Self-Service

Yesterday, my friend Isaac pulled his Mercedes up to a gas pump in West L.A. and started the fill-up. A car pulled up across the island and the driver, with an Italian accent, asked Isaac if here were Italian. When Isaac answered no, the driver asked if he could ask him a question. As Isaac stepped nearer, the driver started rambling about being related to Armani and confused about something, yada, yada yada... But in this car's window, Isaac could see the reflection of his Mercedes behind him and saw a man starting in from the other side.

Isaac ran around to that open door and slammed it on the intruder, pushing him into the car. With his keys in hand, Isaac locked the car doors, trapping the intruder. He took out his Blackberry and dialed 911. The intruder hollered and begged to be let out and the driver drove off.

The cops came within a couple minutes and took over. The intruder insisted that Isaac pushed him into the car and locked him in. (For what--ransom? And he needed cops to help him? Which reminds me of the time the Deputies questioned me about a crazy guy who had just attacked me and others on the Sunset Strip before running off. As we spoke, we were radioed by another deputy, who had caught the guy and was guarding him, awaiting our arrival for identification. When we got there, the surly suspect said, "Yeah. That's the guy that attacked me for no reason". Fortunately, they didn't believe him, either.

The cops took Isaac's intruder into custody and told Isaac this was a common crime. One partner distracts someone at a gas station while the other partner quickly searches the car for a quick grab of purse, wallet, whatever.

This was reminiscent of the duo that tried to grab our money when Julie and I were walking in Barcelona, a few months ago.

It is also a reminder to never drop your guard when a stranger asks for directions or even just seems to want to chat. Never leave valuables on a car seat or anywhere within view. Isaac thought I needed particular warning because I am so ready to respond to strangers, but I am careful, often alert, and have no problem giving a quick "no" and curt shake of the head when I feel like it is appropriate. And I did send the two in Barcelona running, but I was lucky, they only wanted to rob us, not hurt us.

You don't have to be paranoid, but, as Randy Newman sings, "It's a jungle out there", - and not all the creatures are friendly.

At least you now have a verifiable Urban Alert that is not a mythical urban myth.

The Great Debate

The unresolved debate is, Who Makes the Movie? Is it the writer, the director, producer, editor, actors or simply a collaboration of all film departments? When it comes to most movies, either one, or all of the above can be reasonably argued. But with the good movie, there is really no argument: the good movie makes itself.

There is something that happens in the creation of some movies that is beyond the abilities and talents of the artists involved. The film takes on a life of its own and makes demands of its contributors a quality of effort that they have seldom, if ever, reached before or even after. Casablanca is such a film. D.O.A. is another. I don't want to make a list, but many a Best Picture Oscar winner would be on it. Bombay Millionaire was one, and this year, I think The Hurt Locker will be another.

When you see The Hurt Locker, you will recognize it as a film that made itself. The writer, director, actors and etc. were hard working mid-wives to the process. Being true to its own instinctive nature, it might not be a major motion picture or lasting work of art, but it is what it wanted to be and its titular filmmakers were artistic enough to not get in its way.

Avatar, on the other hand was made by a filmmaker. His brain and hand are all over the product. He knew what he wanted and he damn well got it on film. But the end result is not recognizably organic. It is manufactured. Though it is a credit to the dedication, determination and skills of the filmmaker, it is machine made, mechanistic and heartless.

The Motion Picture Academy's choice this year will come down to these two films. The self-made film and the machine made film. And the world waits breathlessly for the result.

The Chicago Dog

Peter sent me a link to a Chowhound reference to a little hot dog stand in Berkeley that features Chicago style hot dogs. The photo of the stand is very reminiscent of the stands where I scarfed down a dog or two-at-a-time in my youth. I look forward to trying it out on my next trip to the Bay Area, but not without some reservation.

As I replied to Peter, the Chicago dog I've encountered in California is essentially a rebuilt version of the one familiar to me. The only place outside of Chicago that I have found it's true incarnation is at an annual stand at the L.A. County Fair in Pomona every September. Other stands in the L.A. area that offer a Chicago style dog generally offer a polish sausage as their basic ingredient. I like Polish, Hungarian, German and many other sausages, but a Chicago dog is a wiener, and industrial standard wieners seldom have the right blend of spicy mystery meat in a tight tube that pops its juice when you first bite into it that is required in a good Chicago dog.

