Last month, Charis Wilson died at the age of 95.

Born on May 5, 1914, Wilson led a life entwined with the charmed and the disenchanted. Though she got little affection from her divorced parents when she was young, she benefited culturally from being raised by her grandmother and great-aunt, writers connected to the literary community in San Francisco (which included Jack London).

Wilson gained some celebrity and a role in artistic posterity as both model and wife of photographer Edward Weston. She was merely a teenager when she met Weston, who was in his late 40s at the time. But, she soon began posing for his photographs and started living with him the following year.

They were together for nearly a dozen years and married for roughly half that time. It was a great chapter in their lives, as she served as his muse, and his successes included being the first photographer awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship.

However, the day after she divorced Weston in 1946, she married a labor activist. That second marriage also ended in divorce in 1967, the same year her daughter (from that marriage) died, and is believed to have been murdered.

I guess that is the type of roller-coaster existence some are meant to live: happiness, love, and success are at war with insecurity, dissolution, and tragedy. Some romanticize the give-and-take of halcyon days and turbulent times. But, I wonder if peace is not the more appealing option.

I have a long-standing affection for A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. I've read it a several times and seen probably in the vicinity of a dozen (or more) incarnations of it on the big and small screens, not counting thinly veiled or overt allusions to it as a scene or subplot in a movie or television show.

I have a couple of old radio-play adaptations with Sir Lawrence Olivier or Orson Welles and Lionel Barrymore.

And, on my commute, I recently listened to the audiobook of Jim Dale reading (performing) the unabridged work.

But, despite having read a review that cast the new Disney's A Christmas Carol CGI offering as the "coldest, harshest, loudest,..." of them all, I figured we'd test the waters ourselves and take the kids to the IMAX 3D incarnation of the film.

I think, if you are considering seeing Robert Zemeckis's new animated version of A Christmas Carol, you ought to go whole hog and see it on the big IMAX screen in 3D. Sure, that means donning some goggles that you might be seen wearing at Burning Man. But, it was a fun spectacle.

Yes, I could pick apart some of the animation, or repeated (and sometimes long) swoops around Victorian London. But, overall, it seemed faithful in spirit to the book (minus the tiny-Scrooge-meets-Horse-Drawn-Carriage-from-Hell segment). Jim Carrey's Scrooge was severely parsimonious and self-centered. But, we saw that peeled away under the power of the images from his past, his stubbornness and wrong-headedness on display before him, undeniable. And the sharp recognition of what happiness he could offer in contrast to the disgruntled miser he'd become. His transformation.

If your inclination is to gird up your loins with an eagerness to find fault, save your money and time and skip it. But, if you feel a least a little bit intrigued and love the tale as I do, give it a chance. Give it an IMAX 3D chance.

________________________________________
P.S. My all-time favorite Jacob Marley. ("Ask me who I was.")

When I accept assignments to report on high school football games for a newspaper in this region, it means I generally attend a game on the edge of a large metroplex -- in the outskirts of the city's outskirts. (Out-outskirts?) And that means the hour has grown quite late by the time I file my report and steer the Jeep in the direction of home.

Orion stretched out over the horizon. That seems to be the recurring image of these midnight drives: lonely roads, the celestial hunter, and yours truly.

Occasionally, I'll pass a solitary vehicle on my midnight drive and wonder who they are and what nocturnal purpose has bid them travel. I imagine some astral projection in which I swoop out of my vehicle and into theirs, where I observe them and learn about their lives. (Then, I imagine their astral selves visiting my Jeep, and I get creeped right out and turn up the music.)

All of that has concluded for the year (unless I get tapped for any post-season coverage). But, here are a few vignettes.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Unlike most seasons, I was dispatched to very few games where the press box had a nice spread of food (or any food at all). That was disappointing. As a fatboy, I've come to consider snacks or other food as an important contribution toward compensation for my time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Before the game began one Friday, I was in the press box getting myself organized. A young student caught my attention through the window and motioned me to the door. When I opened it, he was there with a few friends. With my judgmental eye, I determined him to be of delinquent inclination.

"I always wanted a detour," he said.

"A detour to where?"

"I always wanted to come in there and sit in a chair and see what it is like."

"That's not a detour," I told him. "That's a tour. And I can't allow you to do that. I don't work here."

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

For the first time in twelve seasons, I was asked for my press credentials. Twice. Both occasions were at private schools.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

As a member of the press, I recently attended an unusual high school football game. An up-and-coming Conference 2A school (which has about 80 students per grade) defeated a Conference 4A school (perhaps 200 students per grade). The team from the smaller, newer school has no seniors, because the high school has evolved out of a middle school, growing with each new year. The current junior class will become the first graduating seniors next year.

When the game concluded, the 4A team still remained scoreless for the entire season. And, with my limited knowledge, I think I understand why.

