Finally!
Today I took my young nephew to see The Dark Knight.
He made me promise not to see it without him, and this was the earliest opportunity we both had to go. Eleven-year-olds have busy schedules, after all...
I've been a Batmaniac since I was six, so my judgement is a little clouded, but I have to say that as long as I live (and I plan to live forever) there will never be a performance to match that of Heath Ledger as the Clown Prince of Crime.
The Joker was always insanely, and sometimes even casually, brutal - I recall a moment in one of the Rogers/Englehart stories (Detective Comics 475 - The Laughing Fish) in which a henchman, in order to get Joker to explain his plan to the reader, asks 'What are you going to do, Boss?'
Joker, putting a fatherly arm around the goon's shoulders, tells him 'I have another matter to attend to, Blue-eyes', before pushing the hapless henchman under the wheels of a passing truck with the comment 'Mind your own business!'
Ledger, in this performance, recalls this effortlessly. His Joker knows he's insane, he knows he's a psychopath - but, not alone does he not care, he positively embraces the fact. He sees Batman as his 'other side', his raison d'etre, and revels in the challenge of bringing both him and Gotham to their knees.
Not to take anything away from the rest of the cast - Christian Bale once more manages the dual role of Bruce Wayne/Batman with almost effortless ease, while Gary Oldman's Jim Gordon, a world-weary cop suddenly thrust into the top spot, is spot-on.
Maggie Gyllenhall, for me, was better in the role of Rachel Dawes than Katie Holmes, but that's a matter of taste.
Michael Caine's Alfred and Morgan Freeman's Lucius Fox (two actors who deserve Academy Awards by default) remain pivotal characters in the world of the Caped Crusader, as well as moral compasses for Bruce Wayne and Batman, respectively.
And then there's Aaron Eckhart as Harvey Dent.
A dynamic, righteous crusader for justice, new Gotham District Attorney Dent finds himself driven over the edge when brutally scarred in his pursuit of the Joker. Eckhart brings a credible pathos to the role most recently camped up by Tommy Lee Jones in Batman Forever. I hope we'll be seeing him again...
Michael Caine, when asked to comment on the possibility of an Oscar nod to Ledger in next year's awards is reported as saying that if there's a better performance than this in a movie this year, he'd pay money to see it.
I concur.
I bet my nephew does as well...
Sunday, 27 July 2008
Wednesday, 23 July 2008
Right Now, I'm Listening To...
...Some of the finest jazz I've heard in a while.
It's from a station in San Mateo, Ca., called KCSM Jazz 91, broadcasting on FM and the Web 24 hours a day.
What with the time difference, I'm listening to last night's 'Evening Jazz' programme, presented, if the schedule is correct, by Wolf.
Jazz lovers could do worse than give them a listen - go to the home page and click 'Listen Live'.
Works for me...
It's from a station in San Mateo, Ca., called KCSM Jazz 91, broadcasting on FM and the Web 24 hours a day.
What with the time difference, I'm listening to last night's 'Evening Jazz' programme, presented, if the schedule is correct, by Wolf.
Jazz lovers could do worse than give them a listen - go to the home page and click 'Listen Live'.
Works for me...
Monday, 21 July 2008
A Movie For Every Year - The 60s...
So there's this meme going about, where you have to tell everyone how old you are by listing a movie for every year you've been alive. A lot of people have picked up on it, so I thought,
"Why not?"
As an intergalactic hero of some longevity, however, my list will perforce be a bit longer than other peoples'. Sorry about that...
Anyhow, on to the list - I'll have multiple entries per year because there's so much to work with and I have many personal favourites, but I'll try and keep the comments brief. Oh, and I've taken the liberty of adding a movie here and there that doesn't show up on Wikipedia's lists. I trust you'll forgive my impertinence.
And on we go - the 1960s...
1963 (yes, all right, I know...)
Charade: Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in Paris, with murder and intrigue thrown in. Never gets old.
From Russia With Love: Connery getting into the role of Bond, although, like a new pair of shoes, it takes time to get comfortable.
1964
The Fall of the Roman Empire: Stephen Boyd, Christopher Plummer and Sophia Loren, with Alec Guinness as Marcus Aurelius, in an underappreciated (for its time) depiction of the beginning of the end of empire.
A Shot In The Dark: Peter Sellers in his second (and best) outing as the inimitable Clouseau.
A Fistful of Dollars: The debut of 'The Man With No Name' in which Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood turned the Western on its head. All over an insult to a mule.
1965
The Flight of The Phoenix: James Stewart et al in a tale of plane-crash survivors in the desert. The part where they realise Hardy Kruger's character is a designer of 'toy' airplanes is excellent...
The Great Race: Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood and Peter Falk in Blake Edwards's tribute to the great slapstick comedies of early cinema. Dedicated 'To Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy', it remains one of my favourites today.
For A Few Dollars More: The Man with No Name again, this time as a bounty hunter who teams up with Lee Van Cleef's Col. Mortimer to track down the ruthless, musical-watch wielding bandit El Indio (Gian Maria Volonté). The final showdown between Mortimer and Indio is iconic.
The Ipcress File: On TV only last Saturday night, Len Deighton's spy is worlds removed from Ian Fleming's creation, but nonetheless fascinating for all that.