Today's dogs can be tasty, but I don't rate any as better than L.A.'s Original Tommy's Famous, which is similar to a Chicago dog but with added chili and cortidos. The original Chicago, like many other sinful sandwiches in the Midwest, includes French fries in the bun. As you know, taking the mixed flavors on the palate in each bite is a different experience than taking a bite of this then a bite of that, and it's amazing how big a bite a mouth can manage.

A hot dog is one thing, a chili dog is another, and a Chicago dog is something else, again. And I was never able to eat just one.

The Shady Side

I am, as anyone who regularly reads this blog knows, in undeniably good health, so it should not be taken out of context that I feel that I am becoming acquainted with death. It may not be imminent, yet seems nearby; maybe around a corner or just out of sight. It also seems quite friendly, not a bit intimidating or frightening. A welcoming presence.

When I was a devout Catholic, I lived in fear of death and its fiery punishment. I knew I was a sinner and doubted I would receive the salvation of Extreme Unction at my last breath. As my faith dissipated, I feared death less for its promise of eternal punishment than for its depiction of perpetual boredom. An Eternity spent in quiet adoration of the the Holy Trinity was an even less inviting experience than the agony of monstrous torture and constant pain. fortunately, a previously repressed gene of reason took control and I came to realize that there is no aspect of religion to believe or death to dread.

Possessiveness is what makes us want to hang on to life as long as we can. It's what we know and we don't want to lose a bit of it. Understandable, of course. But there is something about the aging experience that makes me want to cut back, cut down, simplify. Not my material possessions. I keep acquiring gadgets and goods as fast as I can get online. But I've toted a lot of mental equipment and emotional baggage in my day that seems more superfluous as the days go on. And when I go, they go; purpose served.

My quiet new friend can take its time. There is no hurry. I fully enjoy my life and I wouldn't want my survivors to have to start grieving any sooner than necessary. That is the only sad part of dying, knowing that there are those who will have to grieve, as I have grieved for those loved ones who left before me. Nor do I pester myself with thought that I will miss them: anybody or anything. Some will miss me, but there will be nothing of me to miss them. I will be gone. Pffft! Kaput! And don't say good riddance or I will come back to haunt you.

Who's in Charge Here?

William Castle's THE TINGLER screens on TCM tonight, reminding me of a great story regarding its original theatrical release. Inventive marketer Castle rigged some First-Run theaters with under-the seat buzzers that tingled the sitters. At certain times during the film, a voice would shout out "Scream, scream. scream for you life or the Tingler will get you!" This was accompanied by a jolt of juice to the wired seats.

On cue, my friend Martin cooperated with a loud scream. An usher came quickly to him and told him to be quiet or he would be removed from the theater. As you watch this movie tonight, I suggest you follow that usher's advice.

Is this really a free speech issue?

Supreme Court to weigh depictions of animal cruelty
In a case that pits free-speech defenders against animal rights activists, the justices will consider whether the 1st Amendment should protect depictions of animals being hurt.

Is it against the law to abuse animals? If it is, then that is the only issue that needs litigating. Sure, the video makers are natural born crud, but the legal system should be going after the perpetrators of the animal abuse. The videos should be clear evidence of the criminal behavior. And as evidence, each copy can be impounded until the perps are brought to justice. Do we need the Supreme Court to figure that out?

Meditations on Mortality. cont.

Julie was recovering from her emergency colon surgery last year in a two-bed room in UCLA Medical Center when I checked in on her one afternoon. As I approached the room I could hear loud wailing and crying and quickly worried. In the first bed, Julie laid teary, but quiet. Behind the drawn curtain, the other patient, a tall young woman with a stomach cancer, and her mother were crying fiercely. Julie whispered to me that the young woman's doctor had just advised her that she is to be transferred to a hospice to die.

Now Julie's emergency surgery was triggered by chemo treatment for her breast cancer. and even though she was suffering grievously, we knew that after recovery from the stomach surgery, her breast cancer would be well under control due to the new, but very expensive drugs that were now available and affordable to her as a result of medicare. The young woman in the next bed, however, was not eligible for medicare and her private insurance did not cover the cost of the same drugs that would save Julie. So her doctor informed her and her mother--in direct words that stunned Julie to hear--that she had no alternative but to die.