At halftime, the team which eventually lost the game had a quarterback who had no completions in 12 attempts with 2 interceptions. A typical possession of the ball became three incomplete passes and a punt -- and that was if an interception didn't interrupt the pattern.

A high school football coach once told me: "Three things can happen when a quarterback throws the ball. And two of them are bad."

He was right. Bad odds. Incomplete passes or interceptions are more probable than gaining offensive yardage...especially if your quarterback isn't particularly talented.

I overheard one of the coaches: "Well, pretty soon we'll connect on one of those and make a big play."

"No, you won't," I wanted to say. "And, if you do, at what cost?"

Amazingly, the team returned to the gridiron after halftime and had their longest possession with their longest drive of the game. They marched all the way to the 5 yard line, entirely on the strength of their running game. I sincerely thought they were about to get their first score of the season. I assumed they had discerned their misplaced reliance on receptions. I anticipated their fans erupting in excitement and injecting the team with newfound confidence. But, they returned to their passing game and squandered the opportunity.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I attended two games at a stadium that bears the name of a friend's brother. And I don't mean that in a coincidental manner. The stadium was not named for someone who has the same name, it was actually named after my friend's brother.

.

.

The millennium is the comet that crosses the calendar
every thousand years. It throws off metaphysical sparks.
It promises a new age, or an apocalypse. It's a magic
trick that time performs, extracting a millisecond from
its flatness and then, poised on that transitional instant,
projecting a sort of hologram that teems with
the summarized life of the thousand years just passed and
with visions of the thousand now to come.

-- Lance Morrow

===========================

Humanity has a propensity toward assigning existential weight to the sort of "transitional instant" Morrow describes above.

Somewhere, perhaps in a black balloon factory, it was decided that 40 was the magical age when one goes "over the hill." Not always a bad metaphor when you examine it. The clink-clinky ascent of the first hill on the wooden rollercoasters of my youth was a yawn compared to what happened after you went "over the hill."

Perhaps now you don't have to pump that bike up the Alps, you get to coast and enjoy the ride -- the fun rushing toward you, the labor and difficulty receding into the distance somewhere behind you.

Whatever the case, society wants you to know you are old when you reach 40 years of age. But, isn't being old something you've earned, if you've made it to your fourth decade? It's not a punishment.

And, here we are in the midst of the fateful birthmonth, come 'round again, reliably. Edging out into my 40s, wondering how long I can reasonably justify saying "early 40s" before I must let go and aquiesce to "mid-40s" -- wondering if all of that matters and clinging to the perception that it doesn't.

There are abundant blessings. But, the learned ceremony of tallying misfortune is deftly insidious. I find myself mustering my best mental prowess to avoid the ritual mourning of all my regrets, refusing to line them up in a row and give them each new life -- simultaneously reluctant to turn my gaze to that foreboding unknown that represents the future, that unwritten existence and its infinite strands of possibilities. Fearing the unnameable and the unexpected dark turns that could unseat my ability to fund all the must be funded, to provide all that needs providing.

But, still...

Here I am doing all of that to some degree, the dedicated ontologist. The act of writing about what I want it to be and not to be, the considerations of how I want to approach a birthday all cleverly wrapped up into a neat bundle of that milestone getting its due, of its assigned significance imposing itself on me.

Fie! Fie, I say.

There is considerable comfort in where I am. And how can I nestle into it and enjoy it, if I'm fretting over unfounded portent?

I paid twenty-five cents
to light a little white candle
-- The Decemberists, "Grace Cathedral Hill"

We visited St. Patrick's cathedral while in New York City this summer. I'd last been there 20 years ago.

Though I certainly adhere to the protest part of Protestantism,* I was not opposed to the prospect of exploring such a place. (I like some of the spiritual solemnity in ritual, though I don't like being constrained by it.)

As we approached, we saw the members of a wedding party gathered on the steps. Men uncomfortable in tuxedos. Women exultant in elaborate dress. Mingling with smiles and nervousness all around.

The cathedral sanctuary was vast enough that we could enter unnoticed amid teeming activity associated with daily doings and the pending matrimony. A place like that creates a mixture of shadows and light amid masonry and stained glass -- circumstantial metaphors often unremarked.

While there, I made a modest contribution to a moneybox and lit a candle in memory of my parents. I am often reminded how much I miss them. I sat quietly for a few moments in an uncomfortable pew, comforted by memories. Reflective.

Today would be my mother's 82nd birthday. Back in August, Dad would have celebrated his 87th birthday.







_______________________________________
* Wherein Martin Luther's posting of his 95 theses at Wittenberg heralded the Reformation and challenged the dominion of earthly hierarchy inserted between humankind and God**

** And the misguided, money-grubbing notion of indulgences

I no longer have the software I need to type it in hangul, but the Korean word for tinted autumnal leaves is (roughly romanized) don-poong...or maybe dahn-poong.