The Spy Who Came In From The Cold: Richard Burton in John le Carré's tale of a washed-up spy who takes one final assignment before retiring. Filmed on location in Ireland, parts of Dublin were used to stand in for Berlin. One location, seen at the end of the picture, remains largely unchanged today.
Thunderball: Connery's best outing as 007. I think you get the point.
Von Ryan's Express: We used to see this in school when they had movies after classes in the gym on a Wednesday. Excellent stuff, and every time I watch it I think Ryan might actually make it to the train...
1966
Batman: Holy Blockbuster! Would've been better if Julie Newmar had been available for Catwoman, though Lee Meriwether was every bit as - feline...
The Blue Max: Another movie shot here - my dad says the planes would fly over our house on their way to and from shooting, but I was too young to remember. Dublin once again fills in for Berlin, with Trinity College as the German High Command.
Our Man Flint: Derek Flint making James Bond look like an amateur.
Texas Across The River: I saw this comedy Western once on TV when I was a kid, and one thing stuck with me - Peter Graves's performance as inept US Cavalry Capt. Rodney Stimpson, who'd give the command "Ah-roor Haar!" and charge off, leaving his men scratching their heads and wondering what he meant.
Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree: 'I'm just a little black rain-cloud...' Should be required viewing by everyone. Just because.
1967
The Dirty Dozen: As with the later M*A*S*H, there's more to Robert Aldrich's film than just a war story. Private Donald Sutherland pretending to be a general and reviewing Col. Robert Ryan's troops was a nice comic moment though, as was Ryan's reaction.
El Dorado: I've always preferred this to Rio Bravo, although it's a lesser movie in many ways. Robert Mitchum wasn't as good at playing the washed-up sheriff as Dean Martin, Arthur Hunnicutt wasn't as 'plumb ornery' as Walter Brennan, but somehow it worked for me.
Hour of the Gun: John Sturges' follow-up/remake of the Wyatt Earp/Doc Holliday story, starring James Garner and Jason Robards. Far superior to his earlier Gunfight at the OK Corral, and more historically accurate.
In Like Flint: Our man again, saving the world single-handed during his coffee break.
In the Heat of the Night: Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger - there should have been two Oscars.
The Jungle Book: The first movie I was ever brought to see as a child. Baloo was my hero, and King Louie introduced me to Jazz.
1968
2001: A Space Odyssey: A remarkable film. I usually wake up before the first dialogue is spoken, the early, prehistoric sequence boring me insensible, but the rest of the movie is a masterpiece. I don't get what the big deal is about Stanley Kubrick - this and Full Metal Jacket are the only movies of his I can watch...
Barbarella: The 41st Century isn't going to look like that, by the way. Just, y'know, FYI...
Bullitt: Should be on everyone's list. Cool cast, cool cars, San Francisco and Lalo Schifrin's cool sounds - let's just go with 'Cool' and leave it at that.
Danger: Diabolik - BBC2 used to show European movies in a late-night slot at weekends when I was but a teenaged sidekick, and this was one of them. I found the DVD while in Berlin and watched the movie for only the second time in maybe thirty years... Bizarre, but great fun.
Once Upon A Time In The West: Evil Henry Fonda? Only Sergio Leone could make that work, and this is his masterpiece.
Planet of the Apes: A brilliant ending – I never saw it coming. Granted, I was about 10 the first time I saw it, but hey…
The Producers: Ah, Zero Mostel… “Did you bring the checkie? Can’t produce plays without checkies…”
The Shoes of the Fisherman: A Pope from behind the Iron Curtain – good idea, but who’d believe it? I bet John Paul II took lessons from Anthony Quinn’s portrayal, though…
The Thomas Crown Affair: More coolness – Steve McQueen (the Samuel L. Jackson of his day), Faye Dunaway, chess, Michel Legrand's score, Windmills of Your Mind…
Where Eagles Dare: One of the best Alastair MacLean adaptations since Guns of Navarone, and the first movie I was let go to see unaccompanied by a grownup. In the city. By bus.
1969
The Italian Job: “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” Late Sixties football metaphor :), England looking good, only to lose in extra time. Not to worry though; they got their own back in Escape to Victory...
OHMSS: “This never happened to the other fellow.” One of my favourite Bond movies. Lazenby wasn't bad as 007, being, as Terry Pratchett might say, 'hero-shaped'. I wonder what Diamonds Are Forever might have been like with him instead of 'the other fellow'...
True Grit: “Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!” John Wayne in one of his finest roles, supported by a fine cast, including Strother Martin as the beleaguered horse dealer...
That's it for the Sixties - tune in next time and see what I liked in the decade that was the 1970s...
"Why not?"
As an intergalactic hero of some longevity, however, my list will perforce be a bit longer than other peoples'. Sorry about that...
Anyhow, on to the list - I'll have multiple entries per year because there's so much to work with and I have many personal favourites, but I'll try and keep the comments brief. Oh, and I've taken the liberty of adding a movie here and there that doesn't show up on Wikipedia's lists. I trust you'll forgive my impertinence.
And on we go - the 1960s...
1963 (yes, all right, I know...)