A government health plan is not needed to tell us when we have to die; that plan already exists for those who cannot afford the benefits of full contemporary medical care. It is a plan based on influence, affluence and profitability. Humanity is not a factor in the equation.

Julie's next roommate was a fairly hearty Irish gal. She was from the San Luis Obispo area and had a cancer in her arm. The medical facilities in SLO were not equipped to treat her cancer so she came a mere four hours and 200 hundred miles to UCLA. After a couple of days, however, it was determined that her insurance would not cover the UCLA treatment so she packed up for her return to an indeterminate future and probable amputation instead of therapy.

The brunt of Julie's extensive medical expenses were underwritten by our government operated health plan. It is a crying shame than her two roommates, and so many others, do not have access to such a health and life supporting program.

Meditations on Mortality

Another old friend died today. At the age of 92, most all her other friends are already gone. What she had left at her end were her children and grandchildren. Their memories are really are a poor substitute for the contemporaries who lived with her, loved her, maybe even disliked her, but knew her as a person, not as a mother or a matriarch. But they now gone.

She, on the other hand, outlived many others whom she knew well and who lived on for a little while longer in her memories. The curse of the long life is the memories of those gone, and the never ending loss of their passing.

Nevertheless, all things considered, I, too, would rather be in Philadelphia.

The Bargain Hunter

I think this is a good time to repeat this classic fable.

Wandering through a fog so thick it is difficult to make out the shop lights,
A lone tourist finds himself in a back alley, antique shop on the edge of San Francisco's Chinatown. Picking through the objects strewn carelessly about the cluttered shop, he discovers a detailed, life-sized bronze sculpture of a rat. The sculpture is so interesting and unique that he feels compelled to pick it up and as he holds it, finds it difficult to put it back down. Though not much of a collector, he reluctantly asks the shop owner what it costs.

"Twelve dollars for the rat, sir," says the shop owner, "and a thousand dollars
more for the story behind it."

"You can keep the story, old man," he replies, relieved at the bargain price,
"but I'll take the rat."

The transaction complete, the tourist leaves the store with the bronze rat under his arm. As he crosses the street in front of the store, two live rats emerge from a sewer drain and fall into step behind him. Nervously looking over his shoulder, he begins to walk faster, but every time he passes another sewer drain, more rats come out and follow him.

By the time he's walked two blocks, at least a hundred rats are at his heels.
The fog is quickly lifting and people begin to point and shout. He walks even faster, and soon breaks into a trot as multitudes of rats swarm toward him from sewers, basements, vacant lots, and abandoned cars.

Rats by the thousands are at his heels and, as he nears the waterfront at the bottom of the hill, he panics and starts to run full tilt. No matter how fast he runs, the rats keep up, squealing hideously now, not just thousands but millions; a tide of rats pouring from every part of the city and closing in behind him.

Trapped at the edge of a pier, the tourist makes a mighty leap up onto a light post and while grabbing hold, drops the bronze rat. It lands with a bounce on the pier and tumbles into the Bay.

Pulling his legs up and clinging desperately to the light post, he watches in amazement as the screeching tide of rats surge over the end of the pier and follow the bronze rat into the sea, where they swiftly sink and drown.

Shaken and humbled, he somehow makes his way through the returning fog back to the antique shop.

"Ah, so you've come back for the rest of the story," says the owner.

"No," says the tourist, "I was wondering if you had a bronze Republican Senator.

Roots?

My German grandfather's birth name was Rock. His mother's maiden was Meerholz. They died together in a distant accident when my grandfather was a child and he was taken for adoption by his mother's family, and his name changed to the matrinominal Meerholz, which may have been shortened on arrival in America to Merholz. (Please, no T)

Playing Around with Google Earth I came across the name Meerholz in a town in Germany. Meerholz translates to sea wood in English and I have sometimes used the pseudonym B.J. Driftwood. Looking the town up on Google, I found that a vacant plot of ground in this little village now stands, after Bulgaria and Romania joined on January 1, at the geographical center of the European Union.

Make of it what you will.