We Can See Clearly Now
There was a time when glamour and image ruled our decisions. The “coolness” factor went a long way when it came to personal care. Those twenty years are gone. We’re forty now and the economy is in the tank, besides. Time to play smarter, even in fashion. So when the time came to have my daughter’s zillion dollar fashion frames repaired and buy a back-up pair for times like these, we started to ask around instead of just zipping back to Ossip Optometry.
We’ve liked Ossip for some time. They have cutting edge frames and the docs were all good. In fact, when times were good, the service we got there was always above grade. It did seem curious to us how we’d still spend a billion dollars for a pair of glasses, even with my wife’s very good vision insurance. Ossip vision masters are, after all, brilliant sales people as well. Man, can they up-sell. “Oh, you’ll want this special lens or your daughter will look like a bug. I’ts only $200 more” and “Oh, you have to get this coating or the glasses will dissolve in sunlight. It’s only $45 extra.” and “Oh, if you don’t pay this extra $90 they sometimes put tinfoil in the frames instead of glass.”
So we decided to ask around to see if we could get a better deal. For us, it’s helpful to ask people inside the industry and we have a friend who is an eye doctor in the area. We soon learned Ossip has a terrible reputation within the business. Not only are they traditionally just plain snobby, but they refuse to give prescriptions over the telephone to competing companies (a common courtesy for most offices) and, allegedly and are pretty much defrauding some major insurance companies by ignoring their policy requirements and just giving a flat discount. The rumor within the industry is that they are struggling in the tight economy.
Well, no wonder, I discovered as we came in with the broken glasses. Even the customer service that we had come to expect is out the window! A rude and somewhat disgruntled employee informed me the pair “is broke!” I knew that because of the way the two sides were no longer joined in the middle by that part that goes over your nose. She informed me they would have to go to the lab – to be returned in 7 to 10 days. Rushing the order seemed to annoy her enough that I thought I might have to wait 14 to 21 days after I brought it up. She’d have to check on that because their lab only allows them to do that once in a while. She made no move to check on that right then, however. I guess it would just be a happy surprise if I got them back early. I reminded her that when these glasses came the first time the office neglected to call us. We eventually had to call ourselves and kinda rush in late near closing time. She just stared at me.
Now, I’ll need a pair of back-up frames. We’re really looking for the most inexpensive, fully covered by insurance thing you’ve got. Pointing to the shelf behind me she declares, “Everything on that shelf, except the pair you got the first time, would be covered.” That is beyond explanation, so we moved on and picked a pair of little pink glasses. Of course, my daughter’s prescription will require different lenses, so the total will be only half a zillion dollars. And they would be ready in 7 to 10 days. When I told her we’d look somewhere else I got a look that said I’d be lucky to get my repair back in 30 days.
So we went to Lens Crafters, where a very kind woman doted on my young daughter and we found the exact same little pink frames for her to wear. They didn’t take my insurance, unfortunately, and were still $70 less than Ossip. And, after a brief stroll around the mall, we had them to take home “in about an hour.” Wake up, Dr. Ossip, cool billboards and staff dressed all in black isn’t going to keep you afloat in this economy. You’re going to have to kick your customer service into high gear and accept that many people will be shopping for value. I wish you good luck. If the opinion of your peers is any indication, you’re gonna need it.
When in Rome, or near Venice
If you are one of the zillions heading down I-75 to Florida this spring, make the time to stop in Nakomis, Florida and, especially, the Nakomis Groves on Albee Farm Road. Sure, you can probably find oranges and honey near wherever you are staying, but you’ll need to go out of your way (really, go out of your way if you must) to have some of the Orange Ice Cream available from the window (most days, 11am-6pm).
Simply put, it’s the difference between the frozen, concentrated orange juice you make in Indiana and having fresh from the tree stuff while on vacation in Florida. Orange Sherbet I have enjoyed, but nothing compares to the refreshing tang they push out of their soft serve machine at Nakomis Groves. Orange can be swirled with vanilla, but the more adventuresome might go with the orange/pineapple combo. If you really want to go out on a limb, try chocolate/lime. It may take a few licks, but you’ll soon be hooked.