Charade: Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn in Paris, with murder and intrigue thrown in. Never gets old.
From Russia With Love: Connery getting into the role of Bond, although, like a new pair of shoes, it takes time to get comfortable.
1964
The Fall of the Roman Empire: Stephen Boyd, Christopher Plummer and Sophia Loren, with Alec Guinness as Marcus Aurelius, in an underappreciated (for its time) depiction of the beginning of the end of empire.
A Shot In The Dark: Peter Sellers in his second (and best) outing as the inimitable Clouseau.
A Fistful of Dollars: The debut of 'The Man With No Name' in which Sergio Leone and Clint Eastwood turned the Western on its head. All over an insult to a mule.
1965
The Flight of The Phoenix: James Stewart et al in a tale of plane-crash survivors in the desert. The part where they realise Hardy Kruger's character is a designer of 'toy' airplanes is excellent...
The Great Race: Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood and Peter Falk in Blake Edwards's tribute to the great slapstick comedies of early cinema. Dedicated 'To Mr. Laurel and Mr. Hardy', it remains one of my favourites today.
For A Few Dollars More: The Man with No Name again, this time as a bounty hunter who teams up with Lee Van Cleef's Col. Mortimer to track down the ruthless, musical-watch wielding bandit El Indio (Gian Maria Volonté). The final showdown between Mortimer and Indio is iconic.
The Ipcress File: On TV only last Saturday night, Len Deighton's spy is worlds removed from Ian Fleming's creation, but nonetheless fascinating for all that.
The Spy Who Came In From The Cold: Richard Burton in John le Carré's tale of a washed-up spy who takes one final assignment before retiring. Filmed on location in Ireland, parts of Dublin were used to stand in for Berlin. One location, seen at the end of the picture, remains largely unchanged today.
Thunderball: Connery's best outing as 007. I think you get the point.
Von Ryan's Express: We used to see this in school when they had movies after classes in the gym on a Wednesday. Excellent stuff, and every time I watch it I think Ryan might actually make it to the train...
1966
Batman: Holy Blockbuster! Would've been better if Julie Newmar had been available for Catwoman, though Lee Meriwether was every bit as - feline...
The Blue Max: Another movie shot here - my dad says the planes would fly over our house on their way to and from shooting, but I was too young to remember. Dublin once again fills in for Berlin, with Trinity College as the German High Command.
Our Man Flint: Derek Flint making James Bond look like an amateur.
Texas Across The River: I saw this comedy Western once on TV when I was a kid, and one thing stuck with me - Peter Graves's performance as inept US Cavalry Capt. Rodney Stimpson, who'd give the command "Ah-roor Haar!" and charge off, leaving his men scratching their heads and wondering what he meant.
Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree: 'I'm just a little black rain-cloud...' Should be required viewing by everyone. Just because.
1967
The Dirty Dozen: As with the later M*A*S*H, there's more to Robert Aldrich's film than just a war story. Private Donald Sutherland pretending to be a general and reviewing Col. Robert Ryan's troops was a nice comic moment though, as was Ryan's reaction.
El Dorado: I've always preferred this to Rio Bravo, although it's a lesser movie in many ways. Robert Mitchum wasn't as good at playing the washed-up sheriff as Dean Martin, Arthur Hunnicutt wasn't as 'plumb ornery' as Walter Brennan, but somehow it worked for me.
Hour of the Gun: John Sturges' follow-up/remake of the Wyatt Earp/Doc Holliday story, starring James Garner and Jason Robards. Far superior to his earlier Gunfight at the OK Corral, and more historically accurate.
In Like Flint: Our man again, saving the world single-handed during his coffee break.
In the Heat of the Night: Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger - there should have been two Oscars.
The Jungle Book: The first movie I was ever brought to see as a child. Baloo was my hero, and King Louie introduced me to Jazz.
1968
2001: A Space Odyssey: A remarkable film. I usually wake up before the first dialogue is spoken, the early, prehistoric sequence boring me insensible, but the rest of the movie is a masterpiece. I don't get what the big deal is about Stanley Kubrick - this and Full Metal Jacket are the only movies of his I can watch...
Barbarella: The 41st Century isn't going to look like that, by the way. Just, y'know, FYI...
Bullitt: Should be on everyone's list. Cool cast, cool cars, San Francisco and Lalo Schifrin's cool sounds - let's just go with 'Cool' and leave it at that.
Danger: Diabolik - BBC2 used to show European movies in a late-night slot at weekends when I was but a teenaged sidekick, and this was one of them. I found the DVD while in Berlin and watched the movie for only the second time in maybe thirty years... Bizarre, but great fun.
Once Upon A Time In The West: Evil Henry Fonda? Only Sergio Leone could make that work, and this is his masterpiece.
Planet of the Apes: A brilliant ending – I never saw it coming. Granted, I was about 10 the first time I saw it, but hey…
The Producers: Ah, Zero Mostel… “Did you bring the checkie? Can’t produce plays without checkies…”
The Shoes of the Fisherman: A Pope from behind the Iron Curtain – good idea, but who’d believe it? I bet John Paul II took lessons from Anthony Quinn’s portrayal, though…
The Thomas Crown Affair: More coolness – Steve McQueen (the Samuel L. Jackson of his day), Faye Dunaway, chess, Michel Legrand's score, Windmills of Your Mind…
Where Eagles Dare: One of the best Alastair MacLean adaptations since Guns of Navarone, and the first movie I was let go to see unaccompanied by a grownup. In the city. By bus.
