Lent in Casablanca: Two Years Later

It’s late on a Lenten Monday night, and I’m watching “Casablanca” for what must be at least the 100th time. Two years ago during Lent, I watched it 46 consecutive nights, and I’m sure I’ve seen it at least 54 other times over the decades. I can’t think of any other movie I have seen this many times–and know so well–that I can still watch just for the sheer enjoyment of it.

There are a few things that are wrong in “Casablanca” (the film, not the world). In the marketplace just a few minutes in, there are two foibles. First, one of the men forlornly watching the plane come in for a landing had just been loaded onto the paddy wagon 20 seconds before as one of “the usual suspects.” Second, young newlywed refugee Annina looks wistfully up at the plane, as she tells her husband, “Tomorrow maybe we’ll be on the plane.”

That plane was a Nazi personnel transport carrying Major Strasser  (the Swastikas are a dead giveaway), so Annina had better hope and pray she and hubby are NOT on that plane tomorrow.

Speaking of Major Strasser, there’s a scene where his assistant refers to him as “Herr Major” (pronounced herr my-YOR). It always bothered me, because the German equivalent of Major, back in the day, was “Sturmbannführer.” (Thank you, “Inglourious Basterds” for that scrap of complete irrelevance)  HOWEVER, Major Strasser is a Luftwaffe officer, and the Luftwaffe used the term “Major,” unlike the SS or Gestapo. So once again, “Casablanca” proves itself historically accurate. (“Basterds” was right, too: their “Sturmbannführers” were Gestapo and SS. (Schnapps for everyone))

Also, “Casablanca” was #1 on the AFI’s “100 Years…100 Passions” list for Rick & Ilsa’s undying love, but the best chemistry in the film is between Bogie and Claude Rains. Not even close.

“Casablanca” is a movie I put on when I want to think. It’s a Zen thing, almost.

My Monday could have been better. It wasn’t empirically BAD, I suppose–I didn’t lose blood, fracture bones, or become incarcerated–but there were way too many things nagging at me. I had brunch with Nicole, and the random thought popped into my brain that in a parallel universe, she and I hooked-up–our temperaments are compatible, and my insanity gets off on her insanity. In a parallel universe, my brain didn’t explode a year ago. In a parallel universe, I could actually write what I’m feeling tonight, without having to fight like hell to form halfway-coherent sentences. It’s like I’m writing through a dozen thick, wet pairs of mittens, and ten or twelve lithium tablets.

The flip-side, of course, is that there’s also a parallel universe where I didn’t make it to “that special resort,” and one where I got to the hospital a day too late five years ago, and the Fournier’s won. God knows how many parallel universes had me looking the other way when a car slammed on its brakes in front of me, and I smashed into an overpass piling, or when chasing a handful of Vicodin with several beers and a pint of Jim Beam pushed the needle a smidge too far. I wonder if any of those outcomes would really bother me.

That sounds worse than I meant it to. I’ve never had a death wish or suicidal ideation, but I’ve also never been afraid of dying either. Especially after I was thisfuckingclose with the Fournier’s.

That’s where my brain is tonight, a giant glowing ball of “what if”s.

I try not to play that game. It’s essentially a waste of time, right? “What if I’d…” The point is, I didn’t. I made the choices I made, and the shit that’s happened to me really and truly happened to me. Neither pondering nor rumination–nor watching “Casablanca” for the hundredth time–will change anything.

In “Casablanca,” the same things always happen to the same people. No matter what I wrote two years ago, Annie the Soapmaker doesn’t really rule there, nor does Lisbeth Salander play chess with Rick, or make sweet Sapphic love to Hermione Granger. (These things should be in “Casablanca,” of course, but they just aren’t) Sadly, Testarossa Ferrari never really existed outside this blog, and was only even visualized by the six or so people who read it. (Sorry, but I really liked ‘Rossa being Signor Ferrari’s elder daughter, and Annie the Soapmaker’s BFF)

This is a Ferrari Testarossa, in case you missed the joke:

The one in my story was just as sexy.

A nice character, but her name was a cheap pun. Now I feel bad for her, although she couldn’t have been named after a much sexier machine than this one (and “F40 Ferrari” just doesn’t sound very feminine)

I’ll make it through another day. Today is over. I’ve taken my night meds, and I’ll be asleep soon enough. My weekend was a freakin’ blink, and now I have to be at work in 12.5 hours. Another week in the salt mines.

