COOKING MY GOOSE ONCE AGAIN

Well, once again I exploded my budget, ripped the screen door of fiscal responsibility clean off its hinges, and climbed willingly into the twin caves of excess and endangerment. As Mr. Schenck, my math teacher, once said to me, “Life is short, death is long; mister, you’re making a mockery of both simultaneously. Life is meant to be lived, so live it to the fullest, you dolt.” So instead of rushing to the beach on this beautiful May day, I sat in front of my computer, phone in hand, as I participated once again in the biennial Open Fields GREAT GOOSE EGG AUCTION. The quality of the eggs present and the exuberance of my bidding will, as usual, force me to eat dust bunnies until the next auction in 2012. I did remember, however, to put on sunscreen.

I am not an alumni of Open Fields which produces some of the smartest youngsters in that neck of the woods. Given my grades from ages 4-12, my enrollment chances would have been nil had I even applied. Somehow, being placed on a wait list until I turned 80, or being directed in Middle English by an eight year old towards some open fields in another state would have been more in line with my academic abilities.

I’ve been participating in this charity event ever since 2000, although, unfortunately, I've never made it back to sit in the audience myself and raise a paddle in person. I've had some very wonderful surrogates instead doing paddling for me. I keep saying "next biennial in Hanover" but that chant, like so many others, fall on ears stuffed with cotton.

My history with the city of Hanover is blighted at best. The last time I was in the town Dartmouth calls home was in the late 90s. Over a cup of smoking joe and a bagel at The Dirt Cowboy, I was given the boot by a woman who basically told me at gunpoint that our relationship was not only over but so over. She was a kind sort and did wish me all the luck in the world hitchhiking back to California without shoes or any personal ID. She then gave me directions towards the Canadian border for good luck. I'd love to Facebook her and tell her that, after several years and a couple of months in jail for vagrancy, I did make it back to Los Angeles. I don't believe she has Internet service in her shack up on Mt. Washington though.

I recommend taking a gander at this year's Open Fields catalog. While dreaming of owning any of these very special items will do you no good now, there is always 2012. Knowing how smart the Open Fields people are, no doubt they will schedule the next goose egg auction well in advance of the end of the Mayan Calendar.

My Version of Roughing It

A friend of mine who swims in Edmonton oil shale for a living sent me this site. The web cam is shut down at night, but during the day and early evening it's a real hoot watching mom in action. The male shows up, as most of our species does, only to take out the garbage, toss some change on the table, and move leaves around. I caught her once accusing her mate of spending his nights after work at the duck pond across town. The feathers flew during that conversation.

Watch the Journal Goosecam

Here is an eagle nest:
http://www.wildearth.tv/static/wildearth/channels/we_hornby_eagles.html

The Worst Julius Caesar Joke of All Time

On the Ides of March in 44 BC, Julius Caesar, the man who single-highhandedly brought down the Roman Republic, walked into the wrong end of several daggers. If you want to learn more about this man whose innards were turned into a salad of the same name, I suggest something called school -- but as assassinations go, this one ain't no Jean Paul Marat.

I wasn't looking for one, but recently a friend named Pig-Iron told me a Julius Caesar joke. He calls me up like clockwork whenever an arcane holiday hits the calendar: Arbor Day, St. Vitus Dance Day, Wash Yourself Properly for a Change Day. I think most of the holidays he comes up with are from the Mayan Calendar. Fortunately for him all play wonderfully at 2 AM at the Laugh Factory after three shooters and two Long Island Ice Teas.

Pig-Iron is also a plagiarist: Most of his humor can be found wherever the Internet survives. Since I owe him money from some bad investments involving the words "Texas" and "Hold-em," I let him use me as a sounding board for his stand-up patter.

Julius Caesar was addressing the crowd in the Coliseum.

"Friends, Romans, and Countrymen, lend me your ears. Tomorrow I take our glorious army to conquer Northern Europe and I shall start with France. We shall kill many Gauls and return victorious."

The crowd are up on their feet "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, Hail mighty Caesar!"

Brutus turns to his mate and says ," He doesn't half talk some rubbish, eh? He couldn't fight his way out of a wet parchment bag."

Six months later, Caesar comes back having conquered France and addresses the crowd in the Coliseum: "Friends, Romans and Countrymen, I have returned from our campaign in France and, as I promised, we killed 50,000 Gauls."

The crowd are up on their feet again. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, Hail mighty Caesar!"

Brutus once again turns to his mate and says, "I'm sick of his nonsense, I'm off to France to check this out."

So Brutus sets of for France and three weeks later he comes back to Rome. Caesar is addressing the public in the Coliseum again: "Friends, Romans and Countrymen, tomorrow we set off for Britain and we are going to sort those b*stards out"

The crowd are up on their feet. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees, Hail mighty Caesar!"

Brutus jumps up and shouts "Caesar, you are a liar. You told us you had killed 50,000 Gauls in France but I've been there to check it out and you only killed 25,000 !!!!"

The crowd is stunned and all sit down in silence.

Caesar gets up and looks slowly round the Coliseum then across at Brutus and says, "Brutus, you are forgetting one thing.........

Away Gauls count double in Europe."

For those who don't get the joke either, here is an explanation of the term Away Goals.