My year in South Korea began and ended in October. Arriving to the colorful foliage of a foreign land helped engage my sense of wonder and dull the prospect of a year abroad.

October was also the month I departed Korea, slipping the surly bonds of Kimpo International Airport. Though I have since worked with Korean companies and submitted dual-language documents to the Korean government, I've not had the need to return to the land of kimchi, tank traps, and dahn-poong -- the peninsula delicately balanced along the most heavily armored border in the world.


Gwanak-san (Mount Gwanak) in southern Seoul.

When the need arises, I go into Budget Mode. I guess it is sorta like a sports car transforming into a giant robot from space -- except I'm too portly to be a sports car, and instead of high-tech weaponry, I employ frugality. (I'm in talks right now with Michael Bay for a 2011 summer blockbuster.*)

I'm generally pretty thrifty when planning lunches. Since I like my job, I don't feel compelled to get out of the office during my lunch break. So, I usually bring something I can eat in my office.

This week has been all about tomato soup (generously supplemented with bits of cheddar cheese).





___________________
*NOTE TO MICHAEL BAY: I'd like Louis Lombardi cast as me in the movie. Granted, we are not that similar -- aside from our comparable ability to displace water. But, I'd like it nonetheless.

I recently read something I felt like I should have already known. When I mention it to others, there is a high percentage of people who explain they are completely familiar with it -- or committed it to memory as a school assignment.

Hrmmm. Behind the times, again.

Max Erhmann's "Desiderata" is the poem in question. Seems it spent a lot of time being attributed to an anonymous author.

I am very fond of many lines. And I think other people ought to be fond of them, too.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
That's a good one. I mean, how can you go wrong with placid? There are many moments in any given day when a healthy dose of placidity and silence would improve my demeanor.

As far as possible without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Forget about teaching the world to sing, if everyone would just agree to that sentiment, think of the effect on daily interactions. I'm all for investing in a sensible amount of effort to be on good terms, though I have encountered scenarios where it just didn’t work. I guess that's where the surrender part comes in. There are some people who are dedicated to the proposition that good terms will not exist.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you
in sudden misfortune,
but do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Yeah. Easier said than nurtured.

But, I feel like I can successfully manage this recommendation:

Take kindly to the counsel of years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

This week, Herta Müller of Germany was announced as the winner of the 2009 Nobel Prize for Literature. I'm not familiar with her work, though the press release makes it sound appealing (e.g., her work "depicts the landscape of the dispossessed"). She currently has only five books translated in English.

The announcement fueled the controversy about the successive number of European writers recognized by the award. But, for me, it recalled the previous German author to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature, Günter Grass (1999).

Though critics of the man (Grass) will often concede his writing is stellar (many laud The Tin Drum as one of the best novels of the last century), his arrogance and tendentious scrambling to the moral high ground helped fuel outrage when he revealed in his post-Nobel memoir, Peeling the Onion, a brief stint in the Waffen SS (an armed wing of the Nazi party, but not part of the regular army, or Wehrmacht Heer). Christopher Hitchens wrote that Grass was a "specialist in half-baked moral equivalences."

Some reactions cast the revelation in the pool of it-was-half-a-century-ago/he-was-merely-a-teenager/his-Anti-Nazi-actions-since-then-have-atoned. Others, like Lech Walesa, wanted to revoke his honorary citizenship of Gdansk/Danzig or spit in his eye or dance on his (eventual) grave, etc. After Grass spent decades of public life lambasting those persons exhibiting dismissive behavior toward the horrors of the Third Reich and the Nazi Party era of Germany's past, the revelation of Grass's own Nazi history seemed despicable beyond forgiveness to many who spoke out -- and a clear target issue for those already among his detractors.

Grass's Teutonic notoriety failed to ingratiate him to his public and likely stymied the willingness of some who might otherwise forgive and forget.

On the whole, things worked out much differently for Josef Ratzinger, a former member of the Hitler Youth, who overcame that early chapter in his life to become Pope Benedict XVI. Perhaps Ratzinger's youthful associations were deemed retroactively infallible upon his papal appointment.

When we are septuagenarians (some of us sooner than others), do we want to be called onto the global carpet for our teenage missteps? Each side of these circumstances has considerable cause for support. Suppose, though, these aren't merely two-sided -- not black and white, but muddled by shades of grey. I guess it is easy to equate Nazi with pure evil. But, for the youth of that era who were compelled into circumstances with a complex series of factors and pressure and threats -- and without knowing the depth of their experiences and the scope of their involvement, I think it is too much of a broad decisions to immediately hate these men for the boys they were half a century ago.

He was the eccentric nerd in high school. So, of course, we were pals. In those days, you were likely to find him on the local tennis courts at night. But, he wasn't playing tennis -- he was chasing insects with a large net.

