T-- and I had the pleasure of spending last week on a work-related retreat. It was a good time catching up with old friends, making some new ones, and reflecting on how we serve in the coolest organization in the world.
The organizers of the retreat were considerate to build in some free time throughout the week. T-- and I are adventurous sorts and love exploring new places. But then reality set in on our free afternoon. We were in Syracuse, NY. In January. In a wicked snowstorm.
At least the hotel had a pool.
I love being in the water. I don’t have to carry on a conversation deeper than saying “Marco” or “Polo”. I can’t plan a to-do list. I can't multitask. All I can do is lay back and by embraced by the liquid. I love the spell of displacement it casts. I shut my eyes to keep out the medicinal sting of the chlorine. Water flows inside my ears and muffles the sound of the outside world. I float around, not conscious of space, not conscious of time.
THOK!
My head lightly bumps against the side of the pool, breaking me out of the water’s trance. I look out the window and see snow flurries chasing each other around in circles. I look up and see ice and snow on the skylight above me. Then I take a deep breath and surrender myself once again to the pool.
Saturday, January 31, 2004
Friday, January 30, 2004
Weapons of Mass Deception?
"Already, the Kay report identified dozens of weapons of mass destruction-related program activities and significant amounts of equipment that Iraq concealed from the United Nations."
- President George W. Bush, in his State of the Union address.
"I don't think they existed."
- David Kay, former U.S. special adviser leading the hunt for WMDs in Iraq, on the lack of evidence of Saddam Hussein's alleged arsenal.
Source: Newsweek
Check out Sojourners Magazine for news coverage that's an alternative to Fox News Channel.
- President George W. Bush, in his State of the Union address.
"I don't think they existed."
- David Kay, former U.S. special adviser leading the hunt for WMDs in Iraq, on the lack of evidence of Saddam Hussein's alleged arsenal.
Source: Newsweek
Check out Sojourners Magazine for news coverage that's an alternative to Fox News Channel.
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Why bother writing a blog?
Have you ever had the feeling of reading the right words at the right time? The reading of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet was one such experience for me... I can only describe the process as a bone-dry sponge hitting the water: the hard–won wisdom shared in the short tome seemed to saturate its way into my inmost being.
I was delighted to discover that from the very first letter, Rilke’s words gave voice and form to my internal musings about the creative process; by the end of the book I was imagining that the poet was writing his letters directly to me, as mentor to student.
I’ve been thinking a lot about artistic endeavors lately. So much discussion about books, music, cinema or painting tends to revolve around the word controversial without ever seeming to get around to the heart of the matter: What truth about the human condition does the work convey?
It’s as if we’re so shallow and idea poor that we’re stuck confusing cleverness for genius; we hail a man an iconoclast when he was merely being shocking.
Maybe the reason we don’t see much great art anymore is that we insulate ourselves too well against the hurts and pains of existence. A life untouched by disappointment or tragedy will probably be left unexamined—there’s no impetus to explore the deeper meaning of things. And that’s exactly where Rilke would have us go to perfect our writing.
To Rilke, your first and foremost audience is yourself. Your work will have a truth and clarity if you write about the things that you know and that are important to you: everyday events, memories, and even “insignificant things” that you hardly notice happening around you. Just as in any other creative art form, personal meaning is everything.
Solitude is absolutely essential to this process of discovery because answers don’t come easy (if at all) for many of life’s questions. Many experiences, both good and bad, seem to just leave us with memories and question marks hanging in the air. Isolation rewards the writer, not with the “answers,” but an increased clarity about the human condition. Not Absolute Truth, but with the truth as he understands it. It’s that conviction that breathes life into writing and makes it “real.”
I’ve received great comfort from that. Maybe my greatest agonies and disappointments are the kindling by which my writing will ignite. Perhaps then, through this patient and steady process, my deepest wounds may become my greatest glories.
I was delighted to discover that from the very first letter, Rilke’s words gave voice and form to my internal musings about the creative process; by the end of the book I was imagining that the poet was writing his letters directly to me, as mentor to student.
I’ve been thinking a lot about artistic endeavors lately. So much discussion about books, music, cinema or painting tends to revolve around the word controversial without ever seeming to get around to the heart of the matter: What truth about the human condition does the work convey?
It’s as if we’re so shallow and idea poor that we’re stuck confusing cleverness for genius; we hail a man an iconoclast when he was merely being shocking.
Maybe the reason we don’t see much great art anymore is that we insulate ourselves too well against the hurts and pains of existence. A life untouched by disappointment or tragedy will probably be left unexamined—there’s no impetus to explore the deeper meaning of things. And that’s exactly where Rilke would have us go to perfect our writing.
