Friday, January 12, 2018
The long running series Longmire kept me company during those freezing days when I was grateful I didn't have to go anywhere. So maybe it was just the thaw yesterday that allowed me to be so annoyed with the show when I got around to watching the final episode.
Walt, Vic and Henry are such well drawn characters. My disappointment is with the writers who didn't give them what they deserved. This comes up frequently. Maybe there should be a cut off date for how long a series should run.
Of course my friends who watched every episode of Seinfeld, Friends and Sex in the City (and are still watching reruns) would disagree.
My friend Barb says I might enjoy reading the Longmire books. When I checked I discovered there were sixteen of them.
I think I'll reluctantly say goodbye.
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
I went to see "Molly's Game" yesterday. About halfway, the sound track went all fuzzy and cracked so my friend and I decided to accept the refund and leave. Please don't tell me how it ends because I intend to go back and see it again soon.
Which reminds me of my great "movie interruptus" story. It was the day after Thanksgiving at a small theater in Detroit. The film was "The English Patient" and the place was packed. Just at the crucial scene of the girl left in the cave, the sound sputtered and died. People started to hiss and boo. The manager asked everyone to be "patient." Some left, some stayed.
Shortly, a man stood and said: "As long as we're waiting, why don't I tell a few jokes?" His wife(?) pulled at him: "Seymour, no one wants to hear your silly jokes!" The audience disagreed and gave him a big cheer.
Years later I got to meet Anthony Minghella. I tried to tell him the story but he was definitely not amused. I should have known better. No matter how many awards you win, you never want your great creation to be disturbed in any way.
Monday, January 1, 2018
Saturday, December 30, 2017
The mystery writer Sue Grafton died. She was famous for her alphabet series of private detective stories. Her titles started with "A is for Alibi" and went on from there. She got as far as "Y" before cancer stopped her short.
Her daughter said that Grafton would never allow a ghost writer to write in her name. So "Z" , in her writing career, remains untouched. I hope her family finds that as satisfying as I do. The final letter remains open to the imaginations of those she left behind.
And maybe she'll start all over again with "A is for Afterlife."
Thursday, December 14, 2017
In the spirit of the New Yorker's year-end Yuletide romp,
I'm reaching out to friends,
Please tell me not to stop.
Merry, merry to my movie buddy Lail,
I hope our favorite stars,
Have avoided sex-crime jail.
To my music loving friends: Gerry, Bonnie and her Bruce
I wish you as much fun as Bill is having with his flute.
To Phyllis, Camille, Jim, Lisa, Marguerite and Myles,
I hope the year to come brings nothing but great smiles.
I know my Nation group could use some cheering up.
Unite All! We will outlast him,
That Scrooge we know as Trump.
Happy Holidays to everyone who visited my blog,
Eat fruitcake and be merry,
Wash it down with stiff eggnog.
Saturday, November 25, 2017
I feel bad about Al Franken. Mostly because we need his voice. And, because I admired his decision to go for being a Senator. After his impossibly close victory, he spent his first term learning the ropes, away from TV, and relentlessly refusing to be funny. After he was re-elected by a wide margin, Al felt it was safe to start being Al -- while being a solid legislator. The people "really liked him."
Well, being funny turned out not to be the problem. Being too touchy, feely and the ubiquitous man-style jerk has Al in a deep hole.
I guess it was too much to ask for: A successful trip from SNL, not from being a lawyer, prosecutor, billionaire, or "player" in your state. You know, the trip that leaves most Senators being a sanctimonious man-style jerk.
The fate of the funny man is yet to be determined. As for now, only the Gods are laughing.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
We've reached the point in my class about the search for life in the universe when we will discuss alien abductions, UFOs, Roswell, and "are they or have they been among us."
It reminds me of the years leading up to the turn of the century. I discovered the world of late night radio host Art Bell and his guests and followers. There was a frenzy of speculation surrounding what would happen when the calendar would contain those zeros. (Remember Y2K?)
One of the saddest events around this time was the mass suicide of young men convinced that there was a space ship approaching Earth on the tail of the Hale-Bopp comet. They shed their bodies in a quest for a better existence in outer space. At some level, I get it.
Intellectually, I totally believe --because of the vast universe -- that it is impossible we are the only conscious ones. Emotionally, because it's so remote, I feel left out.
Maybe it was an overwhelming urge to participate that took those Heaven's Gate guys.