42. Go See It!

Went to see 42 last night. As a baseball fan, I had been waiting for this film for quite a while. The story of Jackie Robinson is the best and worst of baseball living together in the same story. It took two very special men to pull off the intergration of Major League baseball in 1947, and this film did a nice job of telling the story of Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey.

Harrison Ford was sensational as Rickey, the Methodist, cigar-chewing old codger, and owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers. Chadwick Boseman, who I have never seen in anything before, played Robinson with athletic if not dramatic skill. Although the movie was a bit slow in places and entirely too long, I thoroughly enjoyed it, because it remained true to the history.

As we were leaving, I asked Pam what she thought. My wife isn’t exactly the world’s most rabid sports fan, to say the least. But, she liked the movie a lot, except she said something that is both very true and profound at the same time. She said, “I liked it, but it had a Hallmark feel, like a made for TV movie. But, come to think of it, most baseball movies are that way.”

It’s so true! Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, A League of Their Own, Pride of the Yankees were all that way. The reason is simple. At its heart, baseball is a romantic thing. Football is about testosterone and violence, basketball is about urban machismo…baseball is different. Baseball has a rhythm, it has a season. It’s about streaks and statistics. Baseball lends itself to conversation. One can attend a baseball game and talk about life at the same time. People fill out their score sheets, eat popcorn and talk about their kids between innings. In the seventh inning, everyone sings. Romance. Baseball has its share of violence. There are, after all, bean balls, bench-clearing brawls, plays at the plate, that sort of thing. But baseball has never been ABOUT the violence. We fall in love with the players who demonstrate the most grace on the field. That outfielder whose long strides make his diving catches look effortless, the left-handed hitter with that silky Ted Williams swing, that amazing rookie who runs the bases like his cleats are on fire.

Sadly, baseball no longer has the appeal it once had; it no longer holds the entire nation in sway every summer. We are a nation who very much likes its violence, and prefers its grace in small doses at church. But for me, baseball is still king. I prefer its unhurried pace, the absence of clocks. Must everything be timed? And I suppose I will always be a sucker for baseball movies, despite the Hallmark qualities.

The Five Presidents

The dedication of the George W. Bush presidential Library yesterday was an amazing thing to behold. There, on one stage were the five living Presidents. All of them gave short speeches, and with a few exceptions their remarks were full of grace and class, and appropriate dignity. Watching the thing made me realize that there must be something wrong with me, because for the life of me I couldn’t help liking all five of them. Partisans on both sides of our political divide are always disgusted by these sorts of events. Their views of history and politics are so heated and passionate, that giving kudos to the other side for any reason and at any time seems traitorous. But what I saw were five basically good men united by love of country and a mutual acknowledgement of how monumentally difficult is the job of President.

There was George Bush the elder, 88 years old, feeble yet universally respected. A man who defied his wealthy Dad and ran off to serve his country in World War II as a pilot even though his wealthy background could have guaranteed him a less dangerous place of service.

There was Jimmy Carter, the sometimes stern and uninspiring man from Georgia with the awkward manner and in many ways disastrous Presidency, who nonetheless has managed to redeem his legacy by his amazing post-presidency works of charity. By all accounts, a decent man, without guile.

There was Bill Clinton, the lovable rogue from Arkansas who disgraced himself and his office by having sexual dalliances with a 21 year old intern. In other words, he made the mistake of committing adultery in the era of cable television. Certainly I am not excusing his behavior, just pointing out that previous Presidents guilty of the same offences had the advantage of a disinterested press and the relative anonymity of the pre-television era. Despite his failings as a husband, there was always something endearing about Bill. He was “Bubba”, and everybody from the south knew someone just like him, someone they kinda liked anyway. Clinton loved his country and still retains the optimism we so desperately need in our leaders.

