'Sup

Shortly after I bought my Jeep new in 2000 (after my Saturn was totalled), a co-worker informed me that I would now be obligated to particpate in what she referred to as "The Jeep Wave." The Jeep Wave is rather self-explanatory: it involves two drivers of Jeeps (Wranglers only, as far as I can ascertain) giving a salutation of acknowledgment as they pass one another on the street.

I listened politely and nodded at my co-worker, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but my first thought was, I'm not doing that. I'd imagined the roads populated with this very select kooky band of overly-enthusiastic oddballs flailing at one other. Then I forgot about it.

But almost immediately after I started driving the Jeep, I discovered she was right. The first "wave" I got was by a young guy: an unsmiling, baseball-hat-and-shades wearing, wouldn't-be-caught-dead-doing-something-uncool-looking fella. His hands were at 10 and 2, and when he passed, he brought two fingers up into a sort of modified fingers-together peace sign.

There are other variations. There is the four-fingers-up-palm-still-on-the-steering-wheel, there is the flat-out wave. Sometimes there is a nod, but it is hard to distinguish a nod at 40 mph.

And it's not just the boys, I've gotten waves from everyone - middle-aged moms, silver-haired gentleman, teenage girls on their cell phones. No one is too pre-occupied to give a wave. Usually. At first, I would only give the wave if waved to. If I gave a little wave and got no reply it made me feel oddly rejected, and I really didn't need that in my life. Then the wave just became instinctual. If I didn't get a wave back, I assumed the person wasn't paying attention, or was in the middle of a big fight, or was over the whole Jeep-waving thing, for which I simply felt sorry for them for being so cynical.

I've had my Jeep for nine years now. The Wave is strong as ever. Sometimes I'll be going to the grocery and get acknowledged half a dozen times before I even get there. It's nice.

And the Joy We Share As We Tarry There...

Yesterday was Good Friday. While I have attended my childhood church regularly for the past five years (after a twenty year hiatis...) I sometimes consider myself a reluctant Christian. But I won't go into all of that now. My point is only that, when I'm outside of church my mind tends to wander into to the logical recesses of organized religion that have little to do with Faith. I am fully aware that often my commitment seems more linked to the community of people I am surrounded by and the activities planned than a true spiritual quest.

But I do believe in the music.

Perhaps that is condecending, but I believe it to be true in my heart. There is no where else on earth that I can hear music that stirs me quite like the music I hear cumulatively in church. Occassionally I am asked to give the opening Welcome and Announcements. On those Sundays, during the Prelude, I sit on a two-seater pew directly in front of the organ, the pipes directly above my head, enveloping me fully in the sound. Other Sundays, I sit next to my mother and we pick out the harmony during the hymns. Neither of us has ever bragged the best voice, but we are on pitch, loud, and, we can sing harmony.

Sometimes I play the piano, usually when the Music Director goes on vacation. We have a terrific orchestra - two keyboardists, a trumpet, trombone, clarinet, and flutist - but they get a break when he is off. Then it's just me and the grand piano. I try to pull out the old faithfuls, those hymns everyone knows and I love playing - Blessed Assurance, All Hail the Power of Jesus Name, Joyful Joyful We Adore Thee, and, of course, In the Garden.

Which brings me to this past Thursday. I attended my first Maundy Thursday service because I'd been asked to be involved in the program. I will admit that before the service I was feeling a little put out, as though I already go to church more regularly than I ever thought I would and I was working with the kids on the Easter Sunrise service program. So I was stewing a little, wondering what sort of thing I could have been doing that night instead. And then the orchestra started playing In the Garden. And I noticed that everyone who was coming in was singing to themself. And the more people noticed others singing to themselves, the louder everone became. My mood changed a little and I was patient to sit and listen and reflect.

If that's what church is, I've decided I'm okay with that for right now.

Criticizing the Criticism

I started reading film reviews in the Columbus Dispatch when I was around thirteen. One summer I had a week-long babysitting gig for kids old enough to be able to play with their peers in the neighborhood and I started getting bored watching soap operas. So I started a scrapbook of movie reviews clipped from The Columbus Dispatch and People magazine and taped them to loose-leaf notebook paper. I can remember being genuinely upset when the movies I'd seen and loved uniformly received two stars. Who didn't love Sixteen Candles? The same middle-aged newspaper columnists who dismiss the mediocre audience-pleasers of today.