1969
The Italian Job: “You’re only supposed to blow the bloody doors off!” Late Sixties football metaphor :), England looking good, only to lose in extra time. Not to worry though; they got their own back in Escape to Victory...
OHMSS: “This never happened to the other fellow.” One of my favourite Bond movies. Lazenby wasn't bad as 007, being, as Terry Pratchett might say, 'hero-shaped'. I wonder what Diamonds Are Forever might have been like with him instead of 'the other fellow'...
True Grit: “Fill your hand, you son of a bitch!” John Wayne in one of his finest roles, supported by a fine cast, including Strother Martin as the beleaguered horse dealer...
That's it for the Sixties - tune in next time and see what I liked in the decade that was the 1970s...
Wednesday, 9 July 2008
Ah, Life's Rich Panoply...
I've had a lot going on this last couple of weeks, both workwise and otherwise, so I haven't had much time for the ol' blog lately.
But, as an aspiring writer and trained observer, I've been taking notes of incidents and people in day-to-day situations, sort of like David Attenborough (one of whose documentaries I'm watching at this very moment) only with humans.
The David Attenborough thing, in case you're interested, is about tigers.
But anyhow, given my recent experience and the reaction of certain individuals, it occurred to me that there are a million stories in the naked (well, t-shirt and shorts-wearing) city, and so here's a few of them.
Phoneboy:
There's a coffee shop across the street from where I work. It's a takeout place - you put in your order at the door and pay, then move down the line and collect it, do what you want to it and leave.
It's a simple but lucrative operation; the coffee is excellent, costs less than Starbucks and, because Butler's (that's the name) runs it as a sideline to their even more-lucrative chocolate-making business, the price includes a chocolate of your choice to enjoy with your coffee - as you can imagine, it's a popular stop for people on their way to work.
Anyhow, I got there one morning last week and there was this guy in the queue ahead of me. Mid-forties, tall, someone else's hair, he wore a beige (who invented that, anyway? It's not even a real colour...) suit, expensive-looking if I'm any judge, and had a phone jammed in his ear.
The girl in front of him ordered her coffee and took a little more time than he liked picking out her chocolate - he hopped from one foot to the other while he talked to the person on the other end of the phone about where he saw the project timetable going.
The barista, a quiet young woman, handed the customer her chocolate and turned to Phoneboy. This is how it went:
Phoneboy: "And the projections - Capuccino - have to be in by Friday or else."
Barista: "-" No chance to say anything as Phoneboy throws (really!) coins on the counter. No 'please', no hand-to-hand transfer of money, no acknowledgment of her existence. She rings up the sale, makes change and gestures towards an array of chocolate that would - well, let's just say it's impressive and leave it at that.
Phoneboy, annoyed at being interrupted, glares and makes a dismissing gesture so sharply it has a sound effect (Col. Rhombus saluting, 'Spies Like Us'). Do we hate this guy yet?
But back to our story.
I get to the counter, bid Magda a 'Good morning', ask for an Americano, politely decline (I'm lactose-intolerant) chocolate, hand over my money and move along.
Phoneboy's talking about cost-benefit analyses or something and I wonder whether he knows his stupid voice is carrying.
The girl in front of him gets her low-fat latté, puts the lid on, says 'Thank you' and leaves. Phoneboy moves to the front of the queue and waits, still talking. It's about five to seven minutes since I walked in and he's scarcely taken a breath.
Anyway, a cup is placed on the counter.
"Capuccino?" calls the barista, looking around for the owner. No reaction from Phoneboy, and I'm damned if I'm gonna help him out.
"Capuccino," the barista calls a second time. Nothing.
A girl in the queue behind me pipes up.
"I ordered a capuccino," she smiles. I step aside and let her through. Phoneboy's talking about quarterly projections now. Capuccino Girl fixes her coffee the way she wants it and leaves.
"Americano?"
"That'll be mine," I grin, taking it and stepping past Phoneboy, for whom the penny is about to drop. I thank her, pick it up, go through the ritual, and start to leave.
"Hot chocolate, marshmallows?"
"Er, I ordered a capuccino?" says Phoneboy, suddenly realising he's missed his call.
I'm laughing as I leave...
The tigers are having great fun. They're four months old and still playing, innocent of the real world. One of them looks like Calvin's best friend Hobbes. They're trying to hunt a deer, but they haven't the first clue how to. Tigers 0, Deer 1.
K/Carl:
So I'm on the bus, heading for my writing class, when this guy sits in the seat behind me. He takes out a phone and calls someone.
This is his side of the conversation:
"It's me, yeah?"
"No, I got a call from Karen today - she wants the job, she just doesn't want to take phone calls from the public - at all."
"Yeah, I know it's weird, yeah? But she wants a perfect job, y'know?"
"No, I'm going to a wedding next Saturday with herself, yeah? I wanted to go to the Leinster match, but you know how it is."