I Want Some Action...I Want To Live

I love movies, but the Academy Awards program is prolonged, tedious, and redundant. There is about as much surprise in an Oscars broadcast as there is in handing a bottle of whiskey to an alcoholic grandparent suffering from incontinence then plopping him on reupholstered couch just to see if the inevitable happens.

In contrast, the Grammy broadcast is like a couple of healthy teenagers who, upon discovering sex, try out every position at least once. It’s wild, silly, unpredictable, energetic, and messy.

The Golden Globes broadcast resembles a European soirée where, in the beginning, everyone is on their very best behavior; by the end all are drunk, rude, pawing at each other’s spouses, and ready to attack the Balkans.

Yet as boring as I find the Oscar ceremonies, every year I faithfully watch them...

Tonight is Oscar night and as I do with every other jumbo cultural event broadcast in America, I will be seeking shelter elsewhere. The guy below me has a 50-inch plasma screen with a volume setting that ranges from Michael Bay to Michael Bay IMAX 3D. He and his girlfriend are both mixed martial artists, bodybuilders, and bow hunters of small game. I think Ted Nugent visits them in their dreams. I don’t talk knuckle dragger so I have no reference point of communication with them.

A young couple recently moved in next to me. Their entertainment unit is even larger than Punch and Judy’s downstairs. It radiates so much light I can see the screen through my wall; this is fine because I never got around to ordering the full sports satellite package. I contemplate talking to them about the noise coming from their apartment, but I just don't have the heart. They are newly-weds who speak to each other coquettishly while making love. I don’t know whether they are writing a “How To” manual for the Pilates set, but their nocturnal and early morning sounds apparently have scared away any reason to tent this building for termites.

Every Sunday evening, the Iranians across the courtyard broadcast Farsi versions of South American telenovelas. So really, where's my starting off point there?

So I am off to look for an Oscar party I can crash. Everyone I know puts on the same sort of Academy Awards night get-together: a lot of cold cuts, beer, big charts with all the nominees, and gambling pools. While the food is upscale, all the talk remains somber and the subject is usuall about the business of downscaling expectations. These parties are no longer fun; they end up as extended therapy sessions for those running out of Cobra insurance. And I am tired of cold cuts.

For the last several weeks, I’ve been calling up coffee shops, sports bars, hotels, and restaurants to see whether any of them will be blending Oscar parties with America’s newest craze: open carry. I’m looking to attend an event where strapped on pig iron competes with dainty, bite-sized finger foods before the real fingers get blown off.

Open carry is tough guy street lingo for openly carrying a firearm in public, usually a handgun strapped inside a very fancy-looking holster. Each state’s laws vary on public swaggering around like you're Wyatt Earp or Bat Masterson traipsing down the streets of Laredo, but then who has the time to read statutes, pilgrim? Proponents argue that the Second Amendment allows the normal law abiding citizenry to twirl weapons in public and show off their own peace makers anywhere they damn well please. Fat, thin, manicured, young, old arthritic, and twitchy. All fingers need apply.

I want that party where coke flows, liquor is available in wide abundance, no one knows anything, and everyone packs enough firepower to make John Wayne look like the leader of a Quaker movement. I want to witness a face-off between a guy who bets he can outdraw anyone in the room who knows the difference between sound mixing and sound editing. Perhaps I'll be lucky enough to witness a firefight over the merits of The Cove vs The Most Dangerous Man in America for best long form documentary.

Does it sound like I will do anything to be part of a Academy Awards party that has some buzz?

The only heat I will be carrying on me will be the body heat generated by driving around with both an expired license and fake DMV tags. If I’m going to listen to an opening monologue as humorous as a Joe Biden speech or award’s presenter chitchat more canned than Del Monte, then like Alicia Bridges, “I got to go where the people dance. I want some action …I want to live!

The Second Annual You Don’t Know Dick about the Oscars

All I do on weekends is watch films from the local Blockbuster. I rent so many I think I might be the only one keeping the chain solvent. I am a hold-out: I don’t use video on demand nor do I Netflick by mail. I leave my apartment so rarely that the opportunity to meet anyone to practice my grunts and groans is worth the journey into sunshine and smog. I stay in my apartment so much I have to take night classes at UCLA just to learn how to reuse a fork. Video on demand might be the wave of the future, but I never learned how to surf and chlorinated water makes my skin itch.

Even with all of my expertise in film watching, I have never won an Oscar pool. Ever. I have never even come close. I’ve been betting on the awards since “Wings,” and all I've earned is derisive laughter. Years ago, I worked with a woman who promised to sleep with me if I could pick even one winner that year. Okay, so I didn’t think “Titanic” was that big a deal. Who knew?

I’ve lost to people who base their choices on astrological signs or the names of their deceased cats. I knew an accountant who used a complex algorithmic system to figure out his choices. It worked well for him in the Oscar pools although the IRS frowned on his methodology during tax season.

So these are my 2010 picks. I offer them knowing full well that by Monday morning no one will remember the results other than those who won and those who lost and are now too drunk to care.

BEST PICTURE: “The Hurt Locker”

I saw all the candidates and found this one the most compelling: There is no truer statement about how war warps man’s basic survival instinct to stay clear of danger. Second choice goes to "District 9." Not since the original “Invasion of the Body Snatchers” with its veiled commentary on McCarthyism has the use of a science fiction trope been used so effectively to make a political statement regarding current hellish attitudes. The budget of the entire movie was the honey wagon cost for “Avatar.”

