy and I like David Mamet.

Edmond...

See, I said I like Macy and I like Mamet. I said that, right? Okay, that said, "Edmond" was so fucking full of itself, it made me question if I really like Mamet. Macy was good, as usual.

Okay, here's where I'm all fucked up. Maybe I need to watch the movie again. I want to rail on it, but I feel like I do when a friend works hard on something that ultimately sucks and then asks, "So, whatta ya think?"

Anyone else seen this one?

***

Is it Earl? Cat got your tongue? Earl got your tongue?

***

I could spend all day doing this, but since I have a lot of work to do in the next few hours, I'm going to end this silliness here. Otherwise, I'm going to go off on something about communal living.

Labels: Film, Mental Massage, Mt. Otis