"Yeah - I could probably slip away for a couple of hours and not be noticed..."
"No, you're probably right - that's one of the things I really like about me - I'm so easy to get along with."
"Yeah right, see ya..."
Okay, that's just bizarre.
The tigers are about a year old now and really learning to hunt - there's gonna be some - yep, there goes a gazelle...
Dogboy:
I went with my nephew to the video store to return his rentals and pick out a new movie. He decides on 'The Golden Compass' and we get in line to pay.
There's a man behind us with his two-year-old daughter, and an unshaven, fortyish guy wearing sandals ahead of us at the counter with some sort of Corgi cross-breed on an elastic leash. The dog seems amiable enough and sniffs around, but frightens the infant and jumps up, wanting to play.
Daddy asks Dogboy to restrain the dog. Dogboy says the dog means no harm and lets it run about.
Daddy: "But dogs aren't allowed in here and it's frightening my daughter."
Dogboy (smugly): "I've been coming here for ages and there's been no trouble."
Daddy: "That's not the point. Restrain your dog, please."
Dogboy: "Why don't you just grow a pair, you emasculated pussy? You don't know who you're talking to, maybe you should watch what you're saying to me."
Silence.
Dogboy: "You've probably been in an apron so long you don't know what it's like to be a man."
Silence.
Dogboy: "What has she, got your balls in a vice?"
General silence, until the video store clerk, confused and visibly shocked by the display, offers
"Now now, there's no call for that sort of thing..."
Dogboy: "Well then, you can take your videos and stick them where the sun don't shine!"
And he slams the DVDs (can't help wondering what they were) on the counter, takes his creature and leaves, mumbling to himself...
One of the tigers, by the way, has brought down his first deer (helped by Mom), and wants to keep it for himself.
Mom forces him to share with the other kids, though, so that's okay.
Life, eh?
But, as an aspiring writer and trained observer, I've been taking notes of incidents and people in day-to-day situations, sort of like David Attenborough (one of whose documentaries I'm watching at this very moment) only with humans.
The David Attenborough thing, in case you're interested, is about tigers.
But anyhow, given my recent experience and the reaction of certain individuals, it occurred to me that there are a million stories in the naked (well, t-shirt and shorts-wearing) city, and so here's a few of them.
Phoneboy:
There's a coffee shop across the street from where I work. It's a takeout place - you put in your order at the door and pay, then move down the line and collect it, do what you want to it and leave.
It's a simple but lucrative operation; the coffee is excellent, costs less than Starbucks and, because Butler's (that's the name) runs it as a sideline to their even more-lucrative chocolate-making business, the price includes a chocolate of your choice to enjoy with your coffee - as you can imagine, it's a popular stop for people on their way to work.
Anyhow, I got there one morning last week and there was this guy in the queue ahead of me. Mid-forties, tall, someone else's hair, he wore a beige (who invented that, anyway? It's not even a real colour...) suit, expensive-looking if I'm any judge, and had a phone jammed in his ear.
The girl in front of him ordered her coffee and took a little more time than he liked picking out her chocolate - he hopped from one foot to the other while he talked to the person on the other end of the phone about where he saw the project timetable going.
The barista, a quiet young woman, handed the customer her chocolate and turned to Phoneboy. This is how it went:
Phoneboy: "And the projections - Capuccino - have to be in by Friday or else."
Barista: "-" No chance to say anything as Phoneboy throws (really!) coins on the counter. No 'please', no hand-to-hand transfer of money, no acknowledgment of her existence. She rings up the sale, makes change and gestures towards an array of chocolate that would - well, let's just say it's impressive and leave it at that.
Phoneboy, annoyed at being interrupted, glares and makes a dismissing gesture so sharply it has a sound effect (Col. Rhombus saluting, 'Spies Like Us'). Do we hate this guy yet?
But back to our story.
I get to the counter, bid Magda a 'Good morning', ask for an Americano, politely decline (I'm lactose-intolerant) chocolate, hand over my money and move along.
Phoneboy's talking about cost-benefit analyses or something and I wonder whether he knows his stupid voice is carrying.
The girl in front of him gets her low-fat latté, puts the lid on, says 'Thank you' and leaves. Phoneboy moves to the front of the queue and waits, still talking. It's about five to seven minutes since I walked in and he's scarcely taken a breath.
Anyway, a cup is placed on the counter.
"Capuccino?" calls the barista, looking around for the owner. No reaction from Phoneboy, and I'm damned if I'm gonna help him out.
"Capuccino," the barista calls a second time. Nothing.
A girl in the queue behind me pipes up.
"I ordered a capuccino," she smiles. I step aside and let her through. Phoneboy's talking about quarterly projections now. Capuccino Girl fixes her coffee the way she wants it and leaves.
"Americano?"
"That'll be mine," I grin, taking it and stepping past Phoneboy, for whom the penny is about to drop. I thank her, pick it up, go through the ritual, and start to leave.
"Hot chocolate, marshmallows?"
"Er, I ordered a capuccino?" says Phoneboy, suddenly realising he's missed his call.
I'm laughing as I leave...
The tigers are having great fun. They're four months old and still playing, innocent of the real world. One of them looks like Calvin's best friend Hobbes. They're trying to hunt a deer, but they haven't the first clue how to. Tigers 0, Deer 1.
K/Carl:
So I'm on the bus, heading for my writing class, when this guy sits in the seat behind me. He takes out a phone and calls someone.
This is his side of the conversation:
"It's me, yeah?"
"No, I got a call from Karen today - she wants the job, she just doesn't want to take phone calls from the public - at all."
"Yeah, I know it's weird, yeah? But she wants a perfect job, y'know?"
"No, I'm going to a wedding next Saturday with herself, yeah? I wanted to go to the Leinster match, but you know how it is."
"Yeah - I could probably slip away for a couple of hours and not be noticed..."
"No, you're probably right - that's one of the things I really like about me - I'm so easy to get along with."
"Yeah right, see ya..."
Okay, that's just bizarre.
The tigers are about a year old now and really learning to hunt - there's gonna be some - yep, there goes a gazelle...
Dogboy:
I went with my nephew to the video store to return his rentals and pick out a new movie. He decides on 'The Golden Compass' and we get in line to pay.
There's a man behind us with his two-year-old daughter, and an unshaven, fortyish guy wearing sandals ahead of us at the counter with some sort of Corgi cross-breed on an elastic leash. The dog seems amiable enough and sniffs around, but frightens the infant and jumps up, wanting to play.
Daddy asks Dogboy to restrain the dog. Dogboy says the dog means no harm and lets it run about.
Daddy: "But dogs aren't allowed in here and it's frightening my daughter."
Dogboy (smugly): "I've been coming here for ages and there's been no trouble."
Daddy: "That's not the point. Restrain your dog, please."
Dogboy: "Why don't you just grow a pair, you emasculated pussy? You don't know who you're talking to, maybe you should watch what you're saying to me."
Silence.
Dogboy: "You've probably been in an apron so long you don't know what it's like to be a man."
Silence.
Dogboy: "What has she, got your balls in a vice?"
General silence, until the video store clerk, confused and visibly shocked by the display, offers
"Now now, there's no call for that sort of thing..."
Dogboy: "Well then, you can take your videos and stick them where the sun don't shine!"
And he slams the DVDs (can't help wondering what they were) on the counter, takes his creature and leaves, mumbling to himself...
One of the tigers, by the way, has brought down his first deer (helped by Mom), and wants to keep it for himself.
Mom forces him to share with the other kids, though, so that's okay.
Life, eh?
Saturday, 28 June 2008
Not So Mighty...
I'm feeling a little less mighty this weekend.
The other night, I woke up to find myself in the hallway outside my apartment, barefoot and wearing only t-shirt and shorts, and locked out.
I haven't walked in my sleep since I was five, and it scared the hell out of me.
Apartment life being relatively anonymous, I don't know any of my neighbours well enough to go banging on their door at three in the morning, so I wandered around the building to see if anyone else was about.
I encountered one couple, coming home from somewhere, explained my situation and asked if I could use their phone to call my father, who keeps a spare set of keys at his house. They declined to assist. Disappointing.
Returning to my floor, I decided the only thing I could do was to try and get some sleep.
There's a security patrol that's supposed to come through the building three times a night; I figured the patrolman would help me get sorted, so I sat in front of my door waiting for him to arrive, nodding off after a while.
When he did arrive, the conversation went like this:
Security Guy: "You okay?"
Me: "What? Yeah, I think so."
Him: "What happened?"
Me: "I think I was sleepwalking. I woke up out here and I can't get back in. Can I use your phone to call my father? He has a spare key."
Him: "I don't have a phone, sorry. Have a good night."
And off he went, leaving me there. Bastard.
As far as I know, that was his only patrol that night, because I didn't see him again.
Time passed, and as the sun came up, the building began to come to life. It seemed everyone sets their alarm for 0700, because I was hearing beeps and buzzes coming from several apartments. Finally, at about 0730, the door across the hall opened and my neighbour came out on his way to work. I explained what had happened and he was only too happy to lend me his phone.
I managed to call my dad, who got across town in record time with my keys (and a big grin on his face) and I was never so happy to see anyone in my life.
He joked that I'd have to get another key made and wear it on a chain around my neck. That scared me as much as having spent the night in the hallway. What if I do it again?
As far as I know, there's no history of this kind of thing in my family, and my previous nocturnal perambulation happened nearly forty years ago, so I'm hoping it's a one-off.
I stayed out of work Friday, exhausted, and slept from the time my father left until about lunchtime.
It's the closest to being homeless that I can imagine - it's a sobering thought to consider that only an inch and a half of door separated me from warmth and security, and I was helpless to do anything about it.
The reactions of people I approached for assistance also surprised me. I've always believed that people are basically decent and will come to the aid of a neighbour without needing to be asked.
Maybe I'm just naive, but I'd like to be able to keep believing that...
The other night, I woke up to find myself in the hallway outside my apartment, barefoot and wearing only t-shirt and shorts, and locked out.
I haven't walked in my sleep since I was five, and it scared the hell out of me.
Apartment life being relatively anonymous, I don't know any of my neighbours well enough to go banging on their door at three in the morning, so I wandered around the building to see if anyone else was about.
I encountered one couple, coming home from somewhere, explained my situation and asked if I could use their phone to call my father, who keeps a spare set of keys at his house. They declined to assist. Disappointing.
Returning to my floor, I decided the only thing I could do was to try and get some sleep.
There's a security patrol that's supposed to come through the building three times a night; I figured the patrolman would help me get sorted, so I sat in front of my door waiting for him to arrive, nodding off after a while.
When he did arrive, the conversation went like this:
Security Guy: "You okay?"
Me: "What? Yeah, I think so."
Him: "What happened?"
Me: "I think I was sleepwalking. I woke up out here and I can't get back in. Can I use your phone to call my father? He has a spare key."
Him: "I don't have a phone, sorry. Have a good night."
And off he went, leaving me there. Bastard.
As far as I know, that was his only patrol that night, because I didn't see him again.
Time passed, and as the sun came up, the building began to come to life. It seemed everyone sets their alarm for 0700, because I was hearing beeps and buzzes coming from several apartments. Finally, at about 0730, the door across the hall opened and my neighbour came out on his way to work. I explained what had happened and he was only too happy to lend me his phone.
I managed to call my dad, who got across town in record time with my keys (and a big grin on his face) and I was never so happy to see anyone in my life.
He joked that I'd have to get another key made and wear it on a chain around my neck. That scared me as much as having spent the night in the hallway. What if I do it again?
As far as I know, there's no history of this kind of thing in my family, and my previous nocturnal perambulation happened nearly forty years ago, so I'm hoping it's a one-off.
I stayed out of work Friday, exhausted, and slept from the time my father left until about lunchtime.
It's the closest to being homeless that I can imagine - it's a sobering thought to consider that only an inch and a half of door separated me from warmth and security, and I was helpless to do anything about it.
The reactions of people I approached for assistance also surprised me. I've always believed that people are basically decent and will come to the aid of a neighbour without needing to be asked.
Maybe I'm just naive, but I'd like to be able to keep believing that...
Monday, 23 June 2008
Thursday, 5 June 2008
Sometimes, I Wish I Spoke German...
...because that way I'd have a better chance at fully appreciating this site:
Batman - The Dark Knight in 3D
The site is the work of a guy by the name of Achim Loobes, and he - well, here's an example:
Check it out.
Und wilkommen in Gotham...
Batman - The Dark Knight in 3D
The site is the work of a guy by the name of Achim Loobes, and he - well, here's an example:
Check it out.
Und wilkommen in Gotham...
Sunday, 25 May 2008
There Now Follows An Announcement...
My sister Ray's back on the blogosphere after an absence more extended than any of mine - I told her I'd spread the word...
Another job done, another day saved - am I incredible or what?
Er, yes...
Another job done, another day saved - am I incredible or what?
Er, yes...
Friday, 23 May 2008
Splotchy's Story Virus II - The Relapse...
Regular readers may remember a project undertaken some time ago by Splotchy to create a 'viral story'. Irregular readers may not.
The premise, for the uninitiated, and in the creator's own words, is this:
"...Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours."
The story begins thusly:
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
(Splotchy)
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read. (Bubs)
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn't read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn't about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer's card -- "Tom Ely" -- how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number's area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
"Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call..."
I didn't recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn't pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy again)
The pressures of today's economy. Flight cancelled. Airline out-of-business. Three months ago. Something was out of sorts, here. Why would someone send me a ticket on a defunct airline? I was starting to feel exposed, out in the open, like prey in a valley.
First order of business was to hit the head. I needed to collect myself and not draw attention. I forced myself to walk, even with the hairs on the back of my neck bristling, uncertain if, even now, someone was following. Had I walked into some kind of trap?
The men's room door opened just a little too quickly, the screws loosened from constant use. That sticky smell hit me as that horrible men's room air shot into my nose.
Something was wrong.
I felt heavy and thick, and saw the world go askew. I was off balance before it even registered that something hard had been jabbed into the back of my neck. I put my hand against the wall to stop myself, but the back of my head exploded in pain, I saw a flash of light, and then nothing.
(SamuraiFrog)
When I came to, I was no longer in the men's room; I was in the back of a moving vehicle, a walk-through panel truck - a delivery van, perhaps. My feet were free, but my hands were bound securely behind my back. Care had been taken not to cut off my circulation, so whoever it was knew what he was doing.
"Hey!" I yelled to the two men in the cab. The passenger looked back at me, his face impassive under a Denver Broncos cap that was a size too small for his head.
"No talking." He turned forward again, saying something in a language I didn't understand to the driver.
"Where are we going?" I said, struggling to a sitting position. I tested the ropes binding my wrists, but my name not being Houdini, there was no way I was going to undo them. When I looked up, Broncos Cap was staring at me again. So was the business end of a 9mm automatic.
"I said for no talking."
I decided he might have a point, and sat back to enjoy the ride and wonder about where I was being delivered...
**************
What will happen next?
Perhaps (if not already tagged, or even if) Arjan, The Imaginary Reviewer, PJ and Ray might care to continue...
The premise, for the uninitiated, and in the creator's own words, is this:
"...Here's what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don't know how realistic it is, but that's what I'm aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it's okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that's five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours."