BEST DIRECTOR: Kathryn Bigelow

This is the year that a female director finally bests the males. Her film is superlative; her credits substantial. Even her ex, James Cameron, is rooting for her.

LEAD ACTOR: Jeremy Renner in “The Hurt Locker”

Yes, I know it will go to Jeff Bridges. If I could actually vote for Oscar, I’d go with journeyman actor Renner’s breakout performance over Bridges who really should have won it years ago for “The Big Lebowski.” “Crazy Heart” is “Tender Mercies” lite and I have the black eye and the video bar fight to prove it.

LEAD ACTRESS: Gabourey Sidibe in “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire"

“The Blind Side” gave me peripheral vision problems. Sandra Bullock will take the award playing a strong-willed, southern white woman helping a confused black kid out of a world far too difficult for him to escape on his own. Yawn! The movie itself is an excellent example of a feelgood Lifetime Network weepie. I’m waiting for the movie where an ornery black woman takes in an unloved overweight white kid and turns him into whatever the good Lord damn well wants him to be. I loved Helen Mirren in “The Last Station,” but then she could star in a Uwe Boll movie and I’d still watch her (as I did with Sir Ben Kingsley in “Blood Rayne1”).

SUPPORTING ACTOR: Christoph Waltz in “Inglorious Basterds”

This is the first time I ever rooted for an actor playing a Nazi to win anything other than execution at dawn. Waltz’s performance is, at times, riveting, frightening, ghoulish, and gentlemanly. Find an American performer who could slide effortlessly between four languages and I’ll show you no one I know. Second choice: Woody Harrelson in “The Messenger”. He continually amazes me as one of today’s most versatile actors though I still prefer him killing zombies and declaring that the world will end in 2012.

SUPPORTING ACTRESS: Mo'Nique, “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire"

Her performance so infuriated me that I burned both my “Phat Girtz” and “Welcome Home, Roscoe Jenkins” DVDs, although somewhere I still have a few VHS copies of “The Parkers” that I should see sometime.

ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY: “The Hurt Locker”

Odds on favorite looks to be “Inglourious Basterds,” although my second choice would be “The Messenger.” Did anyone notice that “Inglourious Basterds” is nothing more than a bunch of set dialogue sessions between shoot-outs? I thought Trini Lopez’s character was better developed in “The Dirty Dozen” than Brad Pitt’s Aldo Raine.

ADAPTED SCREENPLAY: “District 9”

This is a Hubble long distance outer space Hail Mary shot. It looks like a slam dunk for “Precious.” but I keep drifting back to “District 9." Maybe the Academy would have paid more attention to the script’s merits had the movie been entitled "District 69" instead.

ANIMATED FEATURE: “Up”

I liked them all. I picked “Up” because it’s the shortest title of the five and I have other things I need to work on today.

FOREIGN-LANGUAGE: “The White Ribbon”

This is a pure guess given that I only saw “The White Ribbon” which I thought was very evocative of the herky-jerky deconstructional negative space cinema movement of post-war Europe with its neo-realist approach to the vagaries of small town life against the forces of the bourgeoisie influences of urban encroachment. Actually I have no idea what I am talking about, but every time I sit through a subtitled film I go all Manny Farber or Dwight MacDonald on myself. Second choice would be France’s “The Prophet,” because who doesn’t love French prison movies?

I Sing The Body Electric

Today was the day of my annual physical. I usually have them in February so I know whether to celebrate my upcoming birthday in March or just buy the coffin and sit in the dark and wait for my Cheney episode. I’ve been going to the same doctor for 36 years so he knows who I am. I am his chronological patient number 114 out of close to 10,000 that he's examined in his office though he has examined many thousands more in hospitals. He says he will retire when his heart does. I tell him that I don't open his bill unless I have my defibrillator charged up and ready to go.

I am now treated so well he uses two fingers during the prostate exam. In fact there is something about this procedure that forces me into saying really stupid things during the only time of the year when I have any reason to look at my swollen ankles.

“If you didn’t do that, I wouldn’t have any sex at all.”

“Have your fingers gotten longer since last year.”

“Are you expecting to find Judge Crater up there?”

“Are you now using a miner’s helmet this year?”

“Check to see if my personality wants to come home.”

“I keep all loose change you find.”

"Did you just send in a surveying team?"

“I’d rather have you blow smoke up my ass.”

“Do I get a medical discount if you want to do it a second time?”

"Did I just hear a rimshot?"

"Oh I wish I were an Oscar Mayer Wiener."

“You just pushed my tonsils into my sinus cavity.”

“So this is how babies are made.”

“We do this because you think I need practice for prison.”

And today:

“Would a female doctor expect a phone call the next morning?”

My doctor never laughs. I believe he just adds a few extra dollars to the bill as compensation.

Flawless Logic and Lawless Logic

Finally picked up the DVD of “Law Abiding Citizen” and screened it last night. I can only imagine the development meetings behind this gem.

THE BOSS:

Okay people we don’t have much time to act. I just got word that both Gerald Butler and Jamie Foxx are available to star in our next Wasted Talent Production. Of course the script doesn't yet exist, but that has never stopped us before. We have to get something, anything for them or we lose our window of opportunity. What do we have in the slush pile?

DEVELOPMENT EXECUTIVE ONE:

Remember that western written for Lee Marvin after "Cat Ballou?" I think it was called “When Billy met Jesse." It’s about the years Billy the Kid rode with Jesse James when both were scouting for Custer. I guess we can make one of them black. The original writer left the business or shot himself or became a doctor.

