Eve of Destruction

From the Superdome...

It's not like last time.  This time, there's no foolish bravado, only fear.  People are packing up and moving out, some for good. 

Saturday night, normally one of the five or ten busiest weekends of the year;  Most restaurants are closed, most hotels are boarded up.  Bars are open, but the crowds are thin.   Sunday morning, and the streets are deserted-- we close up the Ambassador Hotel and hit the road.

We're driving to Natchez, Mississippi, where we operate a Country Inns and Suites.  Contraflow starts on I-10, extends on I-55 up to McComb, and the traffic is still bumper to bumper.  We should have taken Highway 61, but lessons learned.  There's nothing to do but creep along and drink.  It's 10am.

On the Road...

The Drinking...

The Peeing...

Who Dat?

I had been to the Superdome before... Tulane played their home games there (except for Homecoming, which commences in Tad Gormley Stadium in city Park, which is small and altogether unimpressive.  Go figure.)  But I had never been to a Saints game before--

Conchetta and I

Jeana, Conchetta, and Abby

Abby and I

Myself, Abby, Coach Wayne, and Conchetta

Sure, it was just a preseason game.  And the seats were pretty far back in the nosebleeds.  And the Saints lost to the Dolphins, who are apparently one of the worst teams in the league and therefore this game doesn't bode well for the rest of the season...  But the tickets were free, and the company was great.  We went to Dino's (where else?) after-- it was a good time.

The City of New Orleans

For the time being, I've gone home.  I left Tennessee via train on Wednesday and headed down to New Orleans.  This is the first time I've trained for such a long distance in years, and, whenever possible, will be my choice in modes of travel.  There's lots of leg room, the seats are large and comfy, and this train in particular wasn't particularly crowded-- hopefully that's the norm.  

Apparently, however, despite the imminent fun of Southern Decadence, I've chosen a bad weekend to visit-- with Hurricane Gustav, the weather is going to get bad.  We'll see.  I didn't know of this until I was on the train halfway here, but probably would have come anyway.  

Anyway, I've been offered a position with New Orleans Boutique Hotels similar, although not quite the same, as the position I held right before my departure.  That is a stroke of luck-- now all I need is to find a room somewhere in the Marigny or the Quarter I can rent for a month or two.

It's great to be back-- to see the old haunts and the old faces.  To stay out past two and eat great food.  Plus Southern Decadence is this weekend-- God knows what trouble I'll get into then.  But anyway, I think I'm staying here through Halloween.

The Recipe Corner

I haven't posted anything in the while, because when I'm in Clarksburg I seldom do anything worth posting about.  I sit a home, watch TV, drink and eat.  So, I'll share these awesome recipe with everyone.  They are, possibly, the best things ever.

Greek Pork Loin--

What you need:

A pork tenderloin (9-11lbs)

roasted red sweet peppers

feta cheese

olive oil

a few green olives

Preheat the oven to 350 degrees, grease a baking dish with the olive oil.  Make a slit through the middle of the tenderloin, and rub the whole thing with olive oil and a little salt/pepper if you want.  Stuff the peppers and the feta into the slit in the pork, tie it up with bakers twine so everything doesn't fall out and put the whole thing in the baking dish.  Lie the peppers and the olives alongside the meat, and then toss it in the oven.  Let it cook for about an hour and fifteen minutes, and once it's done, eat that delicious shit.

Crawfish Etouffee--

What you need:

one stick of butter

a green pepper

a red onion

a tomato

several mushrooms

three stalks of celery

three tablespoons of cajun seasoning (more or less to taste)

two tablespoons of minced garlic

a couple of bay leaves

Alright, chop the vegetables and throw all the above ingredients in a pan.  Sautee everything until the onions, celery and such are tender.  Add 1 cup of water and 2 cups of crawfish tail meat to the pan, cover, and simmer for 10 minutes, stirring ever so often.  After ten minutes, remove from heat, stir in a tablespoon of flour and let sit uncovered for another ten minutes to thicken.  Serve over rice.

Stuffed Tilapia--

What you need:

four nice tilapia filets

a bag of seasoned croutons

an egg

3/4 cup of milk

1 1/2 cups grated parmesan cheese

1 tablespoon minced garlic

1 tablespoon choice seasoning

Preheat oven to 'broil' setting.  Crust your tilapia with as much of the cheese as necessary to get a good coating.  Crush the croutons by hand (if you use a blender, the crumbs will be too fine), throw them in a bowl and add the egg, the milk, the garlic, the seasoning and the rest of the cheese.  Mix it together, and place a generous amount of the concoction on top of each fish filet.  Place the stuffed fish onto a baking sheet and broil in the oven for 4-6 minutes, until fish is done and flakes when pierced with a fork.

New Century Of Cinema: Children of Men

(This is a new, fairly regular column I'm going to try to keep posted, where I examine and review my choices for the best films 

of the first decade of the new century. I don't get to watch movies particularly often, but I'll add to this list as I can.)

It is the year 2027 and no children have been born anywhere in the world for more than eighteen years.  Without a future, society is on the brink of annihilation; most nations have crumbled, Britain soldiers on.  Suicide drugs are free, immigrants are caged into unspeakable camps to await deportation or death, and fascism and terror battle for the upper hand.  Yet, in the midst of the blackness, even at the end, there is hope.  That is the premise of Alfonso Cuaron's Children of Men, a stunning film of remarkable emotion and visceral impact.

Clive Owen plays Theo Farron, a one-time political activist now consigned to apathy.  One day he is kidnapped by a militant activist group headed by his ex-lover (Julianne Moore).  She asks him to use his influence to procure transit papers for a young refugee, Kee (Clare-Hope Ashitey); it is pivotal she be allowed to move unencumbered towards the coast.  He obliges.  After a sudden assassination that couples the realization that Kee is pregnant and in great danger, he becomes her protector.  Together they flee from the government and the radicals, winding up in Bexhill Refugee Camp where they're to meet a ship that will transport Kee safely out of Britian.

Cuaron's vision of mankind at the end of days is enthralling.  There are times when we are so engrossed we forget that we're seeing sets and special effects; we mistake this London for a real place. Children of Men works so well because it doesn't opt to reinvent the wheel.  There are no towering CGI effects--it takes little stretch of imagination to see the world coming to this in twenty years.  The production designers (Jim Clay and Geoffrey Kirkland) have peppered their cityscape with government propaganda reminiscent of New York's anti-terror campaign (I was also reminded of the wanted posters in Cuaron's Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban).   Everything looks much as it does now, but older and less cared for.  Stray animals roam the streets, unoccupied with the troubles of man.  The refugee camp is a brilliant achievement,  effectively evoking Polish ghettos in World War Two.  There are beautiful scenes in an abandoned grade school that linger long after the credits roll.

I have made the film sound as if it is only a visual achievement, but it succeeds on all levels.  It is, above all, an action film and it has sequences so taut and brutal it makes the animated theatrics of Michael Bay seem like a Nickelodeon cartoon.  Shooting in long, unbroken takes, these scenes have an urgency that the audience responds to with a teeth-clenching physicality.  A chase down a tree-lined highway is terrifying, because it shows us for the first time of what the film is capable.  Theo's ascent in a war-torn, bullet-riddled apartment complex is unbearable, because we know how much is at stake.  Using all the tools at his disposal-- CGI, editing, cinematography-- Cuaron has created a thriller for the ages.

What elevates Children of Men from standard issue sci-fi action and ultimately makes it a masterpiece, however, is that it never allows the human aspect of its tale to take second stage to the visuals or the action, and the film has scenes so powerful that they moved me to tears.  In the beginning, all faith in humanity is drained from this picture.  Then, slowly and assuredly, in tiny gestures in the unlikeliest of places, it returns.  The result is an undeniable emotional response that subconsciously swells within us, breaking the surface in breathtaking moments that leave us gasping.  It is pivotal that we believe these characters are real people struggling for meaning in times that do not invite it, and we do.  The performances are indicative of this-- low key and pitch perfect.  Julianne Moore and Michael Caine (as an aging hippie) have small roles, but they leave an impression.  As the everyman, Clive Owen is great at projecting an ordinary guy in extraordinary circumstances.  And Clare-Hope Ashitey grounds scenes simply with her presence.

Yes, this future is bleak, but this film is not hopeless.  By dragging us so breathlessly through all this fear and dread and asking us to examine a stunningly rendered future world that is almost unbearable, Cuaron helps us  to appreciate the beams of goodness in his vision of the end of humanity.  And despite all this darkness, there is so much light.

Return to the Digital Age

Yes, it's true.  I have sold out.

Upon my arrival in Clarksburg, what happened other than the abrupt forcing upon me of a damnable cellphone?  A Samsung BlackJack... what the hell is this nonsense?  My parents demanded I take the thing-- no! I cried--  It shall meet the same watery fate as my last phone.  It shall be cast into the brown depths of the Mississippi river, never to annoy or bother again.

But, wait-- I can access e-mail from here.  And sort of surf the web.  And man, aren't text messages swell...

Oh well, I'll save my rebellion for some other day.

That Greyhound isn't gray...it's red!

"TORONTO - A 40-year-old man who witnesses said stabbed and beheaded his seat mate on a Greyhound bus in Canada made his first court appearance Friday, while police offered no motive for the savage attack against the 22-year-old carnival worker. " --from the Associated Press Well, allow me to offer a motive. This is every Greyhound passengers dream. Sitting that close to someone, probably for 14, 15, 16 hours, unable to sleep due to the seat configuration and the noise and the constant stops and speeches by the driver is enough to drive anyone to savagery. The richest people on a Greyhoud are those with two seats to themselves. I've witnessed two verbal altercations on Greyhounds, altercations where an entire busload of people shit forth their anger and frustration onto one unlucky, inconsiderate, damnable bastard. These buses make people uncontrollably, incurably angry. I almost wish I had been on this particular bus when the particular incident occured. I bet the head fell into the floor and rolled towards the toilet in the back. I wonder if I could have kept from giggling.

Saints in Hell

I never made it to the mountains. I said I wanted to several times, but a combination of mid-90s heat and humidity, afternoon thunderstorms, and the fact that, without a car, it is damn-near impossible to get to Great Smoky Mountain National Park all conspired against me. But I can say that I tried.

I left Knoxville on Tuesday afternoon wandering down Chapman Highway south of town. Within a half hour I looked like I had hopped into a swimming pool fully clothed, so sweaty was I. A combination of my appearance and the complete un-hitchhike-ability of Chapman Highway kept me from getting a ride. Before long, I had given up on my wilderness adventure (as, history will show, heat often makes me do) and decided to go directly to Maryville, where I could theoretically shower and stay with my cousin Tim. So I wandered pathetically into the Frontier Stop and Shop on Chapman to get directions. And the clerk gave me soft-serve ice cream.

Now, armed with directions, I mounted onto another highway. So disenchanted with hitching I didn't even try, just trudging along in the heat, when a car going the opposite direction drove up in the turning lane and offered me a ride. Unsolicited.

Now, while I do not want to say bad things about people who are kind to me, this woman was a little nutty. She had driven past me a few moments earlier, when God spoke to her and told her to turn around and retrieve me and take me with her. As I entered her car, she prudently inquired if I was going to rape or kill her (I didn't, by the way)-- despite my negative response, her boyfriend, with whom she was on the phone with, was not pleased with her decision to pick me up. They phone argued about half the time I was in the car with her, he claiming she should never pick up hitchhikers and her adamently stating she would do whatever God told her. Before long, she hung up on him. This began an awkward conversation where she related to me the joys of Jesus Christ but soon veered into confessions that we were driving through Ku Klux Klan country, and it wouldn't have been safe for me to walk (I wondered why I would have been in danger, seeing as how I am white, a gentile, and easily pass for straight, but never asked). She assured me she disagreed whole-heartedly with the KKK, but then went on a racist tirade that I think was supposed to prove her point...? After all of this, she decided she would take me the extra ten miles into downtown Maryville, and, feeling fairly safe with her, I opted against arguing. Then, about halfway through the out-of-the-way, the phone rang. Not wanting to argue with him, she simply ignored the call. He called back. She ignored the call again. this went on until he had called seven or eight times and I was certain he was certain I had killed her. When she let me out, I was grateful I couldn't be located, because he would have probably beat the shit out of me.

Once in Maryville however, I found it impossible to get anyone on the phone. So I pitched my hammock in a wooded area of a public park and camped out until morning.

And, oddly enough, the same thing happened again the next day. Albeit, there was no ice cream (that was too good to be true the first time), but another person just stopped, picked me up, and took me exactley where I wanted to go, completely unsolicited. He drove a red Liberty, was quite normal, and delighted in my camping stories.

Moral of the story: The weather is god-awful, but the people are not.
Thought of the day: Why don't I spend next summer in Fairbanks, where the summr high is around 70?
Solicitation: If in south Knoxville, patronize the Frontier, and, if it's your thing, say a prayer for Mike and Donna. God knows they need all the help they can get.

These are photos I took at a cemetary while wandering down Chapman Highway-- they aren't particularly related to the prior post, but I'm so delighted by them that I'm loading them here anyway.

"Slaughter is the best medicine..."

By now, I've seen The Dark Knight twice. After the first time, I was ready to declare it the best comic book adaptation of all time. It isn't-- Spiderman 2 still holds that honor. Chris Nolan's The Dark Knight suffers marginally from a convoluted plot and an overlong, misguided final act-- but it is a great film. In scope and stature it reaches farther than the Spiderman films and it's own predecessor; with all it wished to say, it is little surprise that some of the words come out garbled.

I have no interest in discussing plot points, because said plot is fairly complex and contains several double crosses that it took multiple viewings for me to quite catch onto. First and foremost, I want to discuss the cast. What a phenomenal cast. Clearly, as was anticipated, Heath Ledger dominates the film as the Joker. He is spectacular-- this may very well be his best performance, it's fitting this was his final completed film, and he would deserve the posthumous Oscar-nod that's been buzzed about. That's all I'm going to say on the subject since my devotion to Ledger has been documented thoroughly in these very pages. Instead, I'm going to focus on the rest of the cast.

Aaron Eckhart. Oh, Aaron Eckhart. As the only character with any real story arc, he has the most daunting role of the film and he lives up to it spectacularly. His character gets slightly shortchanged by the current edit of the film (I imagine Nolan shot scenes better establishing his relationship with Rachel Dawes, as well as better documentation oh his pre-Two Face temper that were left on the cutting room floor due to time constraints), but he shines through. He's the only character in the film for which we develop any real emotions (unless you come with a pre-existing Batman fetish) and he earns the pay-off.

When it became clear that Maggie Gyllenhaal was replacing Katie Holmes, sure, I was glad-- she's clearly the superior actress, but for most of her screen time she's never given the opportunity to shine. That changes in her last, say, 15 seconds of her performance. Confronted with an event that she can't possibly understand her face becomes a canvas of emotion-- shock, terror, joy, confusion, sadness. She may not get to do much up until that moment, but when she gets to act she doesn't miss the opportunity.

That's actually a common thread throughout the film. Aside from Eckhart and Ledger, no one really gets to do much, except in certain scenes seemingly designed to showcase them. Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman, Gary Oldman-- all fantastic actors, all in supporting roles-- spend much of the film just adding presence to the mis-en-scene. But Nolan doesn't forget them. Each one eventually gets to do something, and does it well.

The same can't be said for Christian Bale, who gets powerfully overshadowed in his own film. He broods and mopes and mopes and broods. For a Batman film, Bale's Batman seems mighty unnecessary. He seems on the scene just to provide a protagonist for obligatory fight scenes.

And yes, there are obligatory fight scenes. Seperating a fantastic explosion and the climactic showdown between Lt. Gordon and Two-Face, there is an unbearably long battle between Batman and a group of SWATs that could have been avoided completely if Batman had just sent a text message, something he does earlier in the film and could easily have done now. Intercut with this is a long showdown between two ferries which provides suspense, but loses credibility when it concludes in a fit of moralizing as opposed to ending realistically. No one can convince me one of those boats wouldn't be up in flames were a similar situation presented in real life. The film moralizes some more with Lucius Fox's objections to domestic spying technology, but this is a story thread so little used it should have been cut.

Yes, this film is convoluted and overlong. I'll admit that. But it earns the rights to it's flaws because it has a spectacular cast doing spectacular things and, aided by a score that sounds like a siren, builds suspense to the point of seizure. This may be the best film of the summer.

Leisurely Existence

Holy hell- I haven't done a goddamn thing in almost a week. I haven't had the luxury of laziness in quite a while, but with money earned in Washington and low property value in Knoxville I've been able to be absolutely antiproductive since my arrival.

I spent a little time looking for jobs, but after the second manager told me that "We aren't hiring now-- we're just collecting applications" I got so frustrated that I simply stopped looking. Collecting applications? What utter nonsense.

On Friday I went to a Tift Merritt concert at the Pilot Light and got drunk off High Life-- the show was unremarkable.

I've seen the sunrise everyday this week-- my sleep schedule is fucked.

Tomorrow, I'm going into the mountains for an unspecified amount of time. Call it a zen retreat.

However, I should be in West Tennessee on the first of August.

Unrelated tangent: I wish Katy Perry would die.

"Like Austin, without the hype..."

What am I doing here, in Knoxville Tennessee?

Not that it's a bad place, just unexpected. Has this become a literary pilgramage? Seemingly I have come to the banks of the Tennessee river to pay homage to Cormac McCarthy-- like Suttree, without the houseboat. I, in turn, have an efficiency apartment.

Whatever I'm doing here aside, what is this place? What is this vibe that permeates the air? The same sense in old west desert towns and ancient Appalachian settlements. Walking about at night a sense of restlessness, an unrelenting aura amongst these buildings unchanged in 60 or so odd years. The aura of a great, unseen world of trouble and interest bubbling just beneath the surface-- mischief in the night.

I think I'll stay awhile--

Walk Away

The snap can come at any time, and be relentless. And I swore I wouldn't ignore the snap when it came.

I was at work, doing miserable labor, and trying hard to ignore a bitchy queen, who was doing the kind of catty, dramatic things that makes uninvolved parties despise the gay population. And I realized that, at the DC Eagle, I hadn't met a single person that I particularly liked. None of the other employees, none of the patrons, no one. All the boys I went for turned out to either be nelly fags or absolutely crazy. And, god-knows this town is pretty dull. I think New Orleans has ruined me permanently on night-life scenes-- 'cause there ain't no where quite as fun. It was time to go. I was done with Washington. Time to move on.

So, on Saturday afternoon, I hopped a train back to Baltimore, where I had left some things in storage earlier in the week with Jen. I didn't show up for work on Saturday. Didn't bother to call-- I assume they'll figure it out.

To make things easy, I earned plenty of cash over Independence Day weekend, so I'm taking a bus to East Tennessee. Knoxville. Gonna see the river. Maryland and Virginia have faded away.

Goodbye, DC

Back to Baltimore

You don't have to remind me, because I remember. Yes, I know I wrote a savage missive of this city just over a month ago, but you know what? I never held much care for consistency-- and Baltimore is an easy place.

There are delightful girls here with a comfortable couch and central air. They let me cook pork and fish and generally experiment in their kitchen making smores in a broiling oven and tell me that it is delicious. They drink wine and allow me to access the internet and there is an aquarium and cable.

So, yes, Baltimore is easier than Washington. I don't have to pitch a camp hammock in the park, or urban camp on a bench by the Art Gallery. I don't have to spend the night at the bathhouse or constantly keep an eye on my pack. And, surprisingly, it's cheaper to stay in Baltimore during the week and commute back for work on the weekends than to stay in DC.

So, I'm back in Baltimore, commuting via train to work. Have been for a couple of days. But I still don't like this town.

Masterpieces and Messes: Summer Cinema

I spent the day at the movies-- unintentionally. I originally was only going to see Wall-E, but upon exiting the auditorium, right next door, was another auditorium just beginning to show Wanted. I had nothing to do-- of course I slipped inside.

Wall-E is spectacular. It is a masterpiece, and the best Pixar film since Toy Story 2. It has moments so sublime, so intensely emotional, so heart-rending and adorable that the only real thing I can say is that it must be seen. It is not a children's film. (Anecdotally, the screening I saw had far more adults without kids present than yapping, nasty children. In a half full auditorium, there were perhaps four.)

The plot plays like the heir apparent to both Kubrick and Spielberg, a masterful conflation of 2001 and E.T. The earth has been covered by trash, forcing humanity to flee into space and leave behind a fleet of trash-compacting robots to clean up the planet prior to civilization's return. Seven hundred years later, the scheme has failed, leaving behind only one robot (Wall-E) who has developed expression and emotion and longs for love like he sees in the frames of a worn-out VHS copy of Hello, Dolly!. One day, another robot arrives, named Eve, with mysterious intent-- before long, Wall-E charts into space to protect his new lady love.

Clearly, the plot is sacchrine sweet and the environmental messages grow heavy-handed. The film rises above these flaws and reaches the pinnacles of great science fiction-- this is the best since Close Encounters. Awe-inspiring sequences combine with heart and humor in ways that are delightful and unexpected. Pixar has given up making films that can even be considered 'children's films'. They just make great cinema.

***

Now, to Wanted, which is the precise opposite of Wall-E-- offensive, dull and stupid. Here, friends, is a film about an ancient religious cult who worship a magical loom. Seriously, I'm not making this up. Perhaps, somewhere in this sticky mess is a treatise against organised religion-- I didn't care enough to try and find it.

The film resembles a lackluster conflation on Fight Club and Shoot 'Em Up, without the satire or the fun. Sure, Fight Club missed as many marks as it hit, was irresponsible and unpleasent, but at least it tried to do something and failed. Wanted never tries.

This is a cliched, wholly-American tale of regeneration through violence, where a sad-sack loser reforms his life and 'makes something of himself' after discovering violence, fast cars and Angelina Jolie. It furthers the notion that all American males are incomplete until they have both A.) been shot, and B.) reconnected with their absentee father. Vomit.

The film is a giant male ego-stroke-- filled with shoot outs and car chases and father-son reflection and fraternal camaraderie and escaping from dismal, oppressive office jobs in humorous ways. Sixty years ago, this film could have been made by John Huston, but he would have inserted the pathos to make it digestible. The fact that the women in the audience weren't rolling in the aisles in laughter at this absurdity and the men leaving in anger made me a bit sad. In fact, as the giant masculine orgy that this film is, the mere prescence of Angelina Jolie is gratuitous. That she gives a performance far better than the material deserves makes me pity her.

What did these actors (Jolie, James McAvoy playing whiny and annoying, Morgan Freeman playing the Liam Neeson role, Terrence Stamp in a glorified cameo) think this film was about? Even if they missed the obvious, offenseive subtext, why would anyone want to make a film about the worship of a magical loom? Worst of all, hovever, Wanted commits a cardinal sin even more dire than being offensive, or stupid-- it's boring. This film is god-awful.

Current Obsesssion: Seven Eleven

Slurpee. Big Gulp.

These are not pleasant words. Say them to yourself. They sound gross. They sound disgusting, like some sex act you whispered about in Junior High. But like some unpracticed, first time sex act (...for boys, anyway) these things are wonderful.

That's correct, Thank heaven for Seven Eleven.

It's not that they stay open twenty four hours, although that helps. And it's not that they have air conditioning that makes one worshipful. And it's not even the refreshing joys of the afore-mentioned Slurpee and Big Gulp. It's a big, glorious conflation of all three. And more.

It makes me happy to walk in and see some underpaid clerk staring vaguely ahead as some ridiculous customer rambles and bitches on about a nonsensical issue that someone paid twice the counter-help's salary would still be hard-pressed to care about. God knows I've tread there, too. But not anymore. HaHa.

It makes me happy to go there a 3am when the outdoor humidity makes me wish I were dead and ponder the fact that I could buy a burrito and batteries and a chocolate eclair if I wanted. And it makes me even happier when the Spanish clerk doesn't bother me and just lets me hang out for a while.

And it makes me happy to walk in at 1:30 in the afternoon and buy a soda larger than my torso. An 84 ounce Super-Mega-Unbelievably Large Kick-Your-Ass Gulp. Or a 34 ounce slurpee, because anything larger will forever freeze your brain. Slurpee, you taste like air! You are like walking on a cloud of flavorful bliss. And, oh the ecstacy!, how about when you walk in and realize that not only do they have Cherry LimeAide Slurpees, but also Blue Raspberry? HOW IS MORTAL MAN TO MAKE SUCH DECISIONS?!?!? It is too hard. Between the months of April and October I would choose Slurpees over drugs, without hesitation, without question. Which brings around the question of drug-flavored Slurpees. That, I think, must be heaven.

Thank you, Seven Eleven. Nothing else would have me walk a dozen blocks out of my way in the mid-afternoon heat, especially when therre is a CVS on every corner. You are truly the greatest place that exists anywhere in the world. I wish everywhere was a Seven Eleven. I love them.