There are going to be days like this. There are going to be days where I think every rope I’ve used to pull myself out of this past year is unraveling, where I’m not feeling the joie de vivre. This is okay. I need to keep telling myself that: it’s only one day, and it will be okay. Just hang on till bedtime.

And as Jackson Browne sang, “And when the morning light comes streaming in, I’ll get up and do it again. Amen.”

 

 

A Few Tacos Short of a #4 Combo at Estella’s

Years ago, I was the Production Director of a radio station here in the Tampa Bay Market. We were popular, but by no means #1 or anything. One afternoon, a man came into our office. He was talking to our receptionist, and she buzzed me and asked me to come help her.

“Tom? This is (we’ll call him Frank). Frank is here about the background messages that go out on the station.” Bless her, she said this with a straight face, not breaking out in fear. I played along.

“Oh, dammit. The engineers were supposed to have that fixed. I’m sorry. Is it just during the commercials? Or during music?”

Frank spoke as earnestly as anyone I’ve ever heard. “It’s worse during the commercials. I hear the commercials fine. But the messages in the background? Telling me what to do? Those are what bother me, but they’re behind the songs too, but only some of them.”

“I see. Again, my apologies. I know we had an issue with our transmitter, and they were supposed to have those things stopped.”

By this time our Ops Manager, who had been sitting in the lobby before his show, said, “Frank. I’m Dennis, the Operations Manager. Let’s go back to my office, and I’ll get some more details from you.”

Frank went quietly. Without being asked, the receptionist called the police, who came and gently offered Frank a ride home.

Frank was soft-spoken, polite, and almost apologetic the whole time he was in our offices. He just wanted us to turn off the background messages on our station.

There were none, of course.

What the fuck did I do to deserve this??

I just watched a documentary on Netflix called “I Think We’re Alone Now.” If you recall, the teenaged sensation, Tiffany, had a hit with that song back in 1987, or thereabouts. My station in 1987 didn’t play that, but we did play her song “Could’ve Been.” To be honest, I thought “Could’ve Been” was a decent little country ballad, and that Tiffany sang pretty damn well for a 16 year-old in the pre-Auto-Tune days, and before that horrible Mariah Carey swooping up and down for no reason thing started. Tiffany had a nice powerful voice, maybe a little nasal, but not at all a bad singer. I liked playing her record. My life won’t end if I never hear it again.

So the documentary “I Think We’re Alone Now” follows two men whose opinion of Tiffany is a bit more…shit, I’m trying to think of the right word. How about, “Fucking-insane”?

Neither man is dangerous in his obsession over Tiffany. Indeed, they’re just waiting for the chance to marry her. The first one, Jeff, is 50 years old, has Asperger’s, and has been following Tiffany–literally and figuratively–since 1987. People with Asperger’s are not usually violent. They’re not always good with socializing, but they aren’t psychotic or anything. They can also be extremely well organized. Indeed, Jeff has boxes of scrapbooks and Tiffany-related newspaper clippings. He has copies of Tiffany-instigated restraining orders, too, from when he was hanging around her house. Those have been lifted now, because he only hassles her at public appearances. We see Jeff show up to see Tiffany at some trade show of women who do naked stuff (Tiffany posed nude in Playboy). He goes up to her like an old friend. Bless her heart, she let him awkward-hug her, and air-kissed him, then got away as quickly as she could. He brought things for her to sign, and she was patient, as her handlers encouraged him to move on.

In Jeff’s eyes, he and Tiffany are besties. He tells people this–that he is Tiffany’s best friend, and that he talks to her often. He attends a community church regularly, and talked about how Jesus was truly working through Tiffany, and that she was spreading God’s message.

(Fair disclosure: Tiffany DID say, “God bless you all” once at the end of the first concert, and twice at the second. She never seemed to be “spreading” any message, however: just “God bless”ing the crowd, which a lot of artists do)

Kelly has a different background. Kelly is a 31 year-old Intersex, living as a woman. Eventually, he will have breast implants and have his boy parts removed. (She, and her. Sorry) The reason I accidentally alluded to Kelly as “he” and “him” above is that Kelly appears to be very masculine, unlike most Intersex people I’ve seen and known.

Anyway, Kelly was run over on his bicycle several years ago, and was in a coma for eight days. While he was in the coma, he saw himself marrying Tiffany. However–fade-in creepy music–he had never heard of Tiffany before. While he was recovering post-coma, his sister brought him a Walkman, and–HOLY CRAP–there was Tiffany! The girl he married while in the coma!