He created the myth of The Great Bovine Rebellion and established the secretive Neutron Society. And he once invited me over to his house when his night-blooming cereus was making its brief, once-a-year show during the course of one night.

I think he has earned a Ph.D. in entomology from a major university, since I last saw him in the late 1980s.

When I recently bumped into him, it was unexpected for both of us. I tended to think of the occasion as it's-great-to-see-you-after-so-many-years/hope-you-are-well, while he seemed preoccupied, detached, and clearly flustered at the surprise encounter.

His eyes repeatedly darted away...and, after mumbling a quick excuse, he did, too. Though I was initially hopeful at the possibility of grabbing a bite and catching up, his prime directive was clearly to escape and evade.

That was all very out of character for the guy I knew decades ago. But, I suppose most of us are quite different from our 20-year-ago selves.

I think there is a lesson in there somewhere. Not only do we each change with growth and the passage of time, we sometimes vector away from things in a dramatic way. And you can never fully know the effects (ill or otherwise) of nostalgia on people you spent time with decades ago.

The $500,000 genius grants (24 of them!) were announced this week by the John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation.

I was overlooked. Again.

I continue to be dogged by my unflappable lack of genius (and my deficient "capacity for self-direction"), which annually prevents me from the public adoration and financial gain that accompanies the MacArthur Foundation recognition.

With the calendar ushering in the High Holy Days of high school football, I've once again taken on assignments from a large, daily broadsheet newspaper. So, I'm dispatched around the general vicinity on Fridays to report on the gridiron exploits that far too many regard as a religious affiliation.

The state divides classifications of high schools into conferences determined by the number of enrolled students. Each conference has four regions across the state, and the regions are divvied up into districts.

At a recent game, I covered a match-up between schools from different conferences. Once district play begins (which will determine playoff qualification), schools will compete against other schools of similar size.

So, here's the deal. During the aforementioned game, the school from the larger conference ran up the score to 71-21. And the game was called with almost three minutes remaining. Officially, it was called (as were many others in the region that night) because of the proximity of lightning strikes. But, I'm not completely convinced there wasn’t some charity involved from the officials.

It's true that the winning team began taking the field with their third- and fourth-string players by the final quarter. But, at that point, the score was already humiliatingly lopsided.

And this: the winning team continued to call time-outs and reevaluated strategy to look for that big play that would break out into another touchdown. Really? If you are up 65-14, do you seriously need to call a flea-flicker play in hopes of extending the monstrous, insurmountable lead? I wonder what message it sends to the players on the winning team. And I wonder what message is carried away by the members of the losing team.

I know. I know. You don't want to tell kids not to play their best. And you don't want to patronize your opponents through blatant condescension. But, there ought to be some magnanimous equanimity that can find the right mixture of competitiveness and sportsmanship.

I was further annoyed by the sports editor from winning team's local paper. I used to write for the man. And he spent much of the game leading me into agreement like a skilled telemarketer. "They sure have a fast team. You've never seen such a fast team, have you?" "This is really an outstanding team, isn't it?" "They have a lot of speed, don't they?" "They are going to have a great season, don't you think?" "You've never seen a team get more than 70 points in a game, have you?" (Actually, I had.)

He told me at least three times that the quarterback was right at the top of the rushing leaders among players in the metro area. I threw him a couple of "yeah, you said that"s.

He even goaded the radio crew from the opposing team's town. They were broadcasting from the same room of the press box where we were sitting. When the game was over, he said: "This is a really great team, isn't it?"

Geez. Do you really need to fish for that kind of affirmation?

Honestly, I think he was completely oblivious. It is most likely that perceived relation between a school (nay, a city!) and its worth is directly represented by the success of the football team.

"Look how many points they scored! Surely the men who live here are extra-manly. Testosterone to spare. Look on our athleticism, ye Mighty, and despair!"

I endure the unfortunate pattern of having my desk in near proximity to coworkers who speak loudly and laugh often. This is never the friendly, infectious, upbeat laughter of the fun/fun-to-be-around. No. It is the "I bray at the use of prepositions" brand of idiocy, the "I'm socially awkward and substitute guffaws for personality or punctuation" lunacy, or the dreaded "I make you aware of my importance through ever-increasing decibels of speech and belly-laughs" affliction.

And now I've noticed another trend.

There are people, it seems, who spend a significant amount of their time calling banks, or cable companies, or phone companies, or contractors for construction work, or school faculties, simply to berate someone over the phone.

I can find no other clear reason for their behavior. I mean, you'd think the motivation was to correct a mistake, right a wrong, or advise of an oversight -- and sometimes that motivation is lurking under the surface. But, the sheer volume of occasions and the stunning frequency suggests it is a sport for some. While they may indeed want that fee credited back to their bank account, it seems what they most want is the chance to verbally dominate someone, to put someone in their place, to take up arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them.