If you’re staying within 30 miles of Nakomis, it’s worth the drive. If you’re going anywhere south on I-75, it just might make those torturous last couple of hours of your twenty hour drive go a little better.
The worst of times (and a nod to one of the best)
I’ll admit that from the start, I knew I wasn’t going to like The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I went in expecting it to be an overblown, pompous Hollywood epic of contrite values riding the laurels of the town’s favorite son, Brad Pitt. I was right. I just didn’t realize I would be so confident in declaring it the most “over reviewed” picture of the year (not to mention over awarded). I haven’t felt this misled by the movie critic corps since King Kong (the Peter Jackson remake).
First of all, what kind of story is this? Loosely (very loosely according to those in the know) based on a story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I just don’t see the inherent drama. The guy is born old of body, but not of mind. It’s not like he has all his memories or experiences and has to catch up with them as time goes on (this might make a compelling story). He simply has the body of an old man and must get younger. Wrapping the story with modern day inserts as Hurricane Katrina bears down on New Orleans gives us the opportunity to force some narration, but does little to add any depth to the tale. After nearly two and a half hours the audience must be expecting some sort of point, so director Fincher staples on a coda that only serves to insult the audience, tossing a on lame moral drawn with broad strokes, forced metaphors and sentimentality.
This makes a nice vehicle for Brad Pitt, by the way, since the movie is basically about him getting cuter and cuter. But best actor? Hardly worth the nomination. He walks through the picture, his accent the best acting required of him from script or director. When his mother in the story dies I finally expected it to be his opportunity to show some depth. Fincher puts him an African American church with histrionic mourners. Pitt, however, is stoic. Not a single tear is shed and CUT TO: Pitt riding his motorcycle, apparently mourning the way a young man (or is it an old man in a young man’s body) would. It must have been his ability to walk with a limp that so impressed the Academy.
So, it must be the artistic merit everyone is fired up about. Makeup! Oh, yes, makeup. Granted Pitt is allowed to change ages during the film, making him cute to a wide demographic of movie ticket buying women. Now those who always wished he was in their league can see, for themselves, how he just might look if he was of their generation. Trouble was, I had a very hard time figuring out how old these folks were supposed to be. Pitt was told he was an “pretty old man” on the trip across the North Atlantic, so I suddenly realized he was supposed to be in his 60’s though his good genes had him looking more like 50. How old is Daisy supposed to be when they flirt on the bandstand in the park? She looks about 27 but says things that imply she’s about 17, even though she’s been to New York by now and is a budding chorus girl in a major ballet company. Pitt during this scene is implied to be “way too old” for her, but I thought he looked a handsome 35ish. Him at about 16 years old near the end of the film is the best trick (not acting, mind you, since Brad Pitt has pretty good looks to rest on here). But the forced persepective of the last shot in that scene (in which Pitt looks so much smaller/younger because he’s positioned far from the camera) is blown when Fincher allows the take to go too long and they meet at the door leading outside. Suddenly Pitt is as tall as Cate Blanchett all over again.
Well then, it must have been the sweeping grandeur of the production design itself. Recreating New Orleans over many decades is no easy feat. Except, with the use of Computer Graphic Imaging almost anything is relatively easy to recreate. The ferry boat on the North Atlantic is not really a stretch and the entire war scene can be created, changed and revamped in the comfort of an office. Though it’s all done very well, there is no filmmaking craft of old shown here. I haven’t read the press notes, but I gather very few locations were required to film this masterpiece. Don’t worry about having to recreate Katrina, as all that drama comes in the form of rain splashing the windows and recreated newscasts on the hospital television.
That just leaves the love story. Since the theme of the movie seems to rest on “being in an old body sucks” the love story gives us the same depth. Compelling would be these two living together while their bodies age in different directions. Instead, we are shown that good love only really happens when you are between 20 and 30 (or something like that, I couldn’t really tell). Or is that good sex only really happens during these years? The rest of the time you can really love somebody but since you’d only be annoyed because you were caring for them or listening to an experience that you can’t mesh with your own you should just stay away from each other. Again, it would have been interesting to see him as an old man counseling her through adolescence if only he had some information in his head when he was born. (Read The Time-Traveller’s Wife for an interesting take on an idea similar to this.) But, alas, he’s just as boring and in the dark as any other seven year old.