Both of these folks talk about their close bond with Tiffany guilelessly. They aren’t lying or spouting insanities. They honestly believe in their relationships with Tiffany.

To her credit, Tiffany seems to be nice to everyone. After a big club show, she sits and signs autographs for anyone who wants one. She even suffers the occasional lunatic who’s convinced they’re practically married. She’s been dealing with it most of her life, I guess, and she appears to be a genuinely nice person.

No, I don’t want to marry her or follow her around. In the documentary, she treated everybody really kindly. I’m not going anywhere near her. (Fucking restraining order!!!)

I jest.

This documentary was absolutely fascinating–it’s only an hour long, and streaming on Netflix. Give it a watch. The sincerity of these obsessive people is mind-boggling. Jeff, the Asperger’s guy, is intelligent as hell. He’s read a ton of books, and speaks regularly about the fascists taking over our country. He’s also always smiling, whether discussing fascists or Tiffany. Kelly is an emotional wreck. She was going to see Tiffany in Denver, but couldn’t get into the show. She bought a pint each of Jägermeister and vodka, and went home to numb her grief.

People that sincere and that convinced that their delusion is true…these people fascinate me, as well as scaring me. These two guys are harmless, but if their chemicals were mixed a little differently, things could be different.

As for Frank, our visitor at the radio station, the police drove him “home.” They dropped him off where he asked. He could have walked into a cheap apartment building, or into the woods where lots of homeless folks stay.

The officers came back to our station afterwards, to see if we wanted to press charges. We didn’t, of course–he was never threatening or obnoxious. One of the officers told us that our messages were bad, but the NBC affiliate, Channel 8, was the worst. Whether it was “ER” or “Law & Order,” or even local programming, Channel 8′s transmitter has the messages pumping loud.

One night, Frank was watching the 11 o’clock news, and the female news anchor stopped reading, looked directly at Frank, and said, “I can see your ding-dong.” He’s placed calls to Channel 8, needless to say. Who wants that??

Me? I just don’t watch TV news.

It gets in the way of watching my 19 hour-long Tiffany video collection.

Happy St Patty’s Day

Ten Little-Known Facts About Pope Francis I

Congratulations to Jorge Mario Bergoglio, who has been named the new Pope Francis I. Here are a few factoids the networks may have missed:

10) Secret shame: An insurmountable addiction to Tastykakes Butterscotch Krimpets and Pabst Blue Ribbon as bedtime snack.

9) Was original choice to replace Eric Clapton in The Yardbirds. However, it interfered with his studies, so the band reluctantly hired Jeff Beck instead.

8) For Chemistry Master’s thesis, used reversed-phase chromatography to isolate the eleven herbs and spices in Kentucky Fried Chicken.

7) Observes vow of chastity, but thinks Salma Hayek is “one totes spicy mamacita.”

6) Voting was tied on last ballot: Francis won in a shootout, with a slap-shot through the five hole.

5) Favorite books: “Summa Theologica,” by St Thomas Aquinas, “Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica,” by Sir Isaac Newton, and “The Hunger Games,” by Suzanne Collins

4) Born in Italy, but spent most of his life in Argentina, even playing striker on the 2011 Argentinean World Cup team.

3) Named himself “Francis 1,” not after St Francis of Assisi, as commonly thought, but after Francis Albert Sinatra (“Pope Frank” didn’t sound sufficiently dignified)

2) Going 13-18 with a 4.97 ERA in 1967, is the only man ever to belong to both the College of Cardinals and the St Louis Cardinals.

1) Papal superpower he’s most looking forward to? Death ray vision.

 

(Good luck, Francis. You have one hell of a job ahead of you.)

Nukes and Me (for Donna)

I was born when the Cold War was still going strong. When I was eight, my family took a trip to South Dakota, to visit my Uncle and his family. He was in the USAF, and we got to go on base to see the sights. My favorite was watching the huge, awkward B-52′s, with eight engines throwing out soot, lumber down the runway and into the air. What I didn’t know was that at any time–24 hours a day, every day–there were some of those awesome planes in the air, carrying nuclear bombs, and ready to strike the Soviet Union. [1]

The bomb didn’t really worry me. The Cuban Missile Crisis, that week when the world held its breath, was before my time. I remember some kids in my class talking about how the Red Chinese were going to invade us any day, but they were morons, and I didn’t listen to them.

