Archive for Deborah Lipp

Flair

So I was out in the mall, and we stopped at Friday’s for a drink, and there’s a guy in the back with a weird tie-dye shirt. It’s catching my eye because it’s so weird, and I finally realize, he’s got a big rectangle of tie-dye stitched to the back of his Friday’s shirt. He’s wait staff or something, and he’s wearing a red Friday’s polo shirt, but the entire back, shoulders to waist, is this patch of tie-dye.

I can’t stop staring. It’s cheesy fake pre-printed tie-dye, with pre-printed peace signs on it. The guy has a big beard and looks kind of hippie-freaky, but this is sort of an appalling shirt. On the other hand, it’s a tie-dye uniform. I can’t stop staring. it’s just too weird.

My date is not as compelled by this as I am. He is perplexed that I am even interested in discussing it. It’s a tie-dye shirt, so what? But I can’t stop staring and I can’t figure out why it’s sewn to his work shirt.

Then I start looking around, and I notice that all the employees have customized their work shirts. One has a number on the back and a Yankee’s logo on the front, painstakingly done in fabric paint, and if I knew baseball I’m sure I’d recognize the number. One girl has an exquisite full-back rendering of Mighty Mouse, apparently in Sharpie. But one is kind of half-ass, indicating to me that this is some sort of requirement.

It’s flair. Fake individuality.

I actually checked Friday’s website, there’s nothing about this. It must be unique to this particular location.

The whole thing about “flair,” if you’ve seen Office Space, is that fake individuality is not individuality. Corporations co-opting your ability to express yourself is only an ugly reminder that you’re not really to express yourself.

And yet, the shirts are…really something.

Damn. I forgot trivia.

You guys must hate me. Checking back here all day, and finding nothing. I suck.

Okay, here’s a day-late starter, play amongst yourselves:


He tells the story of being embarrassed by an erection at a school age pool party.

Today’s movies all start with “F” (not counting “the” etc.).

Go!

Monday Movie Review: Murderball (rerun)

This is a re-run of a movie review I wrote two years ago. It’s a documentary; the kind for which Netflix exists—it has become one of my all-time favorite movies. I am just swamped today and have no time to write up any of the movies I saw this week. Sorry.

Murderball (2005) 9/10
Quad rugby (“murderball”) players are followed from the World Championships in 2002 to the Paralympics Games of 2004. Quad rugby, or wheelchair rugby, is played by quadriplegics in specially-adapted and reinforced chairs. (Documentary)

In the movies, people in wheelchairs are a finite number of things. They are tragic, uplifting, inspiring, angry, brave, hopeful, or heartwarming. In Murderball, they’re guys. (Women in wheelchairs are seen only peripherally in the film.) Specifically, they’re guys on a sports team. In fact, if you want to generalize, they’re more typical of what you may think about athletes than of what you may think about the disabled. They’re interested in playing hard, proving themselves, partying, and picking up girls. They pull pranks, they roughhouse, they boast. They’re guys.

In a way, I realized, this is an obvious and overlooked aspect of quadriplegia. Many such injuries are acquired in typically macho ways: Extreme sports, bar fights, pranks gone wrong, drunk driving, war. We see the way that the injured have to rebuild their self-image, and nothing makes more sense than that they rebuild the macho part as well.

The basic story follows two men. Mark Zupan is one of the stars of the U.S. quad rugby team. One day he was out partying and fell asleep, drunk, in the back of his friend’s pickup truck. Later his friend, driving drunk, and with no idea Mark was in the back, crashed the truck. Zupan was thrown sixty feet and hung onto a tree in a canal for thirteen hours until someone heard his cries for help. We meet his girlfriend, we attend his high school reunion, and ultimately, we meet the driver of the pickup truck.

Joe Soares had childhood polio. He was a star of the U.S. team for years. When he was cut from the team (a coach says simply that age slowed him down) he sued, unsuccessfully, to get back on. Now he coaches the Canadian team and the rivalry between his former and current teams runs deep. We meet Joe’s wife and his son. The younger Soares is interested in music and academics, not sports, which creates tension between the two.

We also meet a recently injured man, Keith, who is first learning to face his injury. We follow him from the early days of rehab, through a meeting with Zupan at a presentation on quad rugby, where Keith is excited by the freedom and strength he feels in the rugby chair.