I'm not here to defend middle-brow blockbusters that go on to become beloved nostalgia films. I bring up the scrapbook to say that I have a significant history with reading criticism. The problem is that no one seems to criticize the criticism. Of course we delight in a rave review of something we love or blow off a stellar approval of something that bored us to no end. But I would love to see a small column, once a month even, examining what has been examined.

Sunday night I went to see Sunshine Cleaning. It was one of those right-films-at-the-right-time kind of personal films that is well-written, nuanced, and infused with passionate and gifted actors. The next morning, I was searching for the Suduko puzzle on break at work and saw a review. So I read it. The reviewer did not share my enthusiasm for the film. That's fine, I honestly have no problem with a differing opinion. What did bother me was that they got major points of the plot wrong (and then, of course, gave away the incorrect plot points.)

This has been on my mind on and off ever since. I think it is because I have toyed with the idea of writing criticism on and off for years. But I ultimately think I am not suited to it, all evidence to the contrary. I think it is because I cannot imagine the idea of one's "art" being entirely dependent upon judging someone else's art.

Everyday Pleasures #2 - Packing Your Lunch

I started a new job last week. Another temporary "gig" but I like it. I'm scoring standardized tests from across the country for an educational publisher. Right now I'm grading 7th grade essay tests which I'll have to bring up again because it's been very interesting. I've also met some interesting people; a lot of overly-educated people (some with MBA's and PhD's) trying to fill in some employment gaps while looking for permanent work.

Anyway. Because my start time is a hard 8:00 and because the commute is across town, I have needed to streamline my "waking up and getting ready" process. In the past this has not been the smoothest of routines. Now, I find myself reveling in the perfect timing of a quarter pot of coffee brewed in time with a half sink-load of dishes. The thermos takes about 3/5's of the coffee and I pour the rest into a mug to take into the shower. I make a killer PB&J with 7 grain bread and fresh srawberry preserves. I went out and bought one of those soft lunch bag things - one that looks like an old-timey pail, but is fabric (and cute.) I pack fruit that is not brown. I rotate between two oreos or twenty-two (1 serving) of chocolate Teddy Grahams for dessert. I throw in a Women's One a Day Vitamin for good measure.

Sanctuary

I went to the movies tonight. I've been going to a lot of movies lately. This might seem like an obvious statement but, with the exception of Oscar season, I tend to wait until things come out on DVD. But lately I've discovered a renewed interest in the theater-going experience.

I think part of it has to do with a deliberate effort to not get caught up in things that used to bother me. I'd start by counting the amount of coming attractions (not to mention the newly added commercials - over fifteen minutes! That's ...[calculation in head] __ % of the whole movie...) I try not to do that any more. Mostly, I try to come in late and coincide my entrance with the opening credits. Also, I used to be very pre-controlling of the crowd. I would exhaust myself by trying pre-determine the talkers or chair-kickers. I try not to do that any more. Not that it always works, this zen-attempt to just go, but it sure beats starting out every movie unnecessarily stressed out.

I'd forgotten how special a space the Drexel's main auditorium is. I love most theaters, just for being theaters. I'd say being in a theater is like being in church, but that's not true. Mostly because I already go to church and my experience is not the same. But there is a sacredness that I am always aware of. I tend to get my best ideas while sitting in a theater seat.

The architecture of the Drexel auditorium is not particularly grand or spectacular. But I did get the chance to sit and take it in this evening (I confused the time with one for a different cinema so I was early.) I concluded that the architecture was designed by a passionate craftsman on a tight budget. It is modest but purposefully classic in its beauty.

Because I was early, I got my choice of seats. So I picked my favorite option - the seventh seat of the seventh row, which put me pretty close to the middle. As others trickled in, an interesting thing occurred. Usually, the space in a theater is like that of an elevator, people tend to space themselves out. But the very next people (a couple) sat with only one seat between them and I. The next people did the same on the other side of me. At one point during the movie I looked around and counted sixteen people, no more than a few rows up and back. It was the most bonded I have ever felt with a crowd of strangers.

Everyday Pleasures #1 - The Shamrock Shake

Yesterday was St. Pats Day. It has been years since I've actually gone out in the evening to engage in out-all celebratory merriment. I have to remind myself again and again as I'm getting ready on that morning to even wear green.

But every year, I do go through the McDonalds drive-thru and get a Shamrock Shake.