To Rilke, your first and foremost audience is yourself. Your work will have a truth and clarity if you write about the things that you know and that are important to you: everyday events, memories, and even “insignificant things” that you hardly notice happening around you. Just as in any other creative art form, personal meaning is everything.
Solitude is absolutely essential to this process of discovery because answers don’t come easy (if at all) for many of life’s questions. Many experiences, both good and bad, seem to just leave us with memories and question marks hanging in the air. Isolation rewards the writer, not with the “answers,” but an increased clarity about the human condition. Not Absolute Truth, but with the truth as he understands it. It’s that conviction that breathes life into writing and makes it “real.”
I’ve received great comfort from that. Maybe my greatest agonies and disappointments are the kindling by which my writing will ignite. Perhaps then, through this patient and steady process, my deepest wounds may become my greatest glories.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Balance
Input, output, pennies, dimes.
Try to balance your checkbook
When you don’t have the time.
Cable, Electric, water and waste.
So much consumption; got to keep up the
Pace.
Practical, simple, generic or cheap.
The most for my money,
BOGO’S can’t be beat.
Coupons, credits and special offers
Often eat up more time,
Than fill up the coffers.
When columns are straight
And numbers add up,
No questions’ too hard
As long as it don’t cost too much.
Payday, profit, excess or flush.
Money’s no object when you’re in the glow of
Friday’s blush.
Life is stable, my butt’s off the hook,
When I manage to maintain balance in my
Blue checkbook.
Try to balance your checkbook
When you don’t have the time.
Cable, Electric, water and waste.
So much consumption; got to keep up the
Pace.
Practical, simple, generic or cheap.
The most for my money,
BOGO’S can’t be beat.
Coupons, credits and special offers
Often eat up more time,
Than fill up the coffers.
When columns are straight
And numbers add up,
No questions’ too hard
As long as it don’t cost too much.
Payday, profit, excess or flush.
Money’s no object when you’re in the glow of
Friday’s blush.
Life is stable, my butt’s off the hook,
When I manage to maintain balance in my
Blue checkbook.
Vampire Conspiracy to Take Over the Earth!!! Aieeeee!!!
Sunday nights haven't been the same since Agents Mulder and Scully closed the book on The X-Files and vanished off our TV screens in the process.
No more nasty things creeping around suburbia after the sun goes down. No more experiments run amok. No more government cover-ups.
What are poor nerds like me do to fill the void?
Television thrives on the stealing of good ideas. I was weaned on the tube back in a magical time called the 1970s, when every single show in prime-time seemed to be a spin-off of Happy Days or All in the Family. But the highly-paid creativity thieves of network TV have never been able to create a decent counterpart to The X-Files.
Remember Dark Skies? Does The Burning Zone ring a bell? Did you catch Strange World in the few weeks it was on the air?
X-Files creator Chris Carter almost pulled it off with Millennium, but the program too quickly settled into a “serial killer of the week” format until its self–destruction in a confusing plotline which occurred after most of us had long since stopped watching. A surprising non-hit which aired in its big brother’s coveted Friday night spot.
The crucial element to the The X-Files, which all of the imitators seemed to miss, was its believability. I realize that might seem a contradiction in terms while describing what is essentially a modern-day spook show, but the key to a good fantasy is keeping one foot firmly planted in reality.
The Brothers Grimm knew it, weaving their tales around common people and events before introducing more fantastic elements... Edgar Rice Burroughs did too, and conformed his Tarzan and John Carter of Mars books to elaborate biographies, family trees, and timelines... The Night of the Living Dead (1968) is probably the scariest horror picture ever made because filmmaker George Romero placed it in modern-day Western Pennsylvania rather than a gloomy Transylvanian castle.
What works in fairy tales, books and movies works on television as well. The original Star Trek masked the dodginess of its futuristic sets largely because of a likable cast and a refreshing lack of technobabble (dilithium crystals not withstanding). Rod Serling and Richard Matheson wrote compelling characters and storylines into The Twilight Zone that kept people on their edge of their seats every week. The Jon Pertwee episodes (1970 - 1975) of Doctor Who had a higher shock quotient than the rest of the series by bringing an endless parade of alien menaces to the bell-bottom wearing England of the seventies, rather than some space station set far in the future.
I think the judge of good sci–fi, fantasy and horror television is how well the program allows people sitting at home eating corn chips on the couch the suspension of disbelief. It’s easier said than done. That’s why for every Star Trek, television execs churn out dozens of Cleopatra 2525s.
The X-Files did genre television one better, which was to achieve a level of believability more on the level of drama programs like E.R., Homicide, or NYPD Blue. It seemed that no matter how outlandish the plot in TV guide summary, at least from 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. on Sundays, it could be happening in your hometown -- or worse yet, your basement!
Closing the book on The X-Files was a sad day for science-fiction fans, of which I consider myself. The program will be missed.
But hope is on the horizon! Nerds left scrambling for a paranoia–inducing fix need look no further than the series Ultraviolet. But don’t don’t expect to find it channel surfing. It’s a British import from Channel Four Television, and is only available in this country as part of a DVD boxed set from Palm Pictures.
Ultraviolet is the story of homicide detective Michael Colefield, trying to track down his best friend and partner, who disappeared mysteriously on the eve of his wedding. Colefield’s investigation soon runs afoul of the covert organization CIB -- a cooperative venture between the British government and the Vatican.
Why are its agents using strange weapons like rifles with ultraviolet sights, charcoal–tipped bullets and tear gas that smells like garlic in its campaign against a common counterfeit ring? And how is his best friend tied up in all this?
Before long, Jack finds himself drafted against his will into the enigmatic organization and uncovers a decidedly supernatural conspiracy that affects not only his best friend, but the fate of the entire human race.
The production team deserves praise for its iconoclastic approach to a too-familiar legend that in lesser hands would probably turned into a campy mess along the lines of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. The acting and production values maintain a high-level of believability throughout, with plenty of shocks delivered over six episodes.
Ultraviolet is compulsory viewing for fans of the macabre. The conspiracy builds to a nail-biting climax that leaves you guessing until the last edge-of-your-seat minute. And until Chris Carter and company get on the stick with their promised series of films, it’s the closest thing we’ve got to an X-Files revival.
No more nasty things creeping around suburbia after the sun goes down. No more experiments run amok. No more government cover-ups.
What are poor nerds like me do to fill the void?
Television thrives on the stealing of good ideas. I was weaned on the tube back in a magical time called the 1970s, when every single show in prime-time seemed to be a spin-off of Happy Days or All in the Family. But the highly-paid creativity thieves of network TV have never been able to create a decent counterpart to The X-Files.
Remember Dark Skies? Does The Burning Zone ring a bell? Did you catch Strange World in the few weeks it was on the air?
X-Files creator Chris Carter almost pulled it off with Millennium, but the program too quickly settled into a “serial killer of the week” format until its self–destruction in a confusing plotline which occurred after most of us had long since stopped watching. A surprising non-hit which aired in its big brother’s coveted Friday night spot.
The crucial element to the The X-Files, which all of the imitators seemed to miss, was its believability. I realize that might seem a contradiction in terms while describing what is essentially a modern-day spook show, but the key to a good fantasy is keeping one foot firmly planted in reality.
The Brothers Grimm knew it, weaving their tales around common people and events before introducing more fantastic elements... Edgar Rice Burroughs did too, and conformed his Tarzan and John Carter of Mars books to elaborate biographies, family trees, and timelines... The Night of the Living Dead (1968) is probably the scariest horror picture ever made because filmmaker George Romero placed it in modern-day Western Pennsylvania rather than a gloomy Transylvanian castle.
What works in fairy tales, books and movies works on television as well. The original Star Trek masked the dodginess of its futuristic sets largely because of a likable cast and a refreshing lack of technobabble (dilithium crystals not withstanding). Rod Serling and Richard Matheson wrote compelling characters and storylines into The Twilight Zone that kept people on their edge of their seats every week. The Jon Pertwee episodes (1970 - 1975) of Doctor Who had a higher shock quotient than the rest of the series by bringing an endless parade of alien menaces to the bell-bottom wearing England of the seventies, rather than some space station set far in the future.
I think the judge of good sci–fi, fantasy and horror television is how well the program allows people sitting at home eating corn chips on the couch the suspension of disbelief. It’s easier said than done. That’s why for every Star Trek, television execs churn out dozens of Cleopatra 2525s.
The X-Files did genre television one better, which was to achieve a level of believability more on the level of drama programs like E.R., Homicide, or NYPD Blue. It seemed that no matter how outlandish the plot in TV guide summary, at least from 9 p.m. to 10 p.m. on Sundays, it could be happening in your hometown -- or worse yet, your basement!
Closing the book on The X-Files was a sad day for science-fiction fans, of which I consider myself. The program will be missed.
But hope is on the horizon! Nerds left scrambling for a paranoia–inducing fix need look no further than the series Ultraviolet. But don’t don’t expect to find it channel surfing. It’s a British import from Channel Four Television, and is only available in this country as part of a DVD boxed set from Palm Pictures.
Ultraviolet is the story of homicide detective Michael Colefield, trying to track down his best friend and partner, who disappeared mysteriously on the eve of his wedding. Colefield’s investigation soon runs afoul of the covert organization CIB -- a cooperative venture between the British government and the Vatican.
Why are its agents using strange weapons like rifles with ultraviolet sights, charcoal–tipped bullets and tear gas that smells like garlic in its campaign against a common counterfeit ring? And how is his best friend tied up in all this?
Before long, Jack finds himself drafted against his will into the enigmatic organization and uncovers a decidedly supernatural conspiracy that affects not only his best friend, but the fate of the entire human race.
The production team deserves praise for its iconoclastic approach to a too-familiar legend that in lesser hands would probably turned into a campy mess along the lines of Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. The acting and production values maintain a high-level of believability throughout, with plenty of shocks delivered over six episodes.
Ultraviolet is compulsory viewing for fans of the macabre. The conspiracy builds to a nail-biting climax that leaves you guessing until the last edge-of-your-seat minute. And until Chris Carter and company get on the stick with their promised series of films, it’s the closest thing we’ve got to an X-Files revival.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Drink up
Can You Drink the Cup is a book of meditations by the late Henri J.M. Nouwen, a Catholic priest, psychologist, educator, and social worker. In this slim volume (111 pages), he uses the metaphor of a cup to describe life. Drawing much from his work with the developmentally disabled, Nouwen demonstrates the rare ability to express the most profound ideas in simple everyday language. By the first few pages into the book, I felt as if I knew this remarkable man -- he really seemed to be sharing his heart.
This isn't the Purpose Driven Life. It's not a step-by-step guide to finding fulfillment in your life. Nouwen celebrates "drinking" the good things that life has to offer, but he doesn't shy away from the adversity that we are all served as well. His message is both simple and profound: that living life to the fullest comes through drinking all of it, and that God can give us the courage to do so.
Recommended reading!
This isn't the Purpose Driven Life. It's not a step-by-step guide to finding fulfillment in your life. Nouwen celebrates "drinking" the good things that life has to offer, but he doesn't shy away from the adversity that we are all served as well. His message is both simple and profound: that living life to the fullest comes through drinking all of it, and that God can give us the courage to do so.
Recommended reading!
Saturday, January 24, 2004
Rodin-trip
The clan and I went on a most excellent roadtrip today to the Albright-Knox Art Gallery in Buffalo. Its permanent exhibit was a lot larger than I anticipated, and the collection had a nice variety. I've been thinking a lot about the state of the world lately, and it occurred to me how fortunate I was to have the luxury to walk around a gallery looking at art.
We aren't enthusiasts of any particular period or style. It was interesting to discuss with my kids (7 & 10) what makes a particular painting or sculpture interesting and why one picture over another makes an emotional connection. My daughter, H--, was quite adept at articulating her impressions.
On the other hand, my son, N--, tired of the experience and was looking to move onto our next stop (The Apple Store) as quickly as possible. I took him aside and explained that an art gallery required patience to really appreciate the work, and he would enjoy himself more if he lingered at each piece rather than rapidly move from painting to painting. He enjoyed the few examples of pop art in the museum, but was still a little too young to appreciate some of the other work. He expected each painting to be realistic and couldn't understand why "the people look so weird." On the other hand, he got a belly laugh out of any artwork displaying a nude figure. Ahh, to be a 7 year old boy again...
We aren't enthusiasts of any particular period or style. It was interesting to discuss with my kids (7 & 10) what makes a particular painting or sculpture interesting and why one picture over another makes an emotional connection. My daughter, H--, was quite adept at articulating her impressions.
On the other hand, my son, N--, tired of the experience and was looking to move onto our next stop (The Apple Store) as quickly as possible. I took him aside and explained that an art gallery required patience to really appreciate the work, and he would enjoy himself more if he lingered at each piece rather than rapidly move from painting to painting. He enjoyed the few examples of pop art in the museum, but was still a little too young to appreciate some of the other work. He expected each painting to be realistic and couldn't understand why "the people look so weird." On the other hand, he got a belly laugh out of any artwork displaying a nude figure. Ahh, to be a 7 year old boy again...
Friday, January 23, 2004
Token Chick
Here I am joining this Experiment House Blog with my husband, old friend of my husband and another old friend of my husband. But if you want to become technical about it, I'm one of the oldest original "friend of my husband." So it all makes sense.
Usually the token chick is little more an afterthought in sitcoms and movies when it come to their placement with small groups of guys. The Little Rascals had that brunette girl, the Batman sequel had Alicia Silverstone as Batgirl, Seinfeld had Elaine and these guys have me.
I have something more than comedy genius or a cool super-hero costume, I have a history with these guys. I know where they come from, they make me laugh, and they even like to read the stuff that I write. That's way better of a deal than Batgirl's offer.
So cheers to the guys that asked me to join in and never have called me the token chick of our group. Stay tuned for more developments from the Experiment House. This Clubhouse welcomes the girls.
Usually the token chick is little more an afterthought in sitcoms and movies when it come to their placement with small groups of guys. The Little Rascals had that brunette girl, the Batman sequel had Alicia Silverstone as Batgirl, Seinfeld had Elaine and these guys have me.
I have something more than comedy genius or a cool super-hero costume, I have a history with these guys. I know where they come from, they make me laugh, and they even like to read the stuff that I write. That's way better of a deal than Batgirl's offer.
So cheers to the guys that asked me to join in and never have called me the token chick of our group. Stay tuned for more developments from the Experiment House. This Clubhouse welcomes the girls.
Remembering B--
B-- was the closest thing I've ever seen to a ghost. She had already long been attending the church by the time I got there in the early nineties, and I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't take the time get to know her until this last year. She was quiet and meek, and spoke her words slowly and carefully. To have a conversation with B-- required one's full attention. If one made too much noise it would drown out the sounds of her words. If one moved around too much or gave the impression of being distracted it could scare her frail form off and she would recede away into the mist. When everything in my life screamed at me to go faster and to multitask, B-- made me slow down and enjoy the moment.
B-- was part of a small group of us who got together on Sunday evenings to pray, read scripture, and encourage each other in our faith. It became apparent in our conversations that she was the rare person who walked with one foot on earth and the other in eternity.
And now she is fully in eternity with the God that she so knew and loved.
B--, I miss you.
B-- was part of a small group of us who got together on Sunday evenings to pray, read scripture, and encourage each other in our faith. It became apparent in our conversations that she was the rare person who walked with one foot on earth and the other in eternity.
And now she is fully in eternity with the God that she so knew and loved.
B--, I miss you.
A poem by Tara
Understand my heart.
Can you?
Will You?
Try to see.
The hope for a future.
A hope to be me.
The days to fill
And nights to rest.
What could be better,
What could be best?
To breathe deep,
To laugh loud.
To hope for the unbelievable, unconceivable –
Only the imaginable.
Perfection, protection, transportation and time-
My heart understood,
A life so sublime.
Can you?
Will You?
Try to see.
The hope for a future.
A hope to be me.
The days to fill
And nights to rest.
What could be better,
What could be best?
To breathe deep,
To laugh loud.
To hope for the unbelievable, unconceivable –
Only the imaginable.
Perfection, protection, transportation and time-
My heart understood,
A life so sublime.
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Scream of the Wolf DVD
Remember when TV movies didn’t suck?
It was back in a mythical time called the early 1970s. Why, I remember having to walk twenty miles in a blizzard just to pay the cable bill. Barefoot even!
But it was worth it. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat just to get another glimpse of Marcia Brady. TV was wonderful then. Conflicts always came down to a simple matter of black and white and were easily solvable in a thirty to sixty minute time slot. Just like in real life.
Television was the “plug-in drug.” And Americans were darn happy about it! It allowed us to ignore things like the Vietnam War, the changing roles of women, civil unrest, and Ringo Starrs’ solo career.
Teachers would often scold that TV was making us into a nation of idiots. We ignored them and continued doing multiplication with our fingers. Ralph Nader warned us that TV was molding us into a unthinking nation of consumers. We scoffed at him and went right back to making out our Christmas lists. In September. Psychologists counseled us that TV was going to give us short attention spans.
Sorry. Where was I?
Oh yeah. TV movies. Unlike the 1980s, when every single made–for–television film was about some mean disease disrupting some nice woman’s perfect life, the networks of the 1970s made movies that entertained. You know, stuff that would make a viewer proud as a peacock!
Doesn’t the following list of films just send you into a groovier, happier place: The Feminist and the Fuzz... Satan's School for Girls... The Ghost of Flight 401... Where Have All the People Gone?... Well, I could go on...
How about Nightmare in Badham County... Shark Kill... Cotton Candy... Sweet Hostage... Killdozer...
Want more? The Sex Symbol... Bad Ronald... Terror on the Beach... and the subject of today’s review Scream of the Wolf.
A made-for-TV werewolf movie? How can you go wrong? You can’t -- especially when you have the winning team of Peter “Mission Impossible” Graves, Dan “Dark Shadows” Curtis, and Richard “Twilight Zone” Matheson on your side!
The film opens on a lonely, mist-shrouded country lane. Not in Transylvania, but somewhere almost as scary -- Northern California. In a really freaky point–of–view scene, a werewolf chases down its first victim -- a hapless salesman looking for a phone.
The next day. Cue 70s funk music with horns and that guitar that makes a sound like which–a–choo which–a–choo which–a–choo. Cut to an arial shot of five police cars speeding down the road to the body of the victim and his demolished convertible.
I have a few observations to make about the (never named) town’s ineffectual police force. The murder occurred late the previous evening. In this shot, the bright sunshine and direction of the shadows leads me to believe that it is obviously midday. Was it really necessary to risk life and limb racing down a serpentine mountain road with sirens blaring 12 hours after the murder occurred?
I can only surmise that speeding around and running the sirens makes this collection of Barney Fife’s feel like real G–men or something. Because there isn’t a single shot, no matter how mundane, of police cars in the entire film when the sirens aren’t yelping! My favorite example of this is when six cars and 1 highway patrolman shut down the entire street, pull into city hall, and walk inside to give a press conference. I pity the poor souls that work third shift in this town.
Another thing I noticed is that this tiny little town has a huge police force. One time I counted eight cars, a dozen uniformed officers, and numerous bloodhounds at the scene of a murder. Don’t get me wrong -- I’m a big proponent of more police protection -- but property taxes must be awful.
But having a police force the size of Hannibal’s army doesn’t do the slow-witted sheriff any good. So he does what any good law enforcement official would do in his situation: he consults an expert, in this case “Mr. Weatherby”, a writer of wildlife books... Not to be confused with that other Mr. Weatherby, the rotund principal of Archie fame.
Sometimes the lead casting of a film is pure magic. Can you imagine anyone other than Clark Gable bringing Rhett Butler to life in Gone With The Wind? Or some hack actor like Ronald Reagan replacing Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine in Casablanca? I now proudly submit to this list Mr. Peter Graves for his groundbreaking role of Mr. Weatherby in Scream of the Wolf.
Alas, no one else could have brought such life and sparkle to lines such as:
“Have a little coffee.”
and
“Sure, come on!”
Plus, he’s so cool in this movie frost started to form on my television. He gets to drive a showy red sports car. He lives in a palatial bachelor’s pad on a cliff by the Pacific Ocean. He even can ignore his girlfriend for weeks at a time and get back in her good graces just by flashing that winning smile of his. Did I mention that he gets to drive a showy red sports car?
Man, I wish I was Peter Graves.
Since bit players in horror movies stubbornly continue to put themselves at risk with the full knowledge that a killer is on the loose, more people die. My vote for best victim is the guy who goes walking down the same exact road as the first murder the very next evening. (I actually had to play that part of the DVD over to make sure that it wasn’t intended to be a flashback.) Honorable mention goes to the couple making out in the trailer. Their approach to, uh, petting, seems to be wrestling around like bear cubs on an old blanket. And because this is a made-for-TV movie, the only item of clothing that is removed is their socks. You just can’t make stuff like this up, folks.
Peter Graves points out to the police that the murderer’s tracks always change from four footprints to two in a just few steps. Even though this information will have the average four-year old screaming at the screen, “It’s a werewolf, people,” neither Peter Graves or the police make that connection.
But one person does make the connection: Peter’s girlfriend played by Jo Ann “how–do-you-prounounce-my-last-name” Pflug. She pieces the whole mystery together and even spills the beans on the twist ending not only once, but TWICE in the first half of the movie. Look for those scenes and marvel.
Is Scream of the Wolf worth the four or five bucks the DVD will run you at a department store? I’d say yes. It isn’t Citizen Kane, but it is a pleasant way to zone out for 78 minutes and delivers some fun shocks along the way. Even a dozen unresolved plot threads and a silly trick ending can’t ruin it.
Anyway, have you looked at TV Guide lately? The best thing on tonight is What’s Happening to My Knee? One Woman’s Battle with Osgood-Schlacter's Syndrome of the Tibia Tuberal!
It was back in a mythical time called the early 1970s. Why, I remember having to walk twenty miles in a blizzard just to pay the cable bill. Barefoot even!
But it was worth it. And I’d do it all again in a heartbeat just to get another glimpse of Marcia Brady. TV was wonderful then. Conflicts always came down to a simple matter of black and white and were easily solvable in a thirty to sixty minute time slot. Just like in real life.
Television was the “plug-in drug.” And Americans were darn happy about it! It allowed us to ignore things like the Vietnam War, the changing roles of women, civil unrest, and Ringo Starrs’ solo career.
Teachers would often scold that TV was making us into a nation of idiots. We ignored them and continued doing multiplication with our fingers. Ralph Nader warned us that TV was molding us into a unthinking nation of consumers. We scoffed at him and went right back to making out our Christmas lists. In September. Psychologists counseled us that TV was going to give us short attention spans.
Sorry. Where was I?
Oh yeah. TV movies. Unlike the 1980s, when every single made–for–television film was about some mean disease disrupting some nice woman’s perfect life, the networks of the 1970s made movies that entertained. You know, stuff that would make a viewer proud as a peacock!
Doesn’t the following list of films just send you into a groovier, happier place: The Feminist and the Fuzz... Satan's School for Girls... The Ghost of Flight 401... Where Have All the People Gone?... Well, I could go on...
How about Nightmare in Badham County... Shark Kill... Cotton Candy... Sweet Hostage... Killdozer...
Want more? The Sex Symbol... Bad Ronald... Terror on the Beach... and the subject of today’s review Scream of the Wolf.
A made-for-TV werewolf movie? How can you go wrong? You can’t -- especially when you have the winning team of Peter “Mission Impossible” Graves, Dan “Dark Shadows” Curtis, and Richard “Twilight Zone” Matheson on your side!
The film opens on a lonely, mist-shrouded country lane. Not in Transylvania, but somewhere almost as scary -- Northern California. In a really freaky point–of–view scene, a werewolf chases down its first victim -- a hapless salesman looking for a phone.
The next day. Cue 70s funk music with horns and that guitar that makes a sound like which–a–choo which–a–choo which–a–choo. Cut to an arial shot of five police cars speeding down the road to the body of the victim and his demolished convertible.
I have a few observations to make about the (never named) town’s ineffectual police force. The murder occurred late the previous evening. In this shot, the bright sunshine and direction of the shadows leads me to believe that it is obviously midday. Was it really necessary to risk life and limb racing down a serpentine mountain road with sirens blaring 12 hours after the murder occurred?
I can only surmise that speeding around and running the sirens makes this collection of Barney Fife’s feel like real G–men or something. Because there isn’t a single shot, no matter how mundane, of police cars in the entire film when the sirens aren’t yelping! My favorite example of this is when six cars and 1 highway patrolman shut down the entire street, pull into city hall, and walk inside to give a press conference. I pity the poor souls that work third shift in this town.
Another thing I noticed is that this tiny little town has a huge police force. One time I counted eight cars, a dozen uniformed officers, and numerous bloodhounds at the scene of a murder. Don’t get me wrong -- I’m a big proponent of more police protection -- but property taxes must be awful.
But having a police force the size of Hannibal’s army doesn’t do the slow-witted sheriff any good. So he does what any good law enforcement official would do in his situation: he consults an expert, in this case “Mr. Weatherby”, a writer of wildlife books... Not to be confused with that other Mr. Weatherby, the rotund principal of Archie fame.
Sometimes the lead casting of a film is pure magic. Can you imagine anyone other than Clark Gable bringing Rhett Butler to life in Gone With The Wind? Or some hack actor like Ronald Reagan replacing Humphrey Bogart as Rick Blaine in Casablanca? I now proudly submit to this list Mr. Peter Graves for his groundbreaking role of Mr. Weatherby in Scream of the Wolf.
Alas, no one else could have brought such life and sparkle to lines such as:
“Have a little coffee.”
and
“Sure, come on!”
Plus, he’s so cool in this movie frost started to form on my television. He gets to drive a showy red sports car. He lives in a palatial bachelor’s pad on a cliff by the Pacific Ocean. He even can ignore his girlfriend for weeks at a time and get back in her good graces just by flashing that winning smile of his. Did I mention that he gets to drive a showy red sports car?
Man, I wish I was Peter Graves.
Since bit players in horror movies stubbornly continue to put themselves at risk with the full knowledge that a killer is on the loose, more people die. My vote for best victim is the guy who goes walking down the same exact road as the first murder the very next evening. (I actually had to play that part of the DVD over to make sure that it wasn’t intended to be a flashback.) Honorable mention goes to the couple making out in the trailer. Their approach to, uh, petting, seems to be wrestling around like bear cubs on an old blanket. And because this is a made-for-TV movie, the only item of clothing that is removed is their socks. You just can’t make stuff like this up, folks.
Peter Graves points out to the police that the murderer’s tracks always change from four footprints to two in a just few steps. Even though this information will have the average four-year old screaming at the screen, “It’s a werewolf, people,” neither Peter Graves or the police make that connection.
But one person does make the connection: Peter’s girlfriend played by Jo Ann “how–do-you-prounounce-my-last-name” Pflug. She pieces the whole mystery together and even spills the beans on the twist ending not only once, but TWICE in the first half of the movie. Look for those scenes and marvel.
Is Scream of the Wolf worth the four or five bucks the DVD will run you at a department store? I’d say yes. It isn’t Citizen Kane, but it is a pleasant way to zone out for 78 minutes and delivers some fun shocks along the way. Even a dozen unresolved plot threads and a silly trick ending can’t ruin it.
Anyway, have you looked at TV Guide lately? The best thing on tonight is What’s Happening to My Knee? One Woman’s Battle with Osgood-Schlacter's Syndrome of the Tibia Tuberal!
Wednesday, January 21, 2004
Professionalism vs. Personality
I gotta tell ya... It's tough finding a decent radio station out here in the sticks... There's just way too much pop clogging up the airwaves -- Britney, Christine, Jessica, and Justin. I truly wish Clay Aiken WOULD become invisible! It just seems like wherever I turn the radio dial I'm going to hear the same 20 or so artists.
If you think that infomercial have ruined television, automation has killed local radio. There are just so many "canned" formats out there right now. Having an announcer pre-record his bits all in one sitting may be economical, but it's a drag to listen to. I want to hear some comments about the news item that played 10 minutes ago, or what's going on right now in the weather, or on the street outside the studio.
I've observed that radio has become a lot more professional over the last few years, but has lost a lot of personality in the process. (That's not to say that it's the talents fault. I know so many capable people in the biz, but they aren't the ones running the show. In many cases, the ownership-management isn't even in the same state as the station.)
I've turned to the internet for some of my listening needs. I'm addicted to a radio program called Vinyl Cobwebs. A new show gets posted every week (or so) out of Salt Lake City. The DJs, Donovan and Premium Deluxe, aren't slick or professional sounding. They are politically-incorrect and drop-dead funny. They're having fun and it comes through the speakers. What kind of music do they play? Oldies. Real obscure ones. One-Hit Wonders. Novelty records. Doo Wop. Big Band.
Check out the link to the right and download the latest episode in mp3 format. This is the way radio should be.
If you think that infomercial have ruined television, automation has killed local radio. There are just so many "canned" formats out there right now. Having an announcer pre-record his bits all in one sitting may be economical, but it's a drag to listen to. I want to hear some comments about the news item that played 10 minutes ago, or what's going on right now in the weather, or on the street outside the studio.
I've observed that radio has become a lot more professional over the last few years, but has lost a lot of personality in the process. (That's not to say that it's the talents fault. I know so many capable people in the biz, but they aren't the ones running the show. In many cases, the ownership-management isn't even in the same state as the station.)
I've turned to the internet for some of my listening needs. I'm addicted to a radio program called Vinyl Cobwebs. A new show gets posted every week (or so) out of Salt Lake City. The DJs, Donovan and Premium Deluxe, aren't slick or professional sounding. They are politically-incorrect and drop-dead funny. They're having fun and it comes through the speakers. What kind of music do they play? Oldies. Real obscure ones. One-Hit Wonders. Novelty records. Doo Wop. Big Band.
Check out the link to the right and download the latest episode in mp3 format. This is the way radio should be.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
And you thought CHCH was all there was to Hamilton...
My wife and I work for The Salvation Army in southwestern New York State. Most people assume that means we work at a used clothing store or something. Actually, we pastor a small church (!) for the organization that seeks to be "a church for people who don't like church." We aren't really trying to be some hip, modern production, (one visit on a Sunday morning would disprove that theory) just a community of people who can be authentic with each other and God.
We took a trip on Sunday to visit The Freeway, a newish Salvation Army church in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. It's always beneficial to see how other people approach establishing a new church. Keep the good ideas and dump the rest and all that!
We really enjoyed ourselves. Authentic community and nice people. We'd recommend it to anyone in the Hamilton area. Our approach to "doing church" is very similar, and we found ourselves comforted by that fact. It's hard doing something new in the church, and it seems like no matter how sincere your intentions or how good your results, that there are always people ready to "throw a stone" that you aren't doing it the old-fashioned way. It's natural to second-guess yourself sometimes, and my wife and I had been doing a lot of that lately. As my wife joked on our drive out of Hamilton, "It's nice to know we aren't the only crazy ones..." It was good to meet some people who knew the joys and struggles of establishing a nontraditional church plant.
We took a trip on Sunday to visit The Freeway, a newish Salvation Army church in Hamilton, Ontario, Canada. It's always beneficial to see how other people approach establishing a new church. Keep the good ideas and dump the rest and all that!
We really enjoyed ourselves. Authentic community and nice people. We'd recommend it to anyone in the Hamilton area. Our approach to "doing church" is very similar, and we found ourselves comforted by that fact. It's hard doing something new in the church, and it seems like no matter how sincere your intentions or how good your results, that there are always people ready to "throw a stone" that you aren't doing it the old-fashioned way. It's natural to second-guess yourself sometimes, and my wife and I had been doing a lot of that lately. As my wife joked on our drive out of Hamilton, "It's nice to know we aren't the only crazy ones..." It was good to meet some people who knew the joys and struggles of establishing a nontraditional church plant.
Monday, January 19, 2004
Something New
New year, new experiences... I'm a new to this whole blogging thing, but I thought I would give it a try as an experiment. Beats keeping a journal with pen and paper that will collect dust on my bookshelf. Plus, a paper journal isn't interactive. Let's see how the experiment unfolds over 2004...
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