The story begins thusly:
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words.
(Splotchy)
I looked up and down the street but didn’t see any delivery truck, or any car for that matter. No FedEx, no UPS , no creepy-looking porno'd-out conversion van with a half-assed delivery service sign taped to its side. Nothing. It's like delivery man just disappeared. I stepped back inside, re-set the deadbolts and took a closer look at the envelope.
Mentally I ran through the checklist of letter bomb warning signs. The handwriting on the envelope, smudged and cramped as it was, was laid out in a tiny, obsessively neat block lettering. It practically screamed recently-de-institutionalized loner with time on his hands. No ticking or whirring sounds, that’s good. No odd smells, no leaks or stains on the package. Check. Weight seemed evenly distributed, that’s good too. I decided to open it.
Inside I found a plane ticket to Pensacola, a business card for a lawyer in Niceville, five crisp $100 bills and a four page handwritten note. Well. This was different. I poured a cup of coffee, threw some meat to the dogs to stop em barking, and sat down to read. (Bubs)
The handwriting of the letter was different than the envelope. It was more rushed, erratic. And it was all in Russian. I could speak a little Russian because of the company I used to keep, but couldn't read it to save my life. I knew some people that could translate for me, but I wasn't about to see them again. Or did one of them write the note? Was it Dimitri the Finger? Petrov? Ivankovich?
I looked at the lawyer's card -- "Tom Ely" -- how whitebread, how American. The address said Niceville, but the phone number's area code was New Jersey. I dialed and waited. My dogs fought over a leftover bone outside, growling.
"Hello, this is Tom Ely, I am sorry I have missed your call..."
I didn't recognize the voice. It had the barest trace of an accent. Most people wouldn't pick up on it. But I did.
The Russians. What was I in for? I hung up.
Was I just going to sit here, waiting? Or was I going to be a good little dog when some person unseen rang my bell?
The ticket was for today. I could make the flight if I left immediately. I packed a bag and caught a cab to the airport.
(Splotchy again)
The pressures of today's economy. Flight cancelled. Airline out-of-business. Three months ago. Something was out of sorts, here. Why would someone send me a ticket on a defunct airline? I was starting to feel exposed, out in the open, like prey in a valley.
First order of business was to hit the head. I needed to collect myself and not draw attention. I forced myself to walk, even with the hairs on the back of my neck bristling, uncertain if, even now, someone was following. Had I walked into some kind of trap?
The men's room door opened just a little too quickly, the screws loosened from constant use. That sticky smell hit me as that horrible men's room air shot into my nose.
Something was wrong.
I felt heavy and thick, and saw the world go askew. I was off balance before it even registered that something hard had been jabbed into the back of my neck. I put my hand against the wall to stop myself, but the back of my head exploded in pain, I saw a flash of light, and then nothing.
(SamuraiFrog)
When I came to, I was no longer in the men's room; I was in the back of a moving vehicle, a walk-through panel truck - a delivery van, perhaps. My feet were free, but my hands were bound securely behind my back. Care had been taken not to cut off my circulation, so whoever it was knew what he was doing.
"Hey!" I yelled to the two men in the cab. The passenger looked back at me, his face impassive under a Denver Broncos cap that was a size too small for his head.
"No talking." He turned forward again, saying something in a language I didn't understand to the driver.
"Where are we going?" I said, struggling to a sitting position. I tested the ropes binding my wrists, but my name not being Houdini, there was no way I was going to undo them. When I looked up, Broncos Cap was staring at me again. So was the business end of a 9mm automatic.
"I said for no talking."
I decided he might have a point, and sat back to enjoy the ride and wonder about where I was being delivered...
**************
What will happen next?
Perhaps (if not already tagged, or even if) Arjan, The Imaginary Reviewer, PJ and Ray might care to continue...
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
I've Seen It Now...
...and it's excellent!
I took my nephew to see it on Sunday afternoon - he didn't know who Iron Man is, being more a Spidey fan than anything else, but we were both totally blown away by the movie.
This is the stuff!
This is what we want to see!
And the post-credits scene?
Works for me...
Monday, 5 May 2008
Iron Man...
I haven't seen Iron Man yet, and it's gonna be at least a week 'fore I do.
I'm on call for emergencies this week, which means I have to keep my comms with me and stow my life (such as it is) in the overhead locker.
Last time I went to a movie while I was on call, I switched the thing on afterwards and it lit up with missed calls - uncharacteristically, I have to say, but there you go. Bruce and Clark were none too impressed, goes without saying, and Diana wouldn't talk to me for a week.
And it's not even supposed to be my week - I'm swapping with Dr. Invisible, who in turn is swapping with The Sorceress - grumble, grumble...
So I'm steeling my resolve in the face of all the four-star reviews out there, and I'll be seeing it next Friday.
But for 50 points and a no-prize - what's Shellhead's catchphrase? Does he have one? Or does being a billionaire absolve him from the need?
Answers, in your best font, to the usual address...
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Five years ago, I went, with my nephew, Mitchel and his mum, to a recital in the National Concert Hall, Dublin, entitled "40 Shades of ... -
This is the flag of my country: It's a flag of which I'm very proud, and I get to see it flying over my workplace seven days a we...