And that’s the way I felt at this movie – bored, in the dark and talked to like a seven year old. That some the press corps fawned over the film shows where their heads are, too.
+++
Consider, as an antidote to Benjamin Button, the outstanding, moving and delightful Milk starring Sean Pean actually acting and calling upon the viewer to consider what they believe, why they believe it and if they are doing something about it on behalf of their brothers and sisters. It’s a real production with people and everything! Put any political squemishness aside and rank this high on your list of things to see, now available on DVD.
Reason the world will end, #3
On Tuesday a school bus driver was arrested upon returning to the bus depot after driving his after-school route. Students complained to their parents that he had been swerving, driving on the wrong side of the road, stopped at a few houses more than one time and hit a mailbox. Upon noticing that he had trouble standing and getting out of the bus, authorities gave him blood-alcohol test that showed him at nearly three times the legal limit for driving intoxicated. They later found an empty bottle in his car, parked at the depot where he picked up his bus that afternoon.
Saturday’s newspaper declares “School bus driver accused of DUI may be fired soon.” Let me be clear. The words “may” and “soon” seem to indicate there may be some discussion about whether or not this guy should be let go. Maybe I’m overreacting to this specific situation. The guy is in jail and will get in trouble and justice will be served in the end. OK.
The reason this indicates the world is coming to an end is simple: When people do things that are morally, legally and socially unacceptable, a board meeting should not be required to take action about his status. If supervisors (or anybody trusted to make decisions in the world) can’t take action that is this clearly required we are all screwed. If you don’t have enough faith in the supervisor, don’t promote them to that position in the first place. Or if you need some sort of check and balance system to figure out if driving a bus full of kids while drunk is worthy of losing your job, maybe you shouldn’t be a supervisor either.
Trickle Down Economics
Times are tough … and it’s getting harder and harder to convince people to drop $4 on a cup of coffee. I get that.
But I’m a writer who’s also a stay-at-home Dad and your little coffee shop is my little safe haven; my place to go where I don’t have to pick up toys or make school lunches or make a shopping list. With all distractions wiped away, I actually get work done on your comfy leather chairs.
I admit I’ve stayed long enough to carry the scent of coffee home on my sweater or run the battery of my laptop until it is flashing red. But you said it was okay …
But you lied. Now you’re closing your stores at 10:00 PM or even, gasp, 9:00! And I’m left wandering the streets, away from the internet and lost. I miss the blissful ignorance and a DOW over 10,000. 
The Salt(s) of the Earth
I understand salt is a vital part of cooking. I’ve read Alton Brown, thank you very much. I tend to forget to season during cooking and that leads to overuse of the shaker on the table. Not the best way to season food because I mostly taste salt instead of the the food (works good on mashed potatoes).
My brother also cooks, so I knew to be grateful for the box of six varieties of “finishing salts” he had shipped to me from California for Christmas. He must know something I didn’t know. But, what, exactly, was I supposed to do with these things? The Alea Volcanic salt is an interesting orange color; the Turkish Black Pyramid a bizarre crystalline shape. Maybe they are molecular gastronomy’s little decorative touches?
So I read the insert that came in the package. It says, with faux modesty, “This may sound like hyperbole, but sprinkle the parchment fine flakes of Maldon sea salt (which was included in my assortment – a white, truly flaky salt) … and you will experience a chlorophyll dynamo of flavor that strums at the very heart of nature.” Wow! That’s a heck of a promise from this little bottle. Could it possibly be true? How about, “Let fall dark pyramids of Turkish Black Pyramid salt … and you will feel the turgid rush of Incan discovery.” Or, “Grind smoked salt on hand-churned ice cream and you will trade your house for an igloo.” Brave promises, indeed!
So last week I finally cooked a dinner that was high-end enough to justify the use of these jewels. I put four salts on the table, instructing my guests (with my tongue slightly in cheek) which to use where. I started with the Maldon on the salad. And, OH MY GOD, the taste explosion that was to send me to the moon and back actually happened! The simple dressing, with pears and blue cheese on romaine, was propelled to hero status! Now for the beef tenderloin. I was worried because the Port Reduction Sauce had turned out a little salty. Why add more salt? But it was amazing how the salt created an entirely new layer of flavor. Not only did it bring out the strengths of the recipe, it added depth and complexity. Green Beans with Lemon were similarly enhanced.