THE BOSS:

Who's Lee Marvin? Maybe this has potential -- and we do have a bunch of Native Americans still on contract from the "Dancing with Wolves" sequel we optioned back in the previous century. Check to see if we’ve placed it in turnaround yet. On second thought, westerns don't appeal to the young unless we can attach vampires and video games somewhere. Kids today have no understanding of history.

DEVELOPMENT EXECUTIVE TWO:

I read a script during my last stint in rehab that has two lesbian detectives working out of Cleveland, Georgia going undercover to break up a white supremacy ring that deals crystal meth. We could get some A-list writer to do a quick touch up and pitch it to their reps. You know like a "Bad Boys" type thing.

DEVELOPMENT EXECUTIVE THREE:

I got this great script called "Boyd and Lloyd" about two gay guys who battle each other in court to adopt this kid from Tibet who might or might not be a reincarnated god. Hijinks ensue throughout. Doesn’t Jackie Chan have a kid we could use here? Maybe we can get Gary Marshall to play the judge?

DEVELOPMENT EXECUTIVE FOUR:

Don’t both of these guys sing and dance? I know that musicals aren’t in right now because of "Nine," but I read a couple of blogs that explained "Nine" tanked because it was about a bunch of foreigners. Let me check to see who has the film rights to that Huck Finn musical written by Glenn Miller. I remember from my Spark Notes reading that there are both white and black characters.

THE BOSS:

Butler might be too young to play Finn. Doesn’t Finn always scream out the word "mendacity" at his son Brick? I hate it when writers use big words unless they're English and it's a show for PBS. Anyway, wasn’t "Showboat" about guys floating down the Mississippi? It might work for our bottom line. Let’s check the tax credits for all the states that the river flows through. Better yet, see if we can borrow Cameron's green screen.

DEVELOPMENT EXECUTIVE ONE:

Science fiction is hot right now. Maybe we can do an updated version of "Alien Nation" or some other kind of buddy film set in outer space. I’ll post a log line on some bulletin boards over at UCLA and USC. Some student has to have a script like that lying around.

INTERN STRAIGHT OUT OF COLLEGE:

I’m just vamping here, but how about if we throw away Butler’s singing ability and his good looks and make him a crazed serial killer. He works as a brain for the CIA so he knows everything and can build the Panama Canal in his living room using tin foil and margarine if he needs to. But his family gets killed in a bungled home invasion, although we really don’t know why his place was picked and it is only the catalyst for the entire movie reprisal motif. Am I using the word "motif" correctly? Butler’s character is so smart that he spends 10 years planning his revenge on all the lawyers who helped get one of the bad guys off. He sets car bombs, murders a judge with an exploding cell phone, and buries someone with just the right amount of oxygen pumping into his nose to keep him alive until 30 seconds before rescue. Butler's character has accumulated enough C4 to rival Blackwater -- or maybe that's where he buys it all from. He digs into a maximum security prison by himself and knows exactly which cell in solitary will be his after he kills his prison bunk mate. And he goes in and out of prison without anyone suspecting anything even though he is on 24-hour lockdown.

We make Foxx an obsessed hot shot prosecutor who is married to a beautiful woman and has a cello-playing daughter to whome he pays very little attention. In fact, let's make sure no pianos are around for him at all. Viewers might then ask questions about why he isn't playing duets with his kid. We have Butler’s character go after Foxx’s character when all the other characters relevant to the case are killed in extreme ways. The audience will believe Butler has a partner on the outside but the surprise is he doesn't. It's like "Saw" meets "Phantom of the Opera," except no one sings anything. Maybe over end credits Butler and Foxx can perform an old standard like "Me and My Shadow" -- unless you guys think that might have some racial overtones attached to it. We can set it in Philly because that’s where I come from and I can visit my folks on the production’s dime. And…

THE BOSS:

Enough. I love it. Tight. Concise. Energetic. That’s why I hire kids with math degrees. You guys put everything down so logically, and I don't even need to understand the difference between algebra and trigonometry. Okay, we’re shooting next week. Where’s the rewrite already?

One Line Says It All

Over heard today at the local grocery store:

My ex is so brutal that in the divorce settlement, I’m only allowed to talk to the voices in my head every other weekend.

A Vietnamese neighbor saw me coming upstairs with several pizzas for the Super Bowl. Later that afternoon, she knocked on my door and asked if she could borrow a pizza because she and her friends had run out of food.


In addressing a Tea Party audience this past weekend, Sarah Palin was seen with cribbed notes written in black ink on the palm of her hand. I wonder who will be the first person to remark that such an act adds new meaning to the term hand job.

Things to Watch For During Tonight’s State of the Union

Obama’s Introduction of foreign dignitaries including the Na’vi, the Cylons, and those creepy characters from District 9

Congressional members showing populist support by hanging tea bags from their $2000 Armani suits

The “You Lie” Glee Club receiving more applause than the President

Fox News Cutting In to Broadcast a 1994 Newt Gingrich Rebuttal

Supreme Court allowing large corporations to begin construction on luxury box Seats behind the President

Representatives of Indiana and Louisiana already drunk in anticipation of Super Bowl Game

Rachael Maddow in a Low Cut Pants Suit

Glenn Beck walking up and down the aisle hawking gold coins

The words “Saving Middle Class”, “Employment Opportunities”, and “Non Defense Measures” end up as a drinking game.

The best post analysis of the speech comes from John Oliver of the Daily Show

Sasha and Malia signal their father to wrap it up before the start of “American Idol”

Newly elected Senator Scott Brown showing off his own stimulus package

Smurfs on Steroids

Sitting in theaters watching 3D movies has always given me migraines. It is not the 3D process itself, which is enjoyable with or without an attached storyline. No, the migraine problem is rooted in my inability to keep my hands off the 3D glasses. I spend most of the screen time moving them up and down the bridge of my nose or taking them off completely just to see the contrast between 3D and blur. I have four eyes going into the screenings. Adding two more eyes becomes too weighty for me to bear.

These actions drive what few dates I have crazy -- especially my patented three-hand balancing act of glasses, barrels of popcorn, and several soft drinks in and around my lap. If I had had a fourth hand, I might spend some time actually holding my date’s hand, for my father told me that’s what is required of a good gentleman during a movie. I think the last movie my dad saw was the original "All Quiet on the Western Front." I told him times had changed.

A date once asked me why I couldn’t simply watch the movie without all the vertical hand gestures to my face. I didn’t have an answer for her. Luckily we stopped seeing each other during a "House of Wax" retrospective when I spilled a tall order of Coke down her left leg.

I hate going to movies by myself, so I don’t, if at all possible. That’s why I always carry singles in my wallet. Going to things alone reminds me too much of my teen years in Madison when I did everything as a gang of one, both legal and otherwise (and if truth be told, doing “otherwise” was even more strenuous).

Back then I couldn’t find a date even amongst the homeless. I spent most Saturday nights with a deck of cards, a pea, a card table, and three thimbles. The State Historical Society has pictures of me running for my life down State Street being chased by Madison’s finest and a few angry roughnecks from Black Earth and Portage.

I decided to see "Avatar" with a woman who fidgets in her seat even more than I do. I’ve known Adele for decades and it was she who coined this line after our first blind date:

"Not if you were the last guy on Earth and there were no German shepherds around."

Nor was I immune to her Dorothy Parkeresque insults even when I was with someone else:

"If breasts were brains, your cheap looking friend would be running MIT."

I still think about the psychologically damaged children the two of us could have produced. They might also have looked like police dogs. But I digress.

Adele is a member of one of the fast-growing subspecies in the world of web journalism: an online movie critic. She gets paid nothing for her reviews, but they show up all over the Internet. Since she uses big words and quotes Eric Rohmer in French and knows the difference between Heinrich von Kleist and Otto Von Bismarck, her remarks are taken earnestly by the literati.

Adele had already seen "Avatar" once in IMAX 3D, so she had no difficulty in allowing me the opportunity to pay the king’s ransom admission so she could see the movie a second time. She needed to continue to compile her "Avatar" cliché list for her column and one viewing was not sufficient. Since she hates sitting next to me during a screening, as it could construed a date with someone who was not a vegan, I bought her a ticket several rows below me and to my far left. The person sitting next to me was a little girl accompanied by her parents who became fascinated with my ability to juggle my glasses, soft drinks, and popcorn. Her mother kept muttering something to her about not imitating the strange man next to her.

This particular IMAX screening was packed with repeat viewers. I know this because half the audience kept whispering to the other half, “Wait till you see what happens next.” Crowds like this drive me nuts. Homeland Security should worry less about gun toters on airplanes and more about gun toters in theaters.

While I settled down to play with my glasses, Adele was fast at work jotting down notes. She can write in the dark without use of any illumination. She picked up that trick, she told me, from years of undressing in the dark with her dates. I never understood the correlation, and she always walked away from me without explaining. She had already counted as many story clichés within Cameron’s movie as the number of dollars it took to make the film, excluding the cost of prints and advertising during her first viewing. She decided to go a second time to check her math.

During the fifth or sixth or seventh flying sequence, my mind began to wander further than the hills of Pandora. This film had everything: the Cherokee Trail of Tears, Polynesian unison swaying, pidgin English, pantheism, and animism. It was anti-military, possibly anti-American, certainly anti-imperialist, pro-environment, and, I decided after witnessing the interaction with all the animal life, creationist to the core. Here was a place in the universe that obviously did have an Intelligent Designer: Humanoids flying around on cool looking pterodactyls while Venus flytraps waved at them from below

And the Tree of Souls. Who else but an Intelligent Designer would come up with a world where you blow up a big tree and everyone comes out of the woodwork to seek revenge?

I expected to engage in a spirited debate with Adele after the screening, perhaps at some vegan hot spot. So I began making a mental list of the questions I thought should have been answered somewhere within the movie:

Why didn’t the Tree of Souls do a smackdown at the first sign of environmental trouble?

How did the scientists obtain the Na’vi DNA in the first place? Was Gitmo still open 150 years in the future?

Why are the Na’vi blue and ten feet tall rather than red and the size of a Munchkin? Forget that question since this is a science fiction movie and not a fantasy.

How did a humanoid species evolve in an atmosphere heavy with carbon dioxide?

Why are the Na’vi wearing African tribal jewelry?

Why don’t the Na’vi immediately recognize the avatars in their midst, since they speak the language like Berlitz dropouts? Why didn’t they just kill them and turn a 160 minute movie into a six minute short?

Do the Na’vi walk around naked or are they wearing blue jump suits over their natural blue skin?

Why is it always the Marines who have to do the dirty work?

How did the Na’vi evolve when so many odd looking gigantasaurs could swallow them whole and use their spines as ten foot long blue toothpicks?

Why is their religious ceremony a cross between a Polynesian singalong and a Chautauqua revival?

Where did they get their culture and why wasn’t anyone smart enough to invent gunpowder?

Why just ride buzzards? Why didn’t they domesticate the hounds from Hell or any of the other wild life?

Why didn’t the white colonists simply drop fancy looking bows and arrows laden with small pox bacilli down on them to clear out the indigenous population? Who would know the difference?

Why hasn’t colonialist weaponry advanced in the 25 years since "Aliens?"

Am I the only one who sees a similar look between the Na’vi and some of the blue characters of "ThunderCats?"

Why does every pro-environmental film end with half of the environment destroyed or up in smoke?

Why does the unnamed transnational company give up so quickly? Why weren’t more soldiers sent in? It’s not like the Na’vi have lobbyists in Congress.

I never had that conversation with Adele. She met some guy coming out of the theater, waved goodbye to me and left. I threw my list of questions away, looked at the clock, and sneaked into “Daybreakers.” I also kept the 3D glasses.

The 2011 New Year’s Day Message from the FAA

Due to the hysteria created by the Underwear Bomber, the FAA went into a sanity lockdown and began a new round of regulations for the flying public that continued throughout 2010.

To the Flying Public:

Congratulations one and all for surviving another wild and wacky year with us here at the FAA as America continues to fly around this great globe of ours! We hope you've had as much fun working through our regulations as we’ve had making things up on the fly (aren't we the punsters?). We understand the awkwardness brought upon by observing those willing to walk across tarmacs at gunpoint, seeing their babies dropped on cold floors,or watching as infirm epileptics are held down by airport personnel during possible fake seizures. So in 2011 we will be making a few modifications to our bylaws to better assist you throughout your journey.

1) We will no longer require a colonoscopy 36 hours before take off-for those under the age of 100. 2010 has brought tremendous advances in technology. Many of our screeners (straight from Blackwater University) are now skilled enough to inject cobalt isotopes directly into the jugular. This hastens your ability to get through the day-long security lines since it irradiates all organs at once. Hiding anything anywhere on a human body is now a thing of the past. Frequent travelers have complained of the sienna-like color in their burning urine for weeks afterwards. We believe there is no scientific correlation between colored urine and sudden death; hair loss; shrunken genitalia; or anal and stomach bleeding. We have been told by government trendsetters that sienna will be the new Fall color of choice among the fashionistas, so frequent flyers are already ahead of the game.

2) The pat down, reach around, feel up finger jab will remain in force for the foreseeable future. We regret the unease this causes those young females whose landing strips don’t match up with their hair, and those well-buffed males who appear to be swaggering with a package far greater than they deserve. The latter will continue to be pulled over and strip-searched to see whether their equipment measurements are in line with those now listed on their passports. This is no time to enhance any numbers needlessly; for if you do the terrorists have won.

3) We at the FAA want all of you to know that we take complaints of using cattle prods and Bunsen burners very seriously. For the time being, we have stopped hiring any individual who has been employed either in slaughter yards or chicken processing plants, though some pesky applicants still sneak through. We certainly do not want our traveling public treated as if they were either cattle or capons.

3) As of January 1st, 2011, we will be stocking our own required brand of thong underwear for women and jock straps for men. We have listened to your screams of walking buck naked through terminals with only the harsh glare of searchlights and snarling dogs as your companions. Made of the highest quality of polyester blend, the FAA undies hopefully will be clearly delineated enough to keep our friendly genitalia-sniffing Dobermans at bay. Rest assured that we had no knowledge the Pentagon had mistakenly shipped us a pack of border patrol canines trained to bite down on all low-hanging fruit of illegal male aliens.

4) Expressions like “you call that a pee-pee?” and “dick-less wonder” and “let’s touch to make sure they’re hung properly” have been replaced with less provocative terminology for addressing male passengers as they wait to be manacled into their seats before flight. We at the FAA extend our heartfelt sympathies to all XY chromosome carriers traumatized by our playful female TSA operatives. Lucky for us, lobbyists in Congress have exempted all federal agencies from frivolous class action lawsuits. We are not to blame if your junk is undersized.

5) As of January 1st, females under the age of 30 whose nipples become erect due to the lack of heat in the cabins will be allowed to maintain them without incurring penalties. Those females over 30 must arrive at the airport with a doctor’s explanation explaining why this phenomena still occurs for them. Females suffering through hot flashes can continue to share their heat with passengers next to them.

6) Planes will continue to taxi from one airport to another if the flight is under six hours. We know this remains an inconvenience for those customers who find it quicker to walk to their destinations. However, strutting your stuff across the plains of the Midwest or traipsing around unescorted by federal marshals through the mountain ranges of Appalachia, for instance, will now immediately place you on the n- fly list and could cause you to be shot on sight. Trans-oceanic flights will maintain a glide of no more than ten feet over the surface of the water regardless of wave size.

We believe we have finally solved that embarrassing and sticky problem of public evacuation during a flight while bolted and manacled to your seats. We have replaced those holes cut in the seats that were hastily lined with adult diapers back in early 2010 with a new form of technology affectionately called “Outhouse Moderne” that combines the scent of French vanilla candles with a steady downward suction that keeps the rectum teased and delighted. Their stainless steel build makes for easier cleaning, and so far we have had no complaints of either splinters or cushion burn though it still remains cold to the touch.

We realize that flying is a privilege and not a right, so we at the FAA will continue to strive to make your future flights as unremarkable as possible. Wishing you all a Happy New Year and pleasant journeys in the year ahead!

PS.

Here is our winner of the 2010 Passenger of the Year at our new FAA approved snack shop at LAX.

Christmas Shorts In Between the Caroling

Those of us who scour the Internet looking for animated good cheer that doesn't involve liquids, find plenty to choose from this time of year in the files of gifted animators. Christmas means so many things to those with the talent to draw objects other than water from wells or long stretches in the state pen. Take these three samples for instance, all of which exhibit how expansive a holiday Christmas actually is.

PAPU Meets Santa Claus from Xeth Feinberg on Vimeo.

Jake Heifetz: A Real Mensch

Jake was one of my father's closest friends from the old days of the Greenbush area. Both met after World War II when Madison's Triangle Area became their home after long years of wanderings and displacements. The men knew each other for close to a quarter of a century before my father's declining health forced him to abandon the bitter Wisconsin winters in the late 70s for the warmer weather of southern California. My father never made it back to Madison.

Both men could talk the hind leg of a donkey and neither refugee ever grew tired of swapping stories about the good old days in the Shtetl which I always thought sounded pretty rotten and bleak for them and their families. They spoke to each other in Yiddish, prayed in Hebrew, and talked to the world in broken English.

Jake was the neighborhood handy-man. He could always be counted upon for his strong back and a steady carpentry eye. On most good days after work, he tended his garden, a lavish little backyard farm that supplied his family and friends with all the necessary vegetables for any dinner time meal.

In the early 1980s I came back to Madison for a wedding. In the last hours before the flight back to Los Angeles, I decided to visit the old neighborhood for the first time in many years. Walking past Jake's house I saw him tending that very special plot of land of his. He recognized me immediately and said how sorry he was to hear of my father's death. He offered me some tomatoes, corn and rhubarb for the trip home. I told him Madison's finest would be too bulky to take on the plane. No problem, he said. By the time I turned around his wife was walking towards me with cut tomatoes, steaming corn and whatever one does to make rhubarb edible. I had a great meal, missed my connector to Chicago and spent several extra hours at the Madison airport waiting for the next flight out.

I never saw Jake after that, but I'm certain that garden grown rhubarb from a lovingly cared for back yard plot on Chandler Street still clings somewhere near my spleen.

FROM HIS OBIT PUBLISHED IN A MADISON, WISCONSIN NEWSPAPER:

Jake Heifetz was born on April 17, 1917, in Lachwa, Poland and died Tuesday, Nov. 3, 2009. Jake was a special man. He was a father of five, grandfather of six, and was soon to be blessed with the birth of his first great-grandchild. Jake himself was the second youngest of seven children born to Arieh and Leah Heifetz. All but two of these children were later killed by the Nazis (with a third older child already residing in the Unites States). In September 1942, Jake and his brother Zelig escaped the mass destruction of their town by the Nazis and their collaborators, and fled to the woods. There Jake and his brother lived for the duration of the war, homeless in their own homeland; fighting to survive against desperate odds. Jake not only fought against the Nazis, but he even managed to meet and marry his wife, Fania in the woods. The story of how Jake was able to obtain a ring for their wedding is emblematic of the way Jake lived his life. As the Nazi soldiers were fleeing from the Eastern front, one soldier begged for bread. Jake, who was armed could have killed this man to avenge all that he himself had been through, but he said that option did not seem right to him; instead he traded the man a loaf of bread for his ring. That ring served as Fania's wedding ring for over 50 years. Jake remained a person who believed in the kindness of others, and who brought joy to all around him. Jake carried candies in his pocket and all the children who knew him, knew to go to "Uncle Jake" for their sweet dose. With a candy in his pocket, and a joke up his sleeve, Jake was always ready to be part of any social gathering. Since arriving in Madison, Jake worked as a carpenter. His strong hands have helped build houses and cabinets, have held aloft the torah like nobody can, and have handed out countless candies and toasted many occasions with his ubiquitous shots of whisky. After his retirement, in 1974, Jake took on the role of caretaker at Beth Israel Center, a role which he has held for many years. In this role, many people would say, Jake was the synagogue. His recitation of the blessings were reminiscent of the world of the heder in which he spent his early years studying the Hebrew prayers. Jake was extremely well read, and perhaps under different life circumstances would have chosen to study or teach the Jewish texts. His humor and his great love of life, will be sorely missed by all his family and extended "family." May his memory be for a blessing. Jake is survived by his five children, Leah, Ethel (Tom), Pauline, Lawrence and Steven (Judy); and by his grandchildren, Tommy, Shayna, Bria, Allie, Jordan and Josh. Funeral Services will be held at 10:30 a.m. on Thursday, Nov. 5, 2009, at BETH ISRAEL CENTER, 1406 Mound St., Madison with Rabbi Joshua Ben Gideon officiating. Burial will follow at Forest Hill Cemetery. The family would suggest memorials be made to the Morris Heifetz Welfare Fund at the Beth Israel Center.
Cress Funeral and Cremation Service 3610 Speedway Road (608) 238-3434

SPECIAL SUPPLEMENT TO THE NEW YORK TIMES

Starman, 12, died Thursday October 15 in Boston, Massachusetts after being found comatose in his apartment in Cambridge. According to his family, the cause of death was kidney failure; he had deteriorated rapidly over the last two months.

Starman was known for his large size and his inquisitive and good-tempered personality. He tirelessly patrolled the front door, and supervised all visitors closely. Known for his extraordinary vocalization, he was able to engage his humans in conversation. Among his other achievements was the ability to leap onto any counter when running water, allowing a drink, was turned on. His penchant for unexplored water sources resulted in a number of upended or broken vases. He also showed unexpected precision in his movements, and while he put his entire head on the keyboard, he often was able to limit his keystrokes to CapsLock. He possessed extraordinary great big gentle soft paws.

He was first given the title of Great Cat by his human, Gary, who predeceased him. Afterwards, he worked with his housemate, Chicago, to support his residual human, Lynn, and he is widely credited with contributing to her survival. Since then he has received numerous accolades and honorary titles.

Because of his size, coloration, and disposition, it was rumored that his ancestry included a Labrador retriever. Although the claim was disputed, his ancestry remains a mystery.

His ceremony will be private. His ashes will be scattered one warm sunny day on the terrace, in his favorite sitting places. A portion of the ashes will be reserved for the daylilies and grasses known as “Starman salad” that have survived his quest for dietary supplements.

He is survived by his elder partner, Chicago, his human, Lynn, both of Cambridge, and another human, Jon, of Los Angeles.

He managed to purr one last time this morning as a final going away gift for his bereaved owner.

The Worst Pickup Line Ever

Last night I attended a screening near UCLA of “Inglorious Basterds” a film so tedious, boring and idiotic that halfway through the movie, my fingers began to reflexively Twitter Psalm 23 in Morse Code. I found this frightening, since I don't know Morse Code and have never Twittered anything in my life. I left the Westwood Theatre with fingers more arthritic than when I arrived several hours before.

Walking down the street, I noticed a couple in front of me on what obviously was a first date. How did I know this? The male was trying to hold the female’s hand; the female ever so politely kept jerking her hand away and trying to stick it in her mouth for protection.

I sped up my gait, for I love to hear the conversations of others -- especially those set up by Match.com or eHarmony. I stopped using Internet dating services when I discovered that profiling yourself as a man who loves going "Dutch" was more of a turn-off to women than posting on-line medical proof of non-erectile dysfunction.

The man, of normal height and build, was in his mid fifties. He was dressed as if he had just been kicked out of his house at 3 a.m. in the morning and forced to sleep in his car. The woman was rather attractive, though somewhat plump. She appeared to be in her late forties. She, at least, had spent some time looking through her wardrobe in preparation for this date. She was not wearing flip flops and professionally torn jeans.

This is as best as I can recall their post movie discussion:

MALE: I was really disappointed. I was expecting more blood and gore from Tarentino. This has got to be his lowest body count since "Reservoir Dogs." Did you see "Grindhouse?" Now that was fucking genius. I could tell you hated the movie. Your fidgeting was really annoying.

FEMALE: Damn straight I was fidgeting. Odd choice for our first movie, but I guess since you were paying, I had to go along. I haven’t seen any of his films. Now I know why: I find them too gory.

M: You just said you never saw any of his films so how do you know how gory they are?

F: I read the Internet Perry Mason.

M: Look I’ll make it up to you. I’ll buy you a Starbucks. You do still want to continue the date?

F: I’m a big girl.

M: You said it. I didn’t.

F: What?

M: Forget it.

F: You were a real charmer over the phone. You’ve been nothing but sarcastic and angry all evening. Did one of your ex-wives piss you off this afternoon? Were you like the high school clown?

M: At least I have a sense of humor. I'm a successful attorney, just like I said in my profile. You on the other hand left out a few key points. Like really important ones.

F: A successful attorney? From the way you're dressed, do all of your clients live on the beach with you? Tell me what I left out.

Here they stopped. Lucky for me I still had my Coke cup with me. I gulped down what was left, tossed out the ice, and then sat against the wall of Jerry’s Deli, holding out my cup for loose change. They did not notice me...just like my dates when I was actually going out with them.

M: Forget it. Let’s at least get some coffee. I'll buy.

F: Instead of that candlelight meal you promised over the phone? No, tell me what I left out of my profile.

M: The candlelight shit was going to be for the second date. I need some caffeine for the drive home. I'll tell you what you left out. That picture of yours is hardly current. What is it, like ten years old?

F: That picture was taken last summer in Jamaica when I actually was enjoying myself. Thank God you didn't volunteer to pick me up to see this fucking movie!

M: I live in Long Beach. You live in Northridge. Westwood is a convenient midway point. I use it all the time for these stupid get-togethers. I would drive up to Northridge if I saw any reason to do so tonight.

F: Are you fucking kidding me? Well there won’t be. You’ve been divorced how many times?

M: Let me tell you something. A woman your age should be happy any man pays any attention to her and is willing to try to use his junk to get her off.

F: Fuck you!

M: You only wish!

The woman stormed off. The guy turned around and walked past me muttering, “Fucking cow." Looking down at me, he said, "You’re lucky you’re homeless.”

He didn’t even drop any loose change in my cup.