As I grew older, naturally I learned more about atomic weapons, both how they worked and what they have done. I learned about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and how those bombs saved a million US Soldiers from being killed when we invaded Japan. Or it was 150,000. Or 3,000,000. What I was taught was that nobody could tell how many GI’s would have died, nor did the government give the same information consistently. One teacher dared tell us that we’d practically won the war already, even without dropping Fat Man and Little Boy.

But that was just history. Even when Ronald Reagan was President, I didn’t fear impending nuclear death. To be honest, I still don’t.

However, I’ve watched two disturbing documentaries over the past week. The first was called “Radio Bikini,” which followed the U.S. nuclear test called “Operation Crossroads.” “Crossroads” was fun–we just evacuated the 200 people who lived on Bikini Atoll, then blew up two a-bombs: “Able” was exploded in the air; “Baker” was like 90 feet underwater. The plan was to do our tests, wait till the radiation cooled down, then move the grateful Bikinians back to their home atoll.

Then we decided Bikini Atoll was a lovely place to set off nuclear firecrackers, so we did more tests, including the literally awesome Castle Bravo Test.

Oops. Forgot to carry the 3.

Bravo is the largest atomic explosion ever detonated by the US. (The Soviets lit one off three times as powerful)

Here’s what gets me. It’s not so much the madness as it is the math. Bravo was only supposed to be a third as big as it was. It was estimated to have a yield of 4 to 6 megatons, instead of the 15 it ended up producing. The resulting bomb was 1000 times as powerful as the bombs dropped over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. So the way I see it, a group of men were sitting in a conference room somewhere, and a couple guys were standing there giving a presentation, probably with charts and a pointer and graphs. One of the guys somehow convinced the people around the conference room table that Hiroshima and Nagasaki were horseshit explosions; that what the US REALLY needed was a bomb 333-times as powerful as Fat Man and Little Boy. They must have been persuasive; the guys around the conference table agreed, and the bomb–ironically nicknamed “Shrimp”–was built.

Then, “Whoops! You know Bob over in the bomb lab? He forgot to account for the Lithium-6 isotope possibly igniting. Don’t worry. The lab boys will never let him live this down. Hahahahaha.”

Bob screwed up by a factor of three.

There are plenty of defense-related things I don’t know about–threats to us, and counterattack plans by us–and I sleep more easily for not knowing about them. I neither need nor want to know everything the Department of Defense and the US Military know. I know enough to know I don’t want to know more.

But the concept of Mutual Assured Destruction–whereby the Soviets could attack us, and we could counterattack them, and our missiles would cross paths en route to annihilating our two nations–this concept boggles the mind.

The Cold War is over. The way I understand it, the most-likely nuclear threat will come from a small suitcase nuke set off in an urban environment, not from a Castle Bravo sort of cataclysm. So why don’t we just disarm? Probably because there are nine nations we know of with nuclear weapons, and we’d hate to put down our biggest guns, only to have one of them hold us up with a nuclear Saturday Night Special. It just seems ridiculous to me.

One bomb, one-thousand-times the power of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs.

One thousand cranes…

In Japanese folklore, if a person folds one-thousand origami cranes, a crane will grant this person a wish.

One of the slow victims of the Hiroshima bomb was two-year-old Sadako Sasaki. As a result of the radiation to her young body, she developed leukemia. She had the idea to make 1000 cranes, and hope that her wish would come true, that she’d live. She got to 644 before she died at age 12. Her classmates made up the difference, and she was buried with a thousand cranes.

I can’t help but love the parallel: the Castle Bravo explosion was 1000 times as powerful as the Hiroshima bomb. It takes 1000 origami cranes to make your wish come true. That’s a million cranes.

We’d better start folding.

(The following is a video tribute to Sadako Sasaki; the music is by the L.A.-based, Japanese-American group, Hiroshima. The song is also a tribute to Sadako, called “A Thousand Cranes”. I worked at two stations that played Hiroshima, and I used to slip this song on after my boss had gone to sleep. I always told Sadako’s story. It goes beautifully with the song.)

I Guess My Name Will Never Be an Adjective

The whole blogging every night during Lent thing? I’m sorry, but it isn’t going to happen. I don’t have the inspiration to risk it, much less the mental fortitude to fail. Moreover, I don’t feel like I have that much to say.