I love that it's not even advertised any more. I mean, it's McDonalds they advertise everything. And it's St. Patrick's Day. It's like someone in the advertising department just gave up one year and the lack of promotion just stuck. At the same time, it's not like there's any buzz or hype about it being this secret-handshake kind of thing either. Kinda weird. Still, I find a satisfying pleasure in suddenly remembering it's St. Patrick's Day and impulsively going to McDonalds. I keep expecting them to say "We don't have those any more." But no.

A woman in my writing group last night said she took her son a Shamrock Shake at his school after his lunch. That is the power and pleasure of a simple, special ritual. That kid will always remember that.

I will say, the Shamrock Shake has changed. It doesn't so much taste like mint chocolate chip ice cream as much as it tastes like it was flavored with Extra gum, the bright green kind that came out in the eighties. It's not that I find that flavor unpleasant. But, you know, in a gum, not a shake. Every time I took a slurp, I could not help thinking this is what it would taste like if you pryed a big wad of already chewed gum off of a dashboard somewhere and put in your mouth.

Eww, right? Still. I've already established an inertia with the Shamrock Shake that I've decided it's worth the two dollars to simply drive around all day with the pleasantly-colored whipped sensation in my cup holder...

Who's Afraid of A Clockwork Orange

As a movie fan, I am frequently compelled to reconsider films I recognize as "classics" but have resisted seeing. It took me years to finally get around to watching The Godfather. Personally, I blame the surge of bad low-level mob Tarrantino rip-offs for saturating the genre for me. But, I did finally see it and was blown away (no pun intended.)

Then there is a whole other list of films I am conflicted about because I suspect they have something to teach me, either about the filmmaking or storytelling or the human condition. But they scare me. These include - The Shining, The Exorcist, Scarface, Apocalypse Now, Taxi Driver, Pulp Fiction, Eraserhead and, well of course, A Clockwork Orange.

I'm not entirely sure when A Clockwork Orange first entered my consciousness. It was released in 1971, much too early to have figured into my early life at all. By college I was certainly familiar with the image of Malcom MacDowell's eyes forced open to a barrage of images. Still, I knew very little about the plot. One night, a friend told a group of us that a friend of hers at another college was walking home by herself, very late, and a group of college guys came up behind her. One was whistling Singing in the Rain.

"Oh my God," one of my friends listening to the story said, and the teller gave an I know, right?" look.

"What?" I said, jealous to be left out.

"That's how my friend reacted," said the storyteller, "like Lia, when the guys walked past her, she just looked at them because they were staring at her, waiting for a reaction."

For those of you who don't know, there is a scene in A Clockwork Orange where the main character and his group of thugs terrorize a couple - tie up and beat the man and rape the wife - while singing Singing in the Rain (or is it whistling, I can't remember and I'm not about to go digging just to get it right...although I'm certainly not above doing this to get something correct).

While I was highly engaged in the debate over whether this friend was "saved" by not eliciting a fear response to these guys who obviously tried to scare her, I vowed never to see this movie because I specifically did not want this image in my head. Fast forward a dozen or so years. I impulsively put a Kubrick documentary in my Net Flix cue and it arrived in my mailbox one day.

Of course, the thing was loaded with Clockwork Orange clips, including the Singing in the Rain scene. At first, I relieved that it was not nearly as devistating as I'd built up these past, oh, twenty years or so. I was drawn to the excellence of the filmmaking (there is a scene where one of the thugs pushes another into a pool of water and the lighting and composition are unbelievably gorgeous - especially considering the subject matter is someone pushing someone into some water.)

So I decided to go ahead and rent the movie. And I didn't love it. Once I got over the techincal excellence (of which it holds up) I realized something. I don't avoid movies because they are "difficult." There are any number of films that I have willingly put myself through that I knew would be challenging - Leaving Las Vegas, Thelma & Louise, JFK, The Fisher King, The House of Sand and Fog, Into the Wild to name a few, but I've gone in willingly, in the attempt to deepen my world view.

When I look back up at the list of those movies I supposed to admire but am "afraid" of, I have come to understand that many represent a "look how awful we humans can be to each other." I realize that I am hesitant to accept this without some sort of hint at solution. I understand that others may argue with me on this, and that's okay.

My point is to simply say, I am no longer scared of A Clockwork Orange, but this doesn't mean I find it worthy of my admiration. Except that pool scene... and maybe those shots of the record store. And a couple of times when he speeds and slows the camera to control and enhance the pacing... Maybe i will have to watch it again. But I will fast forward throught the Singing in the Rain scene.