So thanks, Brother, for further educating me about this facet of life (and culinary prowess) I had been ignorant of. And for the rest of you, visit www.atthemeadow.com and see for yourself!
There’s A Pattern Here
The entertainment industry has long been maligned for its lack of new ideas. Broadway would seem to be the most recent sinner in this category. As ticket prices continue to soar ($145 for a straight play!?), the content has become more banal. Appealing to elite tourists who will shell out unlimited funds (so long as they know what to expect) is a good business , but often poor art. Mary Poppins, Shreck, The Producers, Young Frankenstein, The Little Mermaid, The Lion King, Tarzan, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang … well, you get the point.
And yet there is, I think, an industry with an even greater dearth of imagination, and this one has even managed to work it’s hopeless lack of creativity into its own culture. They have invented terms and coined cliches and prepared us all for the fact that everything old will be new again. Fashion week continues in New York City this week, so now is the time to point out to the commoner how “retro style” is really a euphemism for “recycled style.” It took a news story on the radio to confirm my fears that 80’s fashion was indeed making a comeback, but I was unfortunately reminded of this when shopping a few weeks ago for a pullover sweater. I walked away without making a purchase from countless retailers because I refused to buy an argyle sweater.
The 80’s are not worthy of remembering because the styles that we chose at the time are unable to be considered cool by anyone. Just like no adult can pull of crocks, no super model will look good in parachute pants, a crop-sleeved turquoise blue shirt and a super narrow neck tie with a piano key print. That’s right, and those were the really cool things. The preps were resigned to argyle and logos. The punks were stretching the limits of combat boots, baggy leather and silver chains … anything ripped would do.
I have no insights for the industry because, after all, where else can you go with pants, shirts and shoes? Besides, as Jerry Seinfeld pointed out long ago, we will all be wearing the same uniforms in the future someday. Anyone who watches science fiction movies knows that. Maybe we could all decide that clothes are really utilitarian, not something to dictate status nor art. But what would all those industry insiders do? Well, there’s always show biz.
Ain’t That A Kick In The Head?
“The Wrestler” is a film lovers film. Movie goers who love being transported to places they aren’t likely to go and meet people you might not interact with each day will appreciate the gritty sub-culture exposed here. I’ve seen enough slick, $80 million productions with perfect looking stars and fantasy lives. Even a domestic drama like “Revolutionary Road” seems convoluted (see below) next to the unsteady, almost documentary feel from director Darren Aronofsky.
The film deserves awards for writing, actor, actress and supporting actress as well, with special commendation to Marisa Tomei. She makes the bravest choices here as the aging “stripper with a heart of gold.” Except her heart is not pure, just steeled and doing the very best she can. Rourke is brilliant and obviously bled for the role, before and during production.
And beyond the independent spirit that draws a certain ticket buyer, “The Wrester” is a powerful movie because it is about the everyman. Perhaps you don’t get bashed over the head with ladders or stapled with a staple gun. But you may mess up your relationships sometimes, no matter how hard you try. And you may be doing your best to survive even though your memories are brighter than your present. You, too, may have something you like to do more than anything else; a talent that brings you to life and allows you to feel. And maybe you’ll admire, as I did, a character who decides to live this way even if it means his end.
The road to … ?
The film Revolutionary Road was snubbed by the academy, and that made me want to see it even more. It had been on my list anyway, mostly because the performances are being praised and my appreciation for Sam Mendes (especially his masterpiece American Beauty).
I guess I can only report that I don’t think the academy did anything wrong, even though the film is interesting, well acted, though-provoking, beautifully designed and full of social commentary. These things make a film Oscar worthy, but there the sum just doesn’t equal its parts. And it’s very close … but not quite.
First, the performances are outstanding. Each emotional pitch is genuine and well executed. The leads shine and the supporting cast (only one of which was nominated) do a fine job. The production design is spot on and the direction worthy.