There was President Obama, who except for the crass and untimely attempt to advance his immigration legislation, managed to give as graceful and magnanimous a speech as one could ever want from a sitting President at the Library dedication of his predecessor. Even though my views about Obama are widely known to readers of this blog, there are times when he rises to the occasion beautifully. He has it within him to make us think about noble things, bigger and grander things than mere politics, and when he chooses to, it’s an awesome and moving thing to behold.

Then, there was George W. His was a tragic presidency, born in controversy, and possessed and overcome by the events of 9/11. There was much for a libertarian like me to find objectionable. His was not the most fertile mind to ever occupy the oval office, but he also wasn’t the dullest. He seemed to revere the Presidency, as if he knew that he occupied it largely because of an accident of birth. His respect for the country and its traditions demonstrated how much he loved America. His ability for self-deprecating humor and his always optimistic, if sometimes naïve view of America’s place in the world was admirable. Most Americans could easily imagine having a beer with the guy, and for me that counts for something. I prefer approachable Presidents.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that these five men all pissed me off very many times as President, but I believe in my heart that each of them are good men, men who loved their country and tried to the best of their understanding and ability to make the country better. If that makes me insufficiently partisan then, so be it. God bless each of them.  

OUTRAGEOUS

I woke up this morning in a bad mood. I didn’t sleep well; I’m worried about Molly who didn’t have a very good day yesterday, my shoulder is killing me, etc. etc…

Then I read a story on Politico about “secret, high level talks” taking place in Washington between John Boehner and Harry Reid, the purpose of which is to find a way to exempt the 535 members of Congress and their staffs from the most egregious provisions of Obamacare. It seems that Boehner and Reid are concerned about the financial strain that will be placed on them by forcing them to purchase coverage from the insurance exchanges that Obamacare has set up for the rest of us. The financial hit that many of their aids will be forced to absorb might result in many of them pursuing job opportunities in the private sector. The resulting “brain drain” would cripple Congress’ ability to find competent staff.

After reading this article, my bad mood quickly escalated to Death-Com 5 rage. Is it even possible for Congress to suffer a brain drain? Don’t you have to already possess a brain before it can be drained? So, our brilliant elected officials, 18 months AFTER passing this 2000 page boondoggle, finally discover that one of its unintended consequences will result in employees changing their behavior to avoid its provisions? Imagine that. And, what about the rest of us not politically connected enough to apply for a waiver, what are we to do?

While I have no problem believing that Harry Reid and the Democrats would try to exempt themselves from Obamacare, if John Boehner goes along with it, then would the last person leaving the Republican Party please turn out the lights on your way out? My feeble, clinging to life, support for the GOP is about to disappear forever. I am sick and tired of politicians from both parties writing laws for the rest of us but conveniently exempting themselves. If Obamacare is good enough for us, it’s certainly good enough for the people who thrust it upon us. If it’s going to be a disaster, all of us need to share the pain, especially its authors.

Sleep Apnea, and Darth Vader

Nothing is quite so boring and depressing than writing a blog about one’s health problems, which is why I usually don’t. But today I will make an exception because the cure for this particular health problem is something that I desperately need to openly mock. Perhaps by heaping upon it mounds of ridicule, snide remarks and sarcasm, I will be less repulsed by the thing. So, here goes.

About 15 years ago, my doctor became convinced that I had sleep apnea. He convinced me to go have a “sleep study”, which involved going to this office building at 10 o’clock at night, being hooked up to ten machines, with electrodes attached to every square inch of my chest, and the being told to relax and go to sleep. While doing so, I was filmed and observed by a guy in a lab coat in some other room down the hall. The next morning, I was given a thick printout and told to take it to my doctor for analysis. It was determined that I indeed had rather severe sleep apnea. Then, my doctor introduced me to the cure, a loud and beastly machine the size of a mail box that would sit at my bedside, to which I would be tethered by a six foot long unwieldy tube. This tube would snake and kink its way from this machine to a Darth Vader look-alike mask that covered my entire head. Pressurized air would somehow be shot through this tube into my nasal passages curing me of sleep apnea and insuring years and years of peaceful sleep. I took one look at this death star device and couldn’t stop laughing. Thanks, but no thanks.

15 years later, I suppose I still have sleep apnea and I’m still alive, so clearly all the doctors were idiots. Only problem is, every morning I wake up feeling as if I have just run a marathon. Pam woke up the other night from a dream and couldn’t get back to sleep and witnessed my feeble and desperate attempts at breathing and sleep at 3 am in the morning and became concerned. This time, my “sleep study” was performed in my home with just a couple of belts around my chest and no lab coated creeper lurking about down the hall. The results were unchanged. I still have sleep apnea, and a pretty serious case of it.

I will here clearly admit that the past 15 years has brought much technological advancement in this area of medicine. The bedside device is now the size of a clock radio. The masks are smaller, lighter and dare I say…more stylish? The air pressure pumping through the tube is quieter, the entire experience much less intrusive and cumbersome, or so I’m told by the slick salesmen at American Home Products, the “industry leader in sleep apnea devices”.

Still, the thought of being hooked up to a breathing machine every night isn’t exactly the stuff of sweet dreams. My brother in law has been a huge help since he has been using the very same machine for several years now and raves about the results ie…feels rested and energetic every morning, no longer snores etc.., doesn’t fall asleep in meetings anymore.

So, I suppose I will give this contraption a try, although there’s no law that says I have to like it. But the first time Pam says, “ssshshshshshshs, Luke, I’m your father. Sssshshshshshshs…”, that’s it, I’ll be done!

The Difference Between Men and Women. # 116

It’s time for me to buy some clothes. For 95% of women reading this blog, that sentence probably sounds like a cause for wild celebration, for me, not so much. I like the clothes I have. I’ve become accustomed to them, I like the way they feel and fit, and I especially like the fact that I’ve already paid for them. But every couple of years, it begins to dawn on me that maybe that shirt I love so much with the frayed cuffs is starting to look a little ratty. Maybe those dress socks with the small holes on the heel need to be replaced. Maybe it’s time to make rags out of that really comfortable turtleneck that Pam despises.

So, I’ll head out to Men’s Warehouse or Khols or someplace like that and wander around the store for awhile feeling vain. Then I’ll see a couple of nice casual shirts, flip over the price tag and see $78.99 and remember how much I hate shopping for clothes. The tag will say, “Made in China, Thailand, Mexico, India”, anywhere but here. Then the nagging question will enter my mind, I wonder what 12 year old girl working 12 hours a day for 5 bucks a week sewed this baby together? But I will not be overcome with guilt or indecision because I am on a mission, a fashion renewal mission, and I will not be deterred.

When my wife goes clothes shopping, more often than not it ends in bouts of tears and self-loathing. She can’t find the right color. When she does, she can’t find a size that fits her. When she finally finds the right color and size, some piece of the thing won’t “lay right” and looks stupid. Twelve hours, eleven stores and four miles of walking later she comes home with one cami and an empty giant sized milk shake cup from Chick-fil-a. But what Pam hates even more than one of her clothes-shopping ordeals, is the results of one of mine.

Once I overcome the guilt of reaping the benefits of cheap Asian child labor, I get down to business. I find me the gayest looking sales guy at Men’s Warehouse and we become best buds. Before I know it he’s laid out a week’s worth of clothes on a display table. He explains how each of the shirts is perfect for my “skin tone”. He picks out perfect ties to match the dress shirts that he assures me are the very latest thing for the conservative businessman. I try everything on and everything fits because “Gustav” has measured my every body part with his handy tape measure. This procedure takes a bit too long and he seems to be having way too much fun, but he’s the pro, and it must be done. I look in the three way mirror, hoping nobody I know walks in and I must admit that Gustav is right. I really do look “fabulous”. Before I realize what’s happening, everything is piled up at the cash register. Gustav is thrilled, and I just spent $500. The entire experience takes 45 minutes.

I come home, show Pam all of the new threads and she says that I look great. Then she looks me straight in the eye and says, “I hate you.”    

Best Fully-Clothed Love Scene EVER

http://www.youtube.com/embed/pYlPKnNnhaw" (Watch AFTER reading the following blog)

Pam and I were watching Skyfall last night on demand, and there was a great scene where Eve Moneypenny was shaving 007. It lead to a conversation about how pervasive nudity has become in films and how so much of it adds nothing and in many cases detracts from a film's value. This particular scene was an excellent example of how unnecessary nudity is to the sensual mood being conveyed.

Then I started thinking about all of the incredibly sensual scenes from movies made in the Forties which had no nudity...EVER. I thought about the electricity between Rick and Ilsa in Casablanca, the simmering sexuality yet amazing sweetness between George and Mary in It's a Wonderful Life when Mary is on the phone to her "boyfriend" in New York with George listening in on that old hand held receiver phone. Not a word is spoken as they listen in just inches apart. The scene goes on for what seems like forever as the two of them come under so romantic a spell that it makes the viewer want to scream out, "KISS HER ALREADY!!".

What got me thinking about this was a movie that Pam and I saw not long ago with Denzel Washington called "Flying". We both love Denzel so we figured with him in it, it was probably pretty good, so I paid the $5.99 and rented it. Terrible. Washington's character was about as horrible a human being as could be imagined and no one else in the picture was much better. But what made it even worse was the amazing amount of totally gratuitous nudity. Now, don't misunderstand me, I love the feminine form as much as the next guy, but I also think that the human body is a sacred, special and intensely private thing that shouldn't be paraded around and gawked at for entertainment purposes. I'm just tired of it, the objectification of woman AND men has reached ridiculous proportions in film. If this makes me an old fuddy-duddy then, so be it.

Lest you think that fully clothed, intensely powerful and sexual scenes are impossible and went out of style in the Forties, I submit for your consideration the link I have provided at the top of this blog post. It comes from a fair but not great movie made in 1996 called "Phenomenon". This scene features Kyra Sedgwick and John Travolta. I consider it one of the most tender, evocative love scenes ever filmed. Both actors remain fully clothed throughout. There is no vile language, or double entendres to gum up the works. It's simply beautiful and uplifting to watch.

More of this, Hollywood. More of this.

Molly Update

It’s been 5 days since we received Molly’s terrible diagnosis from the Vet. This is unchartered territory for us. We were told to keep her comfortable and that we would know when it was “time”, and that her days were numbered in weeks not months. It is a strange thing to live with the immediate expectation of death, but that’s the only way I know to describe it. Every morning I walk down the steps not knowing what I might find. Will she be swollen up, wracked with pain and in misery? When instead she greets me with a goofy smile, tail wagging away, I breathe a sigh of relief… such a strange way to exist.

Pam has devised a sort of “bucket list” for Molly. Leave it to my wife to turn to organization and planning to deal with this. She has come up with a list of Molly’s favorite things to do and is busily checking them off. Yesterday she went to Deep Run Park for a walk. This was the park that was Molly’s great hangout back when she was a rambunctious and out of control puppy. She would run and sniff and flirt with everyone she saw. There would be no running yesterday, but she had a grand time anyway.

So far Molly still has her appetite and her bathroom skills are still fully functioning. She still begs for food at the dinner table, still lays at Pam’s feet in the kitchen when she’s preparing meals hoping for a mistake, and still shadows our every move. In other words, Molly is still Molly. Half the time we wonder whether it’s all just a mistake, a misunderstanding, and Molly has cashed in a misdiagnosis by turning it into an opportunity for even greater attention than she normally gets. It wouldn’t surprise me at all. I can imagine her thinking, “Man-o-man, my folks sure are getting soft in their old age! First, Mom has bought me two chew toys in the last three days, and now I’m getting steak right from the grill?? Wow!”

We obsess over every limp, even the smallest swelling in her legs. But so far, so good.