Murderball is a masterful film. The editing seamlessly carries you through a huge range of facets of the lives of these men. Just writing this up made me realize how very much I’d seen. We are educated about spinal cord injury, we traverse family relationships, sexuality, competition, guilt, friendship, family, remorse, anger, and play. The competitions are exciting, there’s humor, there’s even heartwarming stuff. We are allowed to draw conclusions without being pushed.

The meeting with Keith brought up the eternal question about documentaries; who are the documentarians, and what are they doing? Clearly, the filmmakers arranged for Zupan to make a presentation where Keith would be present, but how did they pick Keith in particular? How did they decide he would ultimately be excited about quad rugby? Did they follow several recently injured people in the hopes that one of them would be? These are the sort of questions I wish documentaries in general would answer.

I hate Fanty

So the Gang of Two consists of Mingo and Fanty. Mingo has some annoying eccentricities, but is basically the ideal pet. Independent yet affectionate, he’s even a good mouser.

His sister, on the other hand, is here on earth to drive me mad. And she’s succeeding. She’s so nervous that if you walk near her she runs and hides, and yet so demanding that she will cry near your hand until you pet her, and cry whenever you stop, for hours. (But only your hand. She’s terrified of being picked up.)

Fanty has occasional seizures (I know, I know). Previously, they’d been every couple of months, but then she had three in four weeks, so we decided to medicate her. Problem is, she’s nervous, so I was very concerned about giving her pills. My vet gave me Pill Pockets. You put the pill inside the treat and squish it closed. The first one, she refused to eat, and I had to force it down her throat. The second one, she ran from me when she saw it, and forcing it down her throat was harder. Somehow, though, she realized they tasted good, and the next dose she ate readily when I left it on the floor by the spot where she comes to cry at my hand, and soon she was begging for them.

The problem is that I have to get Mingo out of the way because he doesn’t have seizures and shouldn’t have phenobarbital.

This morning it was complicated. Mingo was in the bedroom and Fanty was not. I couldn’t get Mingo out, and then Fanty went into the bathroom, and I thought ‘Fine, I’ll give it to her there’ and shut myself and a pill in with her, but she became upset and cried. So I opened the door, got Mingo out, and shut us into the bedroom.

But now she was already upset and just cried and cried and cried. I put the pill/treat on the floor on her spot and dangled my hand, but she was having none of it, and just kept crying. So I thought I’d ignore her so she could relax, and started fiddling with my cellphone.

At which point, she got up on my bed and let loose a long, angry stream of urine.

Peed.

On my bed.

Sort of “Welcome to Monday” writ large.

What a great day

I never left the house yesterday. I have been so busy, I don’t know the last time I had an un-booked-up weekend. It was glorious.

I did a great deal of writing on a new book, I did work for the Mad Men blog, I mopped the front hall, did laundry and dishes, watched a movie, played computer games, caught up on a couple of TV shows, shaved my legs, listened to music, prepared my Christmas list and organized the presents I’ve already bought, and did some cooking. Very productive, very relaxing, very exactly what I wanted.

It felt great. It felt like me owning my life.

By the way, anyone who emailed me on Thursday, all my mail went away. Just for about six hours in the middle of the day, anything that arrived then went poof.

What do you do with stickers?

This is a serious question. I’ve got a collection of very nice stickers. Some are political and came with acknowledgment of or solicitation for a donation. Some are artistic and came with purchase of an artsy-craftsy thingy. Some I dunno.

I’m not talking cute little things, I’m talking 2-3 inches across, square, round, or rectangular.

Do you make a collage? Paper the bathroom? Seal very large envelopes? I’m kind of at a loss. I like them and don’t want to throw them away but they seem to serve no actual purpose nor have a natural home.

Cadillac Records

I heard an advertisement on the radio today for Cadillac Records. It was an NPR spot, very dry and announcey. They said it was about Muddy Waters, Chuck Berry, and Etta James, starring Adrian Brody, Jeffrey Wright, and Beyoncé Knowles.

Yep. It’s about 3 black people, starring a white guy and 2 black people. Can your ears do a double-take?

I thought about it. The story of Leonard Chess is certainly interesting, but is it a way of getting white people to see a movie about black musicians? Didn’t white people see Dreamgirls?

I remember there was an article about Eva Mendes co-starring in Hitch. They didn’t want to give Will Smith a black romantic interest, because they didn’t want it to be ghettoized as a “black movie.” On the other hand, a white romantic interest could be controversial. Enter the beautiful Latina.