Sheesh.

For real?

I occasionally imagine a world in which people require my approval to exist. I wouldn't abuse this power. I would be merciful and just. I think.

A gas station not far from my office has a better price (by almost ten cents) than most other places I encounter on my usual routes. So, I stopped there one evening earlier this week after leaving work.

There was a truck parked on the opposite side of the pump I was using to top off my tank. And a conversation caught my ear.

A kid (probably 10 years old) walked up and stood at the driver's window. It sounded like he said, "They don't have 100s."

Though I'm not a smoker, I did have the colorful experience of working as a clerk at a convenience store while in college. So, I was aware of the soft-pack/hard-pack/100s/menthol-type options available to purchasers of cigarettes. And this seemed curious to me, because I figured the kid was too young to purchase cigarettes anyway.

I leaned a little closer.

"What are you talking about?" The large woman behind the steering wheel practically berated the boy.

A teenage girl leaned over from the passenger seat and joined in: "Did you check the other side?" She was also yelling in the unpleasant tone of someone both entitled and annoyed.

The boy was trying to get in a word of explanation, but he was interrupted by the bumpkin who was driving. "Did - you - check - the other side!?" I could practically hear the interrobang fall out her window and explode on the asphalt.

Still, amidst the barrage of questions from the truck's uncomprehending occupants, the boy tried to explain himself. The hefty woman driver cut him off again with her venom: "Just go pay for muh damn gas!"

I knew the unspoken part of that imperative was to come back and pump the gas, too.

And here's the thing: this boy was mentally retarded. I'm not sure the acceptable way to phrase that, but the bottom line is some condition or disorder or accident left him with very low functioning skills, i.e., his mental faculties had been retarded in their development. Speech problems. His lurching walk suggested he had a problem with motor skills, too.

This kid reminded me of a friend's son who'd ingested some ant poison as a toddler. After several intense and uncertain days at a hospital in Dallas, my friend's son pulled through to the point that they knew he would survive. But, the doctors explained there had been irreversible brain damage, and they would have to wait to get a better idea of the extent to which the damage would effect his development.

So, the boy at the gas station not only had to endure the complications of his diminished capabilities, he had to fumble through life with that belligerent beast as a mother.

Sigh.

Yesterday was k1tchenwitch's birthday.

I think I first met k1tchenwitch in a cantina on the Korean peninsula near the city of Tong'duchon. That was many, many years ago.

Her husband and I conducted the same type of operations in the vicinity of the fabled (and unpleasant) Demilitarized Zone. She and her family invited me to their Korean apartment for some transplanted American hospitality and food.

Later, when we were all back in the states, I arrived at her door one night while her intrepid husband was out west on a mission. During my visit, it soon became apparent that I was not feeling well. And I ultimately repaid her for her kindness that night by hurling vomit down the steps that led to their apartment.

I never explained that I was performing an ancient (and imaginary) gastrointestinal ritual of blessing on their household. At least, I'd like to pretend that was the case. But, the real blessing was having their family around. Our oldest kids were toddlers in those days, and mixing the kids' playdates with engaging adult conversation was a boon.

Good times.

Happy Birthday, k1tchenwitch!

Near Fifth Ave. and 60th, The Strand bookstore set up tables to offer merchandise for passers-by. I had some time, a few dollars, and the inclination to get lost. So, I purchased a used copy of Tana French's Edgar Award-winning novel, In The Woods.

I settled onto the nearest unoccupied bench along the wall that borders Central Park up Fifth Ave. and opened the book to the prologue. Then, I swung my right leg up onto the bench in an act of kindness toward my knee. I've been wearing a knee brace to help with swelling when I do much walking. I have to be delicate with the old joint, like elderly people with their brittle bones. A slight twist or shift in the wrong direction and I get a surge of pain to announce the mistake: a surge not unlike the blaring alarm that announces a botched procedure in the board game Operation.

I think this knee development is part of a package of ailments associated with my aging. There are motes in my eyes that play the roles of ghostly apparitions as a matter of routine. I get light-headed more easily than I used to. And headaches are reliable as a daily discomfort. Plus, I fret over things that shouldn't merit it, and I worry over imagined unpleasant developments.

Sounds like a consuming novel was just the thing I needed to get lost in.

It was a fun read...one where you come to know the characters so well, and hold them in such regard, you are disappointed when reality sets in and you realize you won't be spending time with them once you finish reading their tale.

Cheers to Ms. French for a suspenseful ride.

Here are a couple of passages that drew my eye.

I remember that moment because, if I am honest, I
have them so seldom. I am not good a noticing
when I am happy, except in retrospect. My gift, or
fatal flaw, is for nostalgia. I have sometimes been
accused of demanding perfection, of rejecting
heart's desires as soon as I get close enough that
the mysterious impressionistic gloss disperses into
plain solid dots, but the truth is less simplistic than
that. I know very well that perfection is made up of
frayed, off-struck mundanities. I suppose you could
say my real weakness is a kind of long-sightedness:
usually it is only at a distance, and much to late, that
I can see a pattern.
And this one a few pages later:

...it seemed impossible that so powerful and heady a
thing could be coincidence. I had a sense of things
stirring, rearranging themselves in some imperceptible
but crucial way, tiny unseen cogs beginning to shift.
Deep down, I think -- ironic as it may seem -- a part
of me couldn't wait to see what would happen.

This summer's big family vacation (that's vay-kay for the chronically hip) was a mash-up of D.C. and NYC.

We've been proponents of taking the kids to see the quintessential Americana; giving them the classic experiences. Therefore, we've made it to quite a list of locales over the years: DisneyWorld (all four Orlando parks), Grand Canyon, Mount Rushmore, Yosemite, Memphis/Nashville, Golden Gate Bridge, Pensacola, Pike's Peak, Hollywood, The Alamo, Las Vegas, San Diego Zoo, Royal Gorge Bridge, Grand Tetons, Denver/Colorado Springs, Santa Monica Pier, St. Louis/Arch, etc. And all over Texas. You get the idea.

Actually, I'm pretty surprised now that I'm listing all the destinations. Things get tucked in there between the lines like the Crazy Horse Monument, Hoover Dam, Carlsbad Cavern, and Meteor Crater, Arizona. I'd probably damage my delicate, aging brain if I tried to be too comprehensive.

And, I guess that's what I'm proud of. As is my fatherly obligation, I fret a bit over the expense of six days in New York City. But, ya gotta take the kids to the top of the Empire State Building (regardless of how outrageously long and convoluted the post-9/11 process has become). Ya gotta see some Broadway shows and Coney Island and the Statue of Liberty. And, whether they like it or not, there's no excuse for missing the Guggenheim.

Likewise, so many important things to see in Washington, D.C. Places where so much history has happened: museums, monuments, the Tomb of the Unknown. Of course, getting rained in at the Lincoln Memorial with a few hundred foreigners may dampen the prospects of seeing every memorial intended. But, ya press onward and take in as much as you can.

As the kids get older and enter adulthood, I think they'll look back with even greater fondness for the places they've experienced and the things they've witnessed.

I should pause more often to reflect on how fortunate we are that we have been able to have some extravagances that are not affordable to everyone.

The lunar albedo was really kicking it last night, illuminating so much of the sky, I'm sure it impacted the visibility of the Perseid meteor shower. Since the kids always stay up late during the summer, we all slipped on shoes and rolled out after midnight to find a rural area that would offer less of civilization's ambient glow. But, the moonlight was frustratingly bright.

I hoped to get a dramatic show from the Perseid meteors that shower the night sky most prominently in August. But, there was only a sporadic streak of meteor activity. It was somewhat disappointing because I ultimately felt like the commitment to staying up into the middle of the night (since I had work the next morning) and driving out for a decent vantage was not equal to the payoff.

Our oldest climbed up on top of the vehicle, no doubt thinking that being a few feet closer to the heavens would improve her view. The rest of us wandered around nearby with our faces lifted toward the stars.

And though there weren't that many meteors, I was transported...

1.) I traveled through time to my military days, when, as a soldier in the field, I'd use night vision goggles (NVGs) or night optical devices (NODs) to view, through the green and grainy image enhancement, a nighttime sky bright and blanketed with countless worlds and distant suns -- so numerous that they crowded into every available space from horizon to horizon.

2.) I was taken back to junior high school, when summertime campouts often involved staring up at the night sky for long hours, while we talked. Inevitably, we saw shooting stars and tracked the movement of satellites orbiting high above: steady dots slowly and quietly soaring overhead.

Apparently, there exists such skilled visionaries that the most mundane of movies are made to look absolutely dazzling and tantalizing through the wizardry of trailer editing. Carefully selected images and scenes are edited together with well crafted voiceover copy so as to convince the viewer that he or she will not be satisfied with life until the advertised film is experienced in full.

Curse them and their mastery!

I gave away part of my life and soul recently because of a meandering dour piece of cinema called BLINDNESS. It would have worked much better as a 10-minute short -- or perhaps a trailer.

It was, in fact, the trailer of the film that convinced me it was an artful undertaking with social commentary and the dogged persistence of a band of citizens to get to the bottom of evil-doing or some grand governmental (or corporate) conspiracy. Woo-hoo! Mystery/thriller. Sign me up!

Indeed, sign me up for a film like that when someone makes it...because this was merely the product of the seed of a good idea. I felt that the screenwriters were on the road to developing something, when they sorta gave up any grand aspirations and settled for merely puttering around within the confines of a partial conceit that they never nurtured into its full potential.

Blabbity-blab-blah. (Yawn.)

Don't get suckered.

_________________
Post Script

It has been brought to my attention this film was based on a well-received, award-winning novel. That leads me to call on the time-tested cliche that suggests the book is better than the movie. Sadly, however, I'm drained from any impulse to approach the book open-mindedly, because of my burdensome encounter with the cinematic incarnation.

While I was in college, a friend coaxed me into drawing something for the wall above her bed. She had the specific dimensions in mind, having already purchased a frame that suited the sensibilities of her college student chic motif. She defined the medium (pen and ink) and chose the subject -- but allowed me the hallowed artistic license with regard to concept and composition.

I'd just painted the Queensryche's OPERATION: MINDCRIME logo on the back of a denim jacket (high-vogue, I know) for a buddy and was a little reticent to be on the hook again for someone else's artistic whimsy. But, hey, I was in college, too. A bag of potatoes and peanut butter sandwiches lose their tummy-tempting allure after so many weeks. And I figured some cash in the pocket could translate to food in the fridge.

So, after a brief period of hesitation, I set about the task. Soon after I began the piece, she left school, and I never heard from her again. I remained unpaid, so the piece consequently remained unresolved. Spurred by the tides of the 24-hour news cycle I recently unearthed the drawing, nearly two decades after I began it.





It wasn't like the man had not made music (and music videos) that peppered the years of my life. At the time, he had not descended into the tabloid fodder, courtroom circus, and plastic surgery mishap that now defines him to younger people. And by younger, I mean those who did not live through the infectiousness of Off the Wall, the omnipotence of Thriller, the tour de force of Bad.

"He was a dynamo," I tell these kids. "Hit after hit. He influenced what people wore and how they danced."

"He's a freak," they rejoin. A familiar chorus from those who know him only from the days he was topping Internet headlines and not Billboard charts.

He was a powerhouse of pop hits, a cultural event, a consummate showman, and the Fred Astaire of Motown. Even if you can't stand him, the facts (e.g., charts and sales) speak for themselves. Of course, all of that has since been tainted by allegations of pedophilia and the public transmutation to a racially vague androgyne. He was a monster to some, a deity to others, and a bank to many.

The exuberant and playful vocals of his Off The Wall tracks gave way to the visceral catcalls, verbal ticks, and syncopated grunts that marked the era of his affected sour-faced macho posturing, as if to plead: "I'm so vulgar that you have to be convinced of my manliness."

Thus, he was King of Pop and King of Paradox. It seemed as though he wanted to physically become Diana Ross -- maybe her alter ego, Dirty Diana. Later, he verged on a black-wigged Carol Channing or drug-addled, Glaaaadiatorrr-spewing Elizabeth Taylor. His famous Peter Pan Syndrome became less first-star-to-the-right-and-straight-on-'til-morning and more a darker fantasy of wealth and self-loathing.

In the end, for me, it seems healthiest to brush all those perceptions aside. Perhaps his greatest transformation was not his surgically altered physical appearance, or the frequent video theme of Michael-becomes-panther/Michael-becomes-giant-robot/Michael-becomes-werewolf/Michael-becomes-sand/Michael-becomes-theme-park/Michael-becomes-sexual-entity sequence. Perhaps his greatest transformation was via his influence on music and its byproduct, music videos...and possibly the single, sequined glove industry.

I have a cairn on my office desk. It is of my own making.

I scavenged the trio of rocks from Goleta Beach Park just north of Santa Barbara several years ago when a good buddy and I were dispatched to the west coast under the delightfully narrow scope of responsibility as editors. Typically, that would have been merely one role we'd play, as we wrapped our arms around the unwieldy beast of a proposal for a government agency. (My previous jaunt to that facility was marked by an average of 118-hours per work week.) But, we were merely hired guns, so to speak, who had the particular credentials to help edit a series of documents whose delivery date rapidly approached.

Therefore, we had more free time than usual. So, I took him to some of the places that I'd previously visited -- Goleta Beach Park among them. I picked up three surf-smoothed rocks that were partially submerged in the beach sand. And now they are stacked on my desk with such perfect appearance that a viewer might consider the result to be a fabrication, a novelty store sculpture.

Each stone's slight variation of hue divided by interstitial shadows. A tiny tower. An ellipsoidal, stone snowman. A mysterious monument.

I'm certain it has a grander meaning. I'm certain.

In 2003, I spent part of the summer working at a facility near the airport in San Antonio. As was typical, my involvement in the project came about when things sank behind schedule and seemed in jeopardy of being pulled together at all. So, I was working long hours and weekends.

I recall knocking off early one night for some mental recess. I drove down to the Alamo Quarry Market to grab a bite at the Canyon Café and see a movie: 28 Days Later.

I totally loved the idea that zombies might be frenetic and haul their undead heinies at you with terrorizing single-mindedness. It was like saying "forget that moaning, shuffling business you've seen in movies, this is what real zombies are like."

There are a couple of zombie flicks in this summer's cinema offerings that look as though they might provide some ghoulish fun: Pontypool (adapted from the Tony Burgess novel, Pontypool Changes Everything) and Dead Snow (or Død Snø). These are imports from Canada and Norway, respectively. And Dead Snow promises the delicious double-dip of evil delivered by Nazi zombies.

I don't tend to think of myself as having OCD. Perhaps OCO is more accurate. It seems more of an order than a disorder. And it manifests itself in a very specific manner.

When I park my car and walk away, I can't dislodge the notion that I really didn't lock it. Can I remember hearing the honk of the automatic lock that will tell me I pressed the right button on the fob? Am I'm sure it locked? Did I accidentally press the UNLOCK button afterwards?

My uncertainty is irritating. So, I have to walk back and hear the car lock one more time.

The accident happened on the last evening of my last year at summer camp.

The camps I attended in the summers of my youth were merely week-long getaways, though I've always had the impression -- from movies and television -- that it is typical in some regions of the country for kids to pack off for a summer-long camp, filling the gap between school years.

I always did well with the crafts, and, with some apprehension, navigated the delicate social constructs of camp-society.

On the last evening of camp, we all went out on a hayride to a farm, where we'd have watermelon and (I don't recall specifically, but I'm guessing here) sing around the camp fire.

While frolicking at the farm, some of us spied a hay ring tipped up on its end like a spinning hamster track. So, I hopped on it and started walking up one side to roll it as though I were in 2001: A Space Odyssey or, in more current context, a Cirque de Soleil act.

Those nearby thought I had a keen idea and piled onto the hay ring with me. With several people rocking the ring in competing directions, I lost my balance and planted my hand on a jagged piece of the ring's metal structure.

It didn't hurt real bad, but it hurt. And when I got off the ring and held my hand up, it was rapidly filling with a pool of blood, like a dark wine seeping from my skin. That freaked me out a bit, but it also seemed oddly incongruous, because it looked really bad, but it didn't feel really bad.

I trotted over to a counselor, who seemed more panicked that I was. She rounded up some other counselors, and soon I was being whisked away to a hospital in the nearest town. First, we had to go back by the camp to retrieve my file with its medical information like the date of my last tetanus shot and a signed note from my parents that the counselors could seek medical attention on my behalf.

I got 12 stitches and a souvenir scar across the meaty part of my palm.

The whole ordeal took a long time. When I returned to camp, the other campers had completed their hayride/farm visit and were already in the big meeting hall for a dance on our last evening at camp.

When I walked in, lots of kids came over to talk to me and ask about what had happened. It felt nice to believe that they were genuinely interested or concerned, though it also seems likely many of them just wanted to get the lowdown on what happened, whether or not that had any interest in my well being.

Dad picked me up the next morning. "What happened to your hand?"

"I got cut. And I had to have some stitches, but it's okay."

Somehow, I felt adult-like by being able to explain something happened, but there was no real cause for worrying -- everything was going to be alright.

I can recall from my youth (which exists now only in my fading memory and the annals of history) watching the earlier incarnations of what has become Texas Country Reporter, a human-interest news show that explores the backroads and backstories of fascinating people around the state of Texas.

There was the guy who built his home from a decommissioned missile silo in West Texas, the old barber in East Texas who's been clipping hair for decades and decades, the tasty eatery in Beaumont, the centenarian porter at a regional airport who still makes his way to work everyday and helps people with their luggage. Stuff like that.

The host, Bob Phillips, is personable -- and, for me, his distinctive voice (sounding like it is perpetually trapped mid-gulp) and inflections have become synonymous with these sorts of down-home segments.

This weekend, I caught part of an episode that profiled John Wells, a former fashion photographer from New York who has staked out a life for himself near Study Butte, Texas, just outside Big Bend National Park amidst the austere West Texas landscape, sometimes desolate, sometimes starkly beautiful, sometimes both.

There are those who can't fathom forsaking their shopping malls, conference rooms, office buildings, department stores, mega-multi-movie-plexes, and other so-called accoutrements of civilization. But, Wells instills a purposeful drive to reconnect with nature and the purity of a self-sustaining life.

It would seem, looking from the outside, that such an existence highlights both the boon and bane of solitude, occasionally conjuring its darker cousin, loneliness. But, some people are better suited for limited opportunities of face-to-face interaction. And Wells manages the tether of DSL to remain connected via the Internet.

He still exercises his photography skills, too, keeping his daily blog lively and documenting life around The Field Lab.