Speechless Tuesday

Farewell to zeitheist. Come see me at Che Goulash.

So Long, Gil Scott-Heron (1949-2011)

So Long, Sidney Lumet (1924-2011)

Irma the Night Stalker

This week we entertained a friend for dinner who we typically play cards with, Cribbage or Texas Hold 'em. He pulled a fast one, however, and switched up the program by bringing something to watch. Neither I nor the gal had seen an episode of the short-lived 70's television show, Kolchak the Night Stalker, though it is the kind of entertainment we enjoy. Darren McGavin in the lead role won us over with his panache and fashion sense.

Of the three episodes we watched, that night and on subsequent ones, Kolchak wears the same clothes in every episode: white loafers, seersucker suit, and raffia hat with blue and red band, the last described as giving our hero that unmistakable maverick heretical recusant look. I knew I had seen that hat before, but where...?

Then I got it: Jack Lemmon. He wore the same hat or something very like the same hat in the 1963 romantic comedy, Irma la Douce. One look into the old archive and my hunch was confirmed:

Granted it isn't exactly the same hat. Kolchak sports a modified porkpie and Jack Lemmon's is a boater. The band could have been handed down. It's Hollywood, maybe they do that kind of thing. Regardless, it is a mark of quality.

Kolchak caters to fans of science-fictional/supernatural entertainment. I can see how it wasn't the most popular thing going in 1974. As tv shows go, it's a bit too esoteric for general audiences. That said, me and the gal can't get enough. Could be we're in suspense of ever seeing him change his clothes. Darren McGavin is outstanding and surrounded by great actors. It makes a tremendous difference.

As for Irma la Douce, the caliber of actors is through the proverbial roof. That's Shirley MacLaine sharing the picture above, in the title part. She's wonderful, as is Lou Jacobi (to my left). I could go
on about Jacobi. I could bore you to tears about Jacobi. He is Moustache. No first, no last, just the one name. It goes well with his Rue Casanova establishment, Chez Moustache. He was once a Sorbonne professor and before that a field surgeon at the Battle of the Somme. How did he come to run a chintzy dive for pimps and streetwalkers? That's another story...

Jack Lemmon rules the roost. He is in fine fettle as the hapless Paris beat cop who falls in love with Irma, and his alter ego, Lord X (to my right), who exists because... as they say, that is another story. To even begin about Lord X gives the game away. I will say only that he is not to be missed. The movie, if I may be so bold, is a pearl of great price. Rent it yesterday.

Wednesday Wandering

The yarn revolution is in full flower. From seat coverings on New York and San Francisco subways to lamp posts in trendy West Seattle, soon enough yarncore hi-jinks will be as voguish as all-girls' roller derby. The significance of incorporating the anarchy symbol into the name eludes me. It does go well with the skull and crossed needles. It is entirely within the realm of possibility that the aestheticians behind all this are brigands and unwashed scalawags.

My little dream house, down the road a piece from the gal's West Seattle apartment. I'd love to pluck it up with my imaginary helicopter winch and go live on a plot on Mount Constance in the Olympic Mountains. A strategic cupola warms my heart.

"illusions Hair Design" sounds like the wrong kind of magic, Doug Henning wrong. This is the only salon in town to employ hypnotists and prestidigitators so the competition to lease a chair is ferocious. The air was flavored with something crisp as I passed, a crispy hint of potions. It could have been eye of newt but who knows what that smells like? Who among the unitiated mesmerists that compose the general public, I mean to say. I'd have gone inside to prove my hypothesis but fear of emerging again with track braids turned me away at the last minute.

Saturday Slideshow

Speechless Tuesday

Enamorata

My love letter to Nooksack, WA, for dear friends and memories cultivated in that fertile northern land. The song is by Swell, and if you listen carefully at about the halfway point you can hear a sample from Drew's News. I'm enamored of VideoSpin, superior freeware to cut your editing teeth on.

Don't Forget My Number

Recently transferred a bunch of home video onto DVD and have been playing with Live Movie Maker to unearth some hidden gems. From back in the day when your telephone plugged into the wall not out of some Luddite urge but because you had no choice. Like, the 80's, dude. Tubular. We had wonderful answering machines to field and screen our calls. How else would you know who was calling? The dark ages, indeed, but not entirely without charm. Making the message for your answering machine became a kind of Outsider art form, created by folk from all strata of life. I remember doing a temp job calling Nordstrom customers and coming across these hilarious messages across the nation. Though I'm sure people are creative with cellphones, I haven't come across any that show the same level of creativity. The above is a message I made with my college roommates that proved so popular we'd get calls at all hours of strangers just wanting to hear what the hubbub was about, which is why we made the video. Don't go thinking I did this for every message!

You Know What You Are?

Remember Fukushima

(photo: Paula Bronstein)

Speechless Tuesday

Speechless Tuesday

Building a Better Locomotive

Taking breaks from editing the manuscript is a dangerous indulgence, eleven times out of ten resulting in complete derailment. This has been the case going on years now. Indulgent and dangerous, that's what my little columbarium plaque will read if I'm not careful. Lately I've stumbled on a remedy. It may yet prove temporary, as others have in the past, but so far so good. I find that modifying an image on Picnik keeps my creativity on track and enables me to come back to the real and arduous task of editing with concentration intact. Perhaps it has something to do with work/play balance. I hesitate to be too analytical, gratified to be productive and playful and leave it at that.

Cylon Sermon

International Day of Napping

I love my sister's cats. Maya and Jessica are American Shorthairs, a breed I've never encountered anywhere else in my life of feline devotion. Of course, they don't know from breed names, but I always worry that I've offended them by chuckling at theirs. Could be they don't share my predilection for juvenile humor, which is only natural; most cats don't, bless their whiskers and paws. Size is a real advantage for this breed, bouncy and bantam even when full-grown, ten pounds at their chubbiest. Ideal for a good shoulder snuggle. On the flip-side, being small also gives them access to your pillow -while your head is resting on it. You haven't lived until waking at the midnight hour with a purring fuzzball parked on your forehead. It just goes to show that cats have much to teach us about harmonious living. Pillow democracy is rooted in naps, the more the better, a political vision that has secured feline world dominance for centuries. Perish forfend that foolish mortals question such wisdom; on the contrary, canonize it. Establish International Napping Day in its honor. Now there's a UN resolution no one will dispute: Pillows Not Bombs!

Misanthropic Oneironaut

On week-long holiday in San Francisco, a story idea downloaded into my head and took over and I stopped writing only when relatives put a gun to my head.

I'm taking dictation and they want, what, conversation?

Meddlers.

Daniel Berrigan

Endless experimenting at Picnik. As William S Burroughs famously complained, "Images. Millions of images. That's what I eat." Tonight's recognizes the great example of Dan Berrigan, priest and provocateur.

Fertilizer for the Moon

It's good to have something on the horizon, a sense of destination to beguile the hours and days of our mundane lives. George Gurdjieff thought so, maintaining everything else was just so much fertilizer for the moon. This and other obiter dicta appealed to his many followers, cosmic Buddhahood the prize; the rest of us have to settle for lunar gardens.

Tiananmen Take Two