So it comes down to story structure and writing, I suppose. There are great spoken lines here and there … but the screenplay seems designed to get you to those lines, hoping they are making their point about society and the meaning of life. Grasping the underlying motives of a husband and wife stuck in their choices is not a long stretch (people deal with this every day), but there’s not enough exposition to help us invest in the tragedy of their dreams dashed.
Frank (the husband) is a character who is especially conflicted because he is given a chance to fulfill his dreams … only, he doesn’t know what they are. Even the prospect of discovering what they might be enrages him, but we are left to guess why. Fortunately there is a “disturbing outsider” who drops in to provide a sort of greek chorus to his feelings in case we are lost. But where is the well for all this rage? From what source does it spring eternal? We don’t know.
It is really April’s story, which is supposed to be even more controversial because she’s a woman in the 50’s and not meant to have dreams outside the home. Her pain is easier to connect with and the route she takes more understandable; and tragic. Winslet is a joy to watch act.
And that’s the rub. Throughout the film I felt I was watching people do a great job acting. The dialogue is excellent and captures the way people argue, but there is simply no context provided by earlier scenes. These are dramatic episodes well played out, but hardly a contextual commentary on domestic life of the 50s (or today).
All that said, however, I must admit I continue to think about the film and it’s characters. The inner torments they face are similar to what millions of men and women face each day. The lines that mean to provoke do, in fact, provoke. The issues raised between spouses are worthy of conversation. And, in a visceral reaction that had to be studied to be understood, the final shot brought me to tears. I don’t mean the events at the end of the film. I mean the very last shot got me right in the gut. See it – I recommend it highly – and maybe we can figure it out together.
I have stood in the presence of greatness.
First of all, you can’t even imagine the magnitude of this work, because there are no references in this picture. You and I have seen this before, on posters or postcards – or maybe even a plate in a big coffee table book. But this is Monet, and this is Monet done BIG. Each panel is 6 1/2 feet tall and almost 14 feet wide. STOP – look at the wall of your kid’s bedroom. Lop a couple feet off the ceiling height and you’re talking the size of one of the panels. And there are three! The entire piece is more than 41 feet long. So you have to start by understanding the sensory experience is not isolated with a frame and another piece right there next to it. When you see Claude Monet’s CReflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond. c. 1920 you can dive right in.
When I lived in New York City as a college student, I would go to MOMA and sit with this work, knowing it was good to be around but not really being in touch enough to wonder why it was the right place to go. And sit. And think.
Now I’m older and yesterday I visited MOMA without even remembering how I used to do that. The museum has been renovated since I was there, so when I came around a corner and found myself in the presence of this painting, this masterpiece, this freaking icon of beauty and grace, I lost my nerve. I went back out of the room. I found my friend and had to return with him to lean on. Present, then, and fully able to open my eyes and believe in the beauty, I stood and wept. Not, like, cried and made a fool of myself. But got teary enough to have to wipe my eyes.
I’ll be candid: I’m not smart enough for some modern art; just like I don’t get modern jazz and really like only about half of Wes Anderson’s films. There’s meaning there I’m not connecting with somehow. I see cubes and piles of sewn fabric on the floor and I’m at a loss. Who decides this stuff is great, anyway? But when I see Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond I know – I mean down to my core I know – that the passion and talent and genius men are capable of doesn’t get any more coherent than this.
And it may not be your favorite. That’s fine. What hit me on further reflection is the realization that many people don’t even know that it is important to go to the museum and find a favorite. Zillions of people go through life and don’t think they need to see – no, feel – greatness. What it instills in a person is a knowing that will tickle the back of your throat for your entire life until you cough up your innermost desire to also be brilliant. We all have it, but we ignore it.
Monet could quash the impulse because we could respond, “I’ll never do that so why bother.” Bother because your greatness, in whatever field, is the basis for meaningful life. If you don’t ingest the knowledge of human greatness it can’t fester inside you. And if we don’t get greater than we are, we’ll just be, well, this, forever. The human animal is designed to be okay with that – to endure. Art, among other things, is Spirit, brought forth by another being, to remind us we are more than enduring animals. We are the vehicles for greatness.
If only we will be inspired to aspire.