So that’s…unpleasant. And I have to ask myself, am I, a white person, less likely to see a “black movie”? And the truthful answer is, maybe. Not consciously, but I think when I’m looking at what’s playing, I might definitely eliminate non-white movies when I decide what I’m going to see. Which shows me how far we have to go. How not post-racism we are. Because I look at black movies as movies I won’t necessarily relate to, as if those are people too different from me for me to form a connection to them. (Which is why Cadillac Records or Dreamgirls are exceptions; I connect to the music.)

And it’s true. I know fewer black people than white people (even though some of the black people I know are my relatives). I connect less to the culture. I feel like a stranger. It shouldn’t be true, it’s wrong that it’s true, but it’s true.

Tuesday Trivia: Twenty Questions

You can ask twenty yes/no questions (one at a time) to find this movie. Winner can post the next movie.

Movies are posted with a starting letter and number of words. Starting letter does not count the, a, etc. Number of words does count the, a, etc.

All films are posted using their U.S. title.

My movie starts G and has 7 words in the title.

GO!

Monday Movie Review: 3:10 to Yuma (Compare & Contrast)

3:10 to Yuma (1957) 8/10
Rancher Dan Evans (Van Heflin) is on the edge of losing it all when outlaw Ben Wade (Glenn Ford) is captured. Desperate for money, Dan agrees to help escort Wade to the town of Contention, where he will be put on the 3:10 train to Yuma prison.

So, here’s an interesting thing: I saw the remake of this (and reviewed it), then saw the original, then saw the remake again. The 1957 original is considered a classic of the genre, and as my loyal readers know, I loved the remake. So I thought that, instead of a regular review, I would talk about the original in light of the remake.

The original movie does an interesting thing in its casting. Glenn Ford is a perennial good guy, handsome and always cast on the side of right. Van Heflin is generally a good guy as well, but more of a character actor, with a beaten face that can be open and kind, or very dark indeed. The first thought would be that Ford is playing Dan Evans here, but his sweetheart charm is perfect for Ben Wade. In fact, I was surprised to see how much the character was the same in the two films. I don’t know if Russell Crowe has seen the original, or if it was all in the script or the short story by Elmore Leonard or what, but the good-natured seductiveness of pure evil is all over both actors, and it works like crazy. The remake didn’t do this kind of tricky casting. Either man could have played either character; Christian Bale has already played both villains and heroes, and Crowe’s good guys generally have a poison within.

In both movies, Dan is a man looking for redemption. He is a failure, his ranch about to be repossessed. In the original, Dan is ashamed in front of his wife, while his children adore him. In the remake, his marriage is in better shape, if not exactly idyllic—it is his older son who disdains him. And having seen the remake, the gosh-golly adoration of those boys is irritating, but it leaves room for a very interesting marriage indeed. Dan and Alice (Leora Dana) are really working out something about respect and family, and, as Dan struggles to better himself in her eyes, ultimately it is Alice who must step up and help them both see it. In the remake, Dan’s relationship with his son is parallel to this, but how can I not appreciate a Western that gives a woman the kind of power that Alice Evans has?

Both films have intelligent plots, reflecting that the characters are intelligent people. The townfolk know that capturing Ben Wade is as much a problem as a boon, and they must outsmart his gang, and the Wade gang is very smart indeed. This leads to some clever machinations in transporting Wade.

The virtue of the 1957 film is in its tightness and simplicity. By contrast, the 2007 film makes a virtue of its sweep and action. It is an “opened up” film that succeeds in showing the West as a whole, whereas the original is interested in showing the Evans family’s little piece of it.

In the end, I like the remake better. A beautiful, modern Western is a thing to behold, and a rarity. In the canon of 1950s Westerns, the original is minor, if excellent. I can only suggest you see both.

In gratitude

Thanksgiving at its heart is gratitude for food on the table.

How easy to forget, if we are not farmers or animal herders, that this is not easy to achieve. If we are not too poor to buy food. How easy to forget that bounty is not for everyone, is not merely a matter of a very busy supermarket and days of preparation.

How easy to forget that the contentious and argumentative and really frickin irritating family you gather with is a family, a connection to the world and the knowledge you are not alone. That the crying babies are babies, life itself, the continuation of love in the world.

How easy to forget that the cessation of work is because there is work, and the harvest is achievement.

Let us not look inside ourselves and find gratitude. Instead, let us be grateful for that which is right in front of us.

Happy Thanksgiving.