We Need MOAR Speilberg Preaching

It’s been a while since I watched Steven Speilberg’s “The Terminal,” so when I came across it on YouTube today, I thought I’d give it a whirl.

I saw it today in maybe the light Speilberg intended. Rather than a simple tale of a man without a country stuck in an airport, this is a tale of a compassionate society forming around a man stuck in an “unacceptable” situation.

That in microcosm comes when the characters played by Stanley Tucci and Tom Hanks confront the Russian man caught in a bureaucratic snafu not of his making. Simply because his plane from Toronto back to Russia had a stopover in the United States, he found himself – and the medicine he needed for his father – trapped in the bureaucracy. Tucci’s character, bound by the rules, wants the medicine confiscated, making this desperate man’s trip to Canada – likely only to buy the medicine his father needs – futile. Hanks’ character finds a loophole and urges the man to take it. Not because it’s his habit of taking loopholes, but because he can see that compassion, not strict adherence to the rules, is what is needed in this situation. Innocent ignorance of the rules should, in many times and cases, call for compassion, not a strict interpretation of the rules, and Viktor Navorsky knows it.

From there, a compassionate society builds, symbolized by Viktor’s photocopied palm, spread throughout the airport. Many people there begin to see Viktor – and each other – through a lens of compassion, of respect, that leads them to behave as humans ought to behave in a world so bound by rules they often rule humanity out of the equation.

Tucci’s character also shines through in this scene – but as a man who uses others as tools for his own advancement and means to an end that he wants. His boss advises him he ought to show more compassion, see the humans in the story that he’s watching, but that’s advice that is not heeded.

I’m sure that message was there all along, but it took a casual viewing years after the fact to notice it.

I know Speilberg gets chastised for being preachy. Maybe we need more preaching.

On Patriotism

Patriotism is the freedom to play John Phillip Sousa's "Washington Post March" in front of Richard Nixon.

Pandemic Over, Teleworking Continues

On June 28, I began full-time telework for Fluor Idaho.

And that’s different from the last year and a quarter, I can hear you asking. Truth be told, not really. It does mean that rather than remoting into my computer at the RWMC, that computer is now in the basement and I’m working via a virtual private network, which is pretty nifty. I had wondered, when I applied for teleworking, how they would handle the computer thing, since the cubicle I had at RWMC was now gone with the wind. But that concern was solved.

It did mean moving my cheese for a day, as on Monday I had to go in to work at SSF for the morning until they had my computer ready. In hindsight, I probably could have gone straight to IT to get it and then go home, but I’m a ninny who doesn’t like using the phone and I dragged the morning on a bit until I got up the guts to call (that’s a drawback on working from home; my social skills have atrophied a little bit. Not the nicest thing, but that’s how it goes).

Other than that little wrinkle, I don’t expect much change, at least on the short term. Fluor lost the contract but got an extension through the end of the year as yet another company contests losing the bid. We’re not sure at the moment how the new contractor may regard working from home, so we’ll see. North Wind is part of the small business consortium that won the new bid, and small businesses are the Department of Energy’s special children, so we’ll see how the contest goes. Working for North Wind again might feel a little weird. It’ll be interesting to see what happens in the benefit department. Probably won’t get as sweet a 401k situation as with Fluor, which has treated us pretty well.

My only worry is there may be some resentment against those of us who choose to work from home. I know I’m going to do my best to keep up with my work so they don’t notice the physical absence. I figure as long as the work gets done in a timely fashion, they won’t have much to complain about.

I am still part of the Emergency Response Organization at work, though, which is something I figured would end when I started teleworking. But no. I am in a new position, moving from Notifications to Information Management – meaning I’m the one putting the messages up on the big board for everyone to see. It’s less stress, which is good. It does mean, however, when there are drills or heaven forbid a real emergency, I do have to rush out there to be part of the team. Hopefully, we keep those few and far between.

Getting ready to post on the big board. . . 

101 Demons, uh, Dalmatians

Apparently, there’s a stink going around social media that the new film “Cruella” glorifies the devil.

And while it’s true “Hollywood” might augment such traits for narrative reasons, you have to consider where the imagery comes from in the first place. And in this case, it’s not from devil-worshippers, but from Dodie Smith, who wrote “The Hundred and One Dalmatians,” the source material and inspiration for All Things Disney Dalmatian, way back in 1956.

I have a copy of the book on my shelf, published with Disney’s bright drawings on the cover. When I saw the social media stink about the film, I pulled the book off the shelf and thumbed through it, knowing I’d find what I was looking for pretty quickly.

First of all, the stink makes a stink about Cruella “de Ville” changing her name to “de Vil.” Because [thunderclaps] the DEVIL. Nevermind, of course, that the character’s first name is Cruella. Also nevermind, of course, that the first time we’re introduced to the character in the book, her name is de Vil. I've not seen the movie, so maybe they make a big deal of this. But the name change isn't in the source material; Cruella's name is clearly de Vil in the original story. (Don't let the "Dearly" name throw you -- Disney changed the last name to Darling for the movie.)

A bit later on, Smith, not subtly at all, makes the devil connection, right after having Cruella encourage her husband to make the fire “blaze for her,” and lamenting that “the flames never last long enough,” viz:

“What a strange name ‘deVil’ is’ said Mr. Dearly “If you put the two words together, they make ‘devil.’ Perhaps Cruella’s a lady-devil! Perhaps that’s why she likes things so hot!”

And then there’s the issue of “Hellman Hall” being changed to “Hell Hall” in the film. A little poetic license from the book there as the building was referred to as “Hill Hall” in the book, but Cruella’s house is referred to as “Hell Hall” by the local humans and the anthropomorphized animals, who tell the tale with more devilish imagery:

“The end came when the men from several villages arrived one night with lighted torches, prepared to break open the gates and burn the farmhouse down. But as they approached the gates a terrific thunderstorm began and put the torches out. Then the gates burst open – seeming of their own accord -- and out came de Vil [in this case, Cruella’s father], driving a coach and four. And the story is that lighting was coming not from the skies but from de Vil – blue forked lightning. All the men ran away screaming and never came back.”

That people are concerned about what they see as “devil worship” in the new film is their business, and if they want to be concerned about it and warn others, that’s also their business. All I’m doing is pointing out that the source novel in 1956, serialized as “The Great Dog Robbery” in Womans Day magazine, is where the devilish imagery comes from. Maybe it’s more innocent in the novel than in the film, but the film didn’t invent the imagery on its own.

Even the Disney film retains the reference to Hell Hall.

"Godspeed, Little Doodle"

A week ago I had that colonoscopy.

There was some prep involved, as I told my Facebook friends:

Late Thursday they called to say the four miniscule polyps they removed are precancerous.

This is not meant to be a pity party, but maybe an encouragement: When your doctor says it's time for a colonoscopy, listen. Follow through.

The plan for now is simple on the surface: More exercise, weight loss, and a follow-up colonoscopy in three years.

Colon cancer is the most preventable cancer out there. Or in there, as is case.

Finite Optimism

Toward the end of his book “No Time Like the Future,” Michael J. Fox introduces the poem Antigonish, by William Hughes Mearns.

Said to be inspired by a ghost haunting a house in Antogonish, Nova Scotia, the poem goes like this:

Yesterday, upon the stair,

I met a man who wasn’t there

He wasn’t there again today

I wish, I wish he’d go away . . . 

When I came home last night at three

The man was waiting there for me

But when I looked around the hall

I couldn’t see him there at all!

Go away, go away, don’t you come back any more!

Go away, go away, and please don’t slam the door . . . (slam!) 

Last night I saw upon the stair

A little man who wasn’t there

He wasn’t there again today

Oh, how I wish he’d go away.

Fox uses the poem as a metaphor to explain the hallucinations produced by one of the drugs meant to counter other side effects of a different drug, taken to moderate his Parkinson’s disease.

From the previous chapter, though, an equally apt comparison, one likely Fox makes on purpose: Describing fear he felt while on a safari in Africa, he writes the following, after first seeing a leopard sunning in a tree, and then the paranoia brought on later by thinking another is nearby:

“The leopard from the previous day hadn’t scared me. It was the leopard in the tree at twilight – the one that I didn’t see, the one that probably wasn’t even there – that scared me stupid.”

Coming from a family where paranoia doesn’t just run, it gallops, that line, and the poem that followed it, spoke to me. As, oddly, does Fox’s optimism, even an optimism he admits is finite. Because with that paranoia comes an increasing pessimism, a pessimism that belies a life of faith or, as Tolkein put it, “hope without guarantees.”

So, like Fox, I have some mental work to do. And I’d best get to it quickly. After reading this memoir, that’s probably a sentiment Fox would agree with.

This book started slow for me. I got it for Christmas and started reading it then, but then finished it in a gulp this week. It’s one I’m going to have t re-read, and one worthy of that effort.

Seems an odd poem to put into a foxtrot . . . 

A Few Updates

First, the mattress.

Because of course there are still pandemic-related shortages of everything, we still do not have our new mattress. We might have it in early June. Might. I'm hoping we do, because although I wasn't complaining about the old mattress, I and my acid reflux have come to loathe it. It will be nice to be able to sleep propped up even a little bit.

Second, the depression or whatever it is.

It has lessened, but does still come around when anxieties pile up. And they do pile up.

Third, work.

I don't have a post related to it to share, but nonetheless. It is going better, which is party why the depression is easing a bit. I actually got mostly done a document today that I've been putting off since early February. It did take them until today to get most of the comments on it resolved, and we still have a few issues, but I can see the light at the end of the tunnel and it is not a train.

Other stuff is also going well at work. The drill in April went as well as could be expected, so I'm wrapped back in the wooly comfort of working from home again. I do have to go out on Wednesday for more drill position-related training which for some reason couldn't be done in April, so that's a pain. But this too shall pass.

Fourth, Scouts.

I am in charge of the spring camporee coming up next weekend. We're doing the Entrepreneurship Merit Badge. And that has heightened the anxieties in some areas. It takes a lot of coordination to get these things organized, and that means talking to people. TALKING TO PEOPLE. Can you imagine the HELL that's been? Because pandemic- and work-from-home-related, I have taken several steps backwards in my progress to be less reluctant to talk to people in person or on the phone. The pandemic has meant a lot of silent running, and that's made progress hard to make. So much so a student in one of my English classes who also suffers from pandemic-induced reluctance to talk to people wants to use me as a source for a paper she's writing on the subject. Woo.

Good news is it's mostly pulled together, the spring camporee. Now I just have to wait for the actual performance of the thing.

Fifth, Projects.

I'm drowning in projects, folks. And keep taking on new ones before the old ones are done. I started on replacing the fence between us and Brett, mostly so I can get the corner by the raspberries done before they explode into foliage and thorns and make working in that corner a lot more difficult.

And of course the water heater in the camper broke when we used it at a campout in April. Rich Bingham is going to come on Saturday to help me replace it, but that means ARGH MORE SOCIAL ANXIETY and it's going to kill me. But it should work to get the work done and maybe give us a water system that works better in the camper. as we're replacing the pump too.

"Pretty Much Sums it Up for Me."

Struggling, folks.

Don't exactly know why. Job is going well. Kids seem to be doing fine. And I've got a great suit and terrific henchmen.

I'd like to chalk it up to the typical Sunday blahs, but they've been dragging on and on and on and on and on.

I need to get out more. But Saturday was spent getting ready for a Scout fundraiser and doing the fundraiser. Friday was spent getting classes ready for next semester.

I don't know what I need. But I feel exhausted.

Part of it might be anxiety about an unusual work week coming this week: Two days at the actual RWMC to get trained up for a new drill position and then a drill. I'm wondering if it's not too late to tell them that I'm going to opt to work from home full-time and to forget about having me on the drill team. But working from home full-time presents a lot of other challenges that I'm not sure I'm ready to face.

I guess I'm tired of my rut but I don't want it to change.

We could have gone to Yellowstone National Park this weekend, Free entry. But we had obligations. Which is fine.

But I'm tired, boss.

At the Sign of the Spoon and Carrot, Again . . .

There are a few things I have to grapple with:

1. I am a crap writer.

2. No one is interested in anthropomorphized animals anymore.

3. This might be yet one of the other thousand things I have written that "might go somewhere." or it might not.

They say you don’t own a inn, a inn owns you.

And, for a certain value of true, that statement is as true as saying “You don’t smell a pair of socks, you smell the pair of feet that wears them.”

I guess what I’m saying is that things as may be are true or not true, but most of what most people say is bollocks.

Take that inn, for example.

It may own me in a way in that the damn thing keeps trying to return to nature, what with mushrooms growing in the thatch and the wood rotting as soon as you look at it and the guests sleeping in beds they don’t intend to pay for and pissing in them when they get caught leaving.

But I own it in that when the latest bodge job is done and what was sprouting or rotted or skipped out is gathered up and tossed on a bonfire next to the pig sty as a warning to all the rest, everything sort of behaves for a while. And the non-paying guests, while only singed and not really burned too badly, they try to bring the local constabulary in, what remembers where the best ale comes from and makes them pay up and I promises not to start any more fires and things go as well as can be at a inn just off the track of adventurers can.

Those of you know the stories, allow me to tap the side o’ me nose knowingly and I’ll try not to splat any matter in your tea. We knows what goes on at a inn just off the track of adventurers.

And let me say that this inn, it may own me a trice, but things that lie therein, I own them. And them in power, be they good or bad or naïve or indifferent, they knows it. And like a singed debtor working in the pig sty next to the burn pile to work off the damage done, they know toeing the line is the only way the inn At the Sign of the Spoon and Carrot will ever do business with them.

MATTRESS SALE!

Storytime with Brian:

Spent a good portion of our day Friday mattress shopping. Shopping for me is akin to a surgical strike: Reconnaissance followed by a quick stab that has me leaving the store with the item I wanted along with something sweet for later, all in less than fifteen minutes.

That is not, apparently, how one shops for a mattress. Mattress shopping involves testing out mattresses while having awkward conversations with masked people standing there watching as you lie in a bed with your wife in a comically open and public space. Every time we went into a mattress store - and there are many mattress stores - we were asked "what can we do for you?" Apparently saying "sell us a mattress" is too obvious a thing to say.

I found myself wishing there were a Dairy Queen nearby so I could shop for mattresses the way Dave Barry shops for cars - namely, ambling around the lot with a chocolate-dipped cone and looking at stickers until a salesman appears and ambling away fast enough to cause sonic booms. But that, alas, is also not how one shops for a mattress.

Today involved simply buying the mattress we shopped for yesterday. That took an hour. And proved once again that my well of small talk, historically never very deep, was shallowed to comic proportions by the previous day's activities.

And I will have to dip into the well again, as I will be "in charge" the day the new mattress is delivered.

That's my courageous story.