That paragraph sounds far more dismal than it should. I’m doing fine. It’s my weekend, and I’m relaxing with a few nice movies. It’s Florida-cold outside, and I have a warm cat snugged into my left side. I’m sure this is more for his benefit than mine. Selfish, handsome bastard, like a Meow Mix-eating Marcello Mastroianni.

Speaking of whom, I just watched Fellini’s “8-1/2.” Fellini made this film when he found he didn’t know what to do for his next film. The story concerns Guido (Mastroianni), a noted film director who finds he doesn’t know what to do for his next film.

Fellini obviously knew how people saw him and his work. At different points, we delve into Fellini’s childhood, his love life, his relationship with the press, and his own very odd imagination. After Guido clears his head of tormenting naysayers, here comes the perfect Fellini touch: a marching band of circus freaks (plus one nicely uniformed little boy, representing the director’s childhood), along with a parade of everybody who’s been in the movie. Everyone joins hands, and dances in a merry circle around the marching band. Eventually, Guido gets up, joins them, and dances along, until they all parade happily into the dark.

It was, for lack of a better word, a “Fellini-esque” ending.

That’s sort of where my head has been. I’m hard-pressed to focus on one capital-t Topic every night. I’m feeling less-Abyssy than I have in many moons, and it’s not that I have writer’s block. I just couldn’t try and focus on the same thing from different angles, night after night for 46 crazy nights. Next year, maybe I’ll revisit “Casablanca” again. On the other side of a depressive breakdown, that could be sort of fun.

Fellini had this way of translating his weird brain into films. I guess that’s sort of what I do here, writing these sometimes tedious, sometimes whimsical Dispatches.

Toward the end of “8-1/2,” I paused it to go grab a fresh Diet Pepsi (and to offload an old Diet Pepsi). I came back, and–during my own little intermission–I went to check my e-mail. I opened my browser, and instinctively clicked the tab to open my e-mail, but I saw something on the main news page that struck me. Former country music star Mindy McCready shot and killed herself Sunday.

I sorta-kinda met her years ago. She once dated a former friend of mine, and they remained good friends.

That’s an odd expression: “a former friend of mine.” It almost sounds like we were once friends, then he did something, and now we’re bitter enemies. It’s not like that at all. It goes back to my comet theory. I am like a comet, and my relationships with people are generally like the relationships between comets and planets. I’ll be a faint blot on the horizon initially, then approach to burn bright in their sky for awhile. Once we naturally move apart, I gradually fade into a faint blot again. I’m okay, and they’re okay. We’re just moving in our respective orbits, and our time together was kismetically fleeting.

That’s how that friend and I were. We were friends, then we drifted apart. It happens.

Anyway, one time, Mindy McCready called him to chat. Sensing a long call, he got up to grab his beverage. He said, “Here. Talk to Tom for a second.” He handed me the phone. “It’s Mindy.” Our conversation was very limited–an exchanged volley of “Hi, how’s it going?s,” and “Good”s, followed by a “Well, here’s Paul again. See ya.” I wasn’t star-struck, because I didn’t listen to country music at the time. I’d never heard her sing. I still don’t think I have. After knowing him, I was, however, aware enough of her to notice every time she made headlines. She did that quite a bit. Sophocles would read Mindy McCready’s biography and shake his head. “Nobody would ever believe that one person could go through that much shit. THAT is a tragedy, ffs.” She made Oedipus look like “Seinfeld.”

I’m not sad tonight. I feel bad that she felt eating a bullet was her only solution. I know time had not been kind to her, but still, that’s such a permanent, irrevocable choice to make. As Chris the Shrink put it, “a permanent solution to temporary problems.”

I am a comet, and we comets persevere.

What’s been strange my past couple years of cometry, has been reconnecting with girls from decades past. Calling them “girls” isn’t unadvised, either–they WERE girls when I knew them. My oft-derided and mocked Facebook facilitated these odd reunions.

KK was my first girlfriend. We did little besides hold hands and hang out, but I felt all tummy-knotted and turned into a blathering gomer whenever I saw her. She had the most beautiful brown eyes, too, like firelight through a snifter of really good Cognac. She changed schools suddenly, and I never saw or heard from her again. I always wondered what had happened; I never forgot her. I wasn’t obsessed or stalkery–I moved on with my life too–but because I didn’t know, I always wondered. Until she found me on FB. In catching up with her the past couple years, I’m sure we’ve learned a Jupiter’s worth more about each other than we ever did during our bus stop conversations.

Jenny and I were never boyfriend and girlfriend. We loved each other as friends, and trusted each other with a lot. No sex or anything–we made out exactly once–but I think she was my first soulmate. We knew each other when I was at FSU. She worked at the same radio station I did, and we’d spend every Friday night (and most Tuesdays) getting completely stoned, watching movies on cable, and creating extremely odd creations to sate the munchies. She was five-foot-nothing and about 98 pounds, and I was six-two and weighed about 2.5 Jennies. When I was still in college, she and I had some grand adventures. Some cold winter nights, we’d drive out of the city, way beyond the lights. Then we’d smoke a joint, lie on the hood of my Corolla, and look up at the kabillion stars glowing above us. One night, we got sent to man our station’s booth at the North Florida State Fair. We basically had to sit there and hand out bumper stickers or something–we didn’t stay there more than a few minutes. It was too bright, and we were a bit too high to be in that expo hall. PLUS, we had to interview a singer whose lone hit was so old, that WBGM wouldn’t even play it. This was one of the worst interviews in the history of radio, and I don’t think it ever aired. Seriously, when I interviewed Art Garfunkel, it helped that I could name–and sing his harmony parts on–two or three dozen songs. This guy at the fair? No such luck.

Anyway, J and I kept in touch for a few years, at least till 9/11. I knew she was in NYC, and I found out she’d gotten married to a New York-based Australian. Now–on this cometic pass-by–I find they’ve actually moved to a tiny seaside village in Oz. She encountered her first seven-foot-long python the other day. I’d have passed-out, but she took a picture (she may have passed-out after, though).

Welcome to Oz, J. (Photo Credit: Jenny)

SO…

After a period of years, my cometary orbit has brought me back into these two women’s lives, as we comets are wont to do. Maybe, writ sufficiently large, my orbit would cross Staceypunkin’s, or some other person I’ve left bitter in my stellar dust. It’s impossible to know where life will lead you, especially if–like me–you have absolutely no idea where the hell you are now. The relationships in my life have all been pleasant surprises, where someone I had no idea existed quickly becomes one of the truly important people in my life. Sometimes–like KK or Jenny–they never fade from my memory. Other times, I can’t remember a person’s name an hour after I last see them. Some people I’ve known all my life (or all of theirs), but only because I’m related to them. I wish them well, but I can’t force friendship solely based on sharing genetic forbears.

My Sunday night was a good one. I watched one of Fellini’s best films, his passionate testament to whimsy, depression, dreams, fantasies, childhood and adulthood, and relationships both good and bad, waxing and waning. I noted sadly the untimely death of a very passionate woman–she was passionate in love and hate, substance abuse, music, and living too fast.

I note their passion–Federico’s and Mindy’s–even though I’m one of the least passionate people I know. I was passionate about drinking for many years, till I broke up with it. Now, I guess my only true passion would be writing. It’s not an overarching, kd langish constant craving, but when I write, I do so passionately. I hate when I read something I wrote, only to adjudge it lame or, worse yet, limp. I may write tedious inanities, but by Christ, my semicolons will be used correctly; incorrect semicolon use galls me.

Most of all, I’m passionate enough about writing, that I won’t force myself to do it just to do it. “Lent in Casablanca” was a blast to write, but there were some nights where the prospect of writing another post about that movie was horribly daunting, and I was in reasonably good mental shape at the time. Now, I feel like I just had the mental equivalent of major knee surgery, and I’m recovering well. I can walk mentally, but playing 46 consecutive nights of brain rugby would be pushing it. (Plus, at some point during Lent, I may comet my way periaptic to some hot chick, and I’d hate to have a blogligation hanging over my head.)

So, my apologies for wussing out on my original Lenten commitment, but look at it this way: it’s 800 fewer words of crap for you to read each day.

I’m sorry; and you’re welcome.

Oh, SHIT! Tom’s back from the damned Oort Cloud already?

Love, Spannend und Neue: Lent in Deutschland, Night One

It seems fitting, for Valentine’s night, to write about love. I’m not talking about love of country, love of ones job, or loving beer. I write of good, old-fashioned, hormone-escalating, giblet-tingling, sweaty, romantic love.

In “Judgment at Nuremberg,” we have examples of three stages of love.

In the beginning, love is all giddy and fun, where we get silly spending time with our newly beloved. In “Nuremberg,” we find Chief Judge Dan Haywood  painting Nuremberg Rote countless evenings with the German widow, Mrs Bertholt. They go out drinