The Best Part: Sarah Vowell's "Assassination Vacation"

[Anarchist] Emma Goldman claimed to abhor violence, and yet her speeches and writings are full of sympathetic odes to killers and would-be killers. Czolgozs [assassin of President William McKinley] included. I'm more of a Ten Commandments, rule of law girl myself. The closest I've ever come to anarchy is buying a Sex Pistols record. I find Goldman fascinating, but bothersome. (Especially her blase recounting of being Berkman's accomplice in shooting Frick.) While her apologies for violence were loathsome and her utopian hooey about life without government childish, her book's description of making friends with her fellow anarchists in New York is enchanting. Which is why her guilty assumption that Czolgosz would have been hurt by the the anarchist paper's warning - page 309 in my copy - is so poignant. The three hundred preceding pages are crammed with anecdotes and evidence of her entanglements and camaraderie.

Vowell's fascination with three assassinated presidents -- Lincoln, Garfield, and McKinley -- leads to this delightful, thought-provoking book daring us to compare the crap in our times to the crap that has gone on before. Clearly, no one has learned from history, not even the historians.

Don't Start with Me, Starter

This is how I spent a good portion of my weekend -- helping our youngest son replace the starter on his Ford Expedition.

I've never done something like this before; he's the auto tinkerer. He's never done it before either, but a few months of hanging out with a gearhead friend convinced him it's something he wants to try, and I'm there to support him in that.

My job consisted of:

1. Fetching things.

2. Buying needed tools.

3. Weeding the nearby potentilla (thus the gardening trowel) until I was needed for either 1 or 2.

There's the naughty one.

Thing is, once the new starter was in place, it chose not to work, so we ended Saturday in defeat.

He, however, did not give up. He spent a lot of time online looking at things and then Sunday afternoon, success: Had it going. He figured out his shift lever may be wearing out and while in park may have been sending the signal it wasn't in park. He did get things going, and is now looking forward (I think) to fixing his shift lever.

I'm just glad he didn't give up.

 

Way Too Late at the Movies: The Adventures of Baron Munchausen

I tell a little lie here. I have seen this film before. But it has been forever, so when I saw it was available on YouTube, I had to jump on it.

It's an absolute mess of a film, meaning for a Terry Gilliam procuction, it's right where it should be.

I read today that it's the third installment of an unofficial "trilogy" of films by Gilliam, meant to show the world from the point of view of a young child (Time Bandits), a middle-aged man (Brazil) and an old man (Munchausen). I believe there's some credence to the theory, as the films have common threads that tell a wonderful story of their own.

First, they're all anti-authoritarian. Time Bandits battles the tyranny of parents too set in their ways to really pay attention to their children. Brazil battles the tyranny of societal norms (it's too easy to say it's anti-government). Munchausen battled the tyranny of so-called irrelevancy.

Second, they demonstrate the ability of the individual, even those imagined as powerless, such as a child or an old man or a middling government functionary, to battle against their tyrannies and win (though it's arguable that Sam Lowry doesn't "win" against the forces mounting against him, but then again maybe he does).

Third, they preach against complacency and accepting one's fate. These films' protagonists clearly see what's wrong with their current situation, and either on purpose or by accident fight against what's holding them back.

One can make all sorts of allegorical comparisons to Gilliam's work. Being a Christian, I clearly see Christian themes throughout the movies as they battle foes we recognize easily today. Being a human, I clearly see human themes throughout the movies, as they prove time and again that who they are counts, that they are relevant, and that they can effect change in society.

That's no more clear to me than in Munchausen, where the people are held under the dual thumbs of an invading Turkish army and Johnathan Pryce's delightful sellout city official who seems quite happy to remain in power at a time of crisis because he's fooling his subjects by dealing with the Turks in secret. Munchausen demonstrates his power by physically appearing younger as he has adventures meant to save the town.

The closing scene really spoke to me.

First, we hear Polly make the statement "It wasn't just a story, was it." She's not asking this as she sees in wonder the routed, absent Turkish encampments in front of the town, after they defy the town leaders and open the gates.

And again as Munchausen declares, right after we see him (spoilers) lowered into the grave:

"That was only one of the many occasions on which I met my death. An experience which I don't hesitate -- strongly -- to recommend. And so with the help of my inestimable servants, I defeated the Turks and saved the day. And from that time forth, everyone who had a talent for it, lived happily ever after."

This turns something on its head for me: The coward, they say, dies a thousand deaths, while the brave die once. Munchausen subverts that tyranny as well. Only through action looking past the fear of death, physical or metaphorical, is what leads us to victory, and can lead us to victory time and again.

Artistically, it's a wonder; a mix of real sets and those that appear to be cheap lath and canvas ones you'd expect to see on the stage, and they're chosen purposefully to help push the "is this real or it it a story" theme Polly points out.

So in short, I loved this film.

And it's a pity that Gilliam never got to do his Don Quixote, which would have added a fourth film, and other delightful allegory, to his trilogy of fighting against the man.

Munchausen's hero shot, with dog Argos and horse Beaucephalus, at the end of the film.

Rear-End First Exit from the ERO?

So, after more than a decade of being a member of an emergency response team at work, I may be getting an exit.

Situation: I got talked into joining the ERO when I was fairly new on the job at the RWMC by an emergency services guy who was part of my document reviews. The volunteer position brought on some extra stress in the form of training and one to two drills a year, but it wasn't all that bad. I'm convinced at one point, as a subcontractor, it saved my job when writer layoffs occurred.

But things have changed since then. I'm now part of the company, no longer a sub. Also, since the pandemic, I've been a teleworker. My job can be performed just as easy in my basement as in a fabric-covered box in the desert.

But I still remained part of the ERO, even after explaining my change in work status.

I've done two drills since then. The first, I actually went out first thing in the morning to work there. But as that seemed artificial since in an actual emergency I wouldn't know to be out there (it's a good hour drive) I would be responding from home.

So the second drill, that's what I did. Got the call, responded from home, and participated in the drill for about 15 minutes before it was over. Again, I emphasized then that I worked from home, and that is how I would respond in an actual emergency. They seemed okay with that.

This drill, there was a lot of new blood in, and I suspected my telework status had not been communicated to them. Nevertheless, I didn't change my plan.

I got the call, started driving out, but just as I hit the western city limit, they called first of all to see if I was coming, then after I explained -again - that I telework, they had a conflab, then called again to send me home. I'm yet to see if that means they'll begin my exit from the ERO, or move me to a position that's in town rather than in the desert. We'll see.

As for the volunteer job's layoff-preventing qualities, I'm taking on other responsibilities that should be it's equal.

Afraid of . . . PARENTS!

There's a lot to unpack here.

Millionares, many of them, wandering the face of the earth, feeling unfilfilled.

Millionaires, many of them, not charging what they're worth.

Millionaires, many of them, held back by some kind of wealth-inhibiting trauma that occurred to them LIKELY BEFORE THE AGE OF SEVEN.

What could it be?

Well, pay $97 for a "five-day intensive" that'll get you to the root of your trauma, likely through pop psychology, pseudo-gobbledygook and the realization that if YOU FAIL to find that trauma, it's your fault and there will be no refunds and you will continue to wander the planet, spenging money a-jingling in your jeans, feeling unfulfilled.

And you don't even have C. Montgomery Burns to blame for it.

There's a lot of this crap on Facebook. Probably more for me because it fascinates me and I click on things and go to websites, whether I feel financially fulfilled or not. They're making money telling others how to make money. They do it on the cheap (see the "discounted" $97 fee above) but apparently get a lot of pigeons to swallow it because if it weren't working for them they'd be doing something else entirely.

Also, what the hell kind of trauma can happen to a soul before the age of seven that would cause hindrances in the financial area? Oh, I'm sure they find things. But will the things they find make any sense?

The Garner Files, A Review

In this book, James Garner goes a long way to insist he isn't Jim Rockford or Bret Maverick. And I get that. He's an actor playing roles. I can see why he'd get upset about being pigeonholed.

I guess what I see more in this book is that he's, well, kind of a hypocrite, like me. He laments that people tell him as an actor he shouldn't express his political beliefs, for example. And then dumps on those supporting political beliefs he doesn't agree with.

I don't have a dog in the Republican/Democrat fight, but I don't believe one's support one way or the other should be denigrated. Ignored, certainly. But to claim right to express political views and dismiss that same right to others of a different stripe, well, that's not right.

This was an okay book. It starts out very slowly, and feels more like a collection of reminisces than a biography. And maybe that was the intent. But don't go into it looking for any deep thoughts or insights, because they're rarely there.

I did read most of it with his voice in my head, though. Read mostly because I like his Jim Rockford character, and while he does share some of those qualities, there's a lot of acting involved as well. A good reminder about putting people on pedestals.

Not that I hate the guy or the book. Just gave me a few things to think about, and I think James Garner would respect that.

Achievement Unlocked: Kayak Rack

The next 24 hours will tell if this homemade kayak rack will hold, but at least it has a soft pile of junk to land on if it falls.

The junk, ironically, no longer includes a kayak.

 

Bobblegom for Me

Storytime with Brian:

We just returned from a week-long road trip to the areas surrounding Olympic National Park.

I spent a good portion of that time fretting because I hadn't trimmed my toenails before we left.

My toenails are rather gnarly objects. Think Esqueletto in Nacho Libre as he's getting his pedicure (see video below). So it's no small thing, particularly to my aging socks, if I happen to have any snags or whatnot on my feet.

On occasion, when we were in tourist villages or the likes of Walmart, I'd be on the hunt for toenail clippers. But not just any toenail clippers -- I need the kind that are straight, not curved, because of how my toes work. I have very wide toenails, and the curved clippers leave me with an attractive, yet appalling scalloped look.

Friends, a good pair of toenail clippers cannot be had for love nor money in the Pacific Northwest. Oh, each store I visited had a peg for them, but they were never there, as if an entire fleet of middle-aged, toenail-conscious straight clippers were vacationing en masse in the area and I was one of the latecomers.

So first thing this morning, well, after I unclogged the sink and tub drains, I got out my precious pair of straight toenail clippers and did the chore I should have done before we left.

Let this be some kind of lesson to you.

Way too Late at the Movies: I Was a Male War Bride and The Sheriff of Fractured Jaw

I Was A Male War Bride. Yes, another Cary Grant film.

First, I begin to suspect that Cary Grant only plays Cary Grant, though his over the top Cary Grant in "Arsenic and Old Lace" is a delight.

Here, he's very much Cary Grant not even pretending to be a French military officer. The story is based on the true escapades of a Belgian national who was a "male war bride," so they strove for a little verisimilitude in the film. It's billed as a comedy -- and I read it was Grant's favorite comedy in which he starred.

I have mixed reactions. I mean, it was a fine film, but a little bland. I had a hard time telling the female actors apart, so there were a few times I thought he was going to be caught monkeying around with another girl, but no. Same girl, just in a different outfit or setting. That's on me, or maybe on the Army style that had them all looking alike. Or something.

Also, he encounters a GI from Brooklyn, and they make a big deal of it, because you de facto had to have a GI from Brooklyn in your war picture to make it authentic or something.

They do an admirable job of showing the military tangle of an unexpected relationship trying to fit into the pigeonholing paperwork, but the film was just a bit too straight-laced for it to work as a broad comedy.

As for The Sheriff of Fractured Jaw, it was interesting.

Honestly, it's not that funny -- but it's better than this trailer paints it to be.

A pseudo-spaghetti western filmed in Spain by a British outfit. It felt like a western, though there were weird little British affectations -- the tea brought by the ladies was coffee, but it was all done as if it were tea service, particularly the spot where there was tea involved. And the overall score -- not really fitting a western, particularly one trying to be a comic western. It's like everyone knew they were making a western, but only a few of those involved actually spoke the language, so to say.

It's a nice fish out of water story, common with westerns made in any nation. The natives are a little cringey, but no more cringey than in other films. Watch for the scene taking place in the settler's cabin, with two actors who would be at home in any western. That was the highlight for me.

Careful there, Juice Pouch

Earlier this week I turned to the Internet as I tried to decipher a work-related acronym.

Urban Dictionary wasn't helpful.

Made me think of this:

On the Death of Paul Reubens and the Happiness of Pee-Wee Herman: An Essay

I woke up to the news Monday that Paul Reubens, best known for creating and playing the character of Pee-Wee Herman, had died at 70, after privately fighting a bout of cancer.

A friend posted on Facebook today that he loved Pee-Wee's Big Adventure (as do I) and was tired of people dragging Reubens for his 1991 indecent exposure charge (written about in the linked article above). He argues that we shouldn't let Reubens' mistakes be the only thing we want to remember about him. Who among us wants to be remembered for our mistakes?

That got me to thinking: Why do I love Pee-Wee's Big Adventure (and Pee-Wee as a character) so much?

It's because he was happy.

Pee-Wee's Big Adventure centers on a lot of people who are really, really happy being who they are and are happy doing what they're doing. Chuck loves his role at the bicycle store. Mario seems happy as a clam in his magic shop. The BMX kids love their bikes. The kids on the street loved seeing Pee-Wee crash on his. The bum was really happy roaming the rails and finding a new companion to sing along with him. Even the tour guide at the Alamo was happy, remembering not to chew her gum and getting the visitors to say "adobe" in choir along with her.

The only really unhappy figure in the film is Francis, who thinks he wants Pee-Wee's bike, but when he gets it he realizes he isn't any happier than he was before.

As Pee-Week seeks to restore his happiness by getting his bike, he helps Simone around her big but. He intensifies his loner, rebellious persona for Dottie, always besotted with him. He blows the biker gang away with his dancing. And he let that bum sing a long time before he jumped off the train.

Why shouldn't we love and admire a story that has happiness and contentment at its core?

That's how I'll remember Pee-Wee, and Paul Reubens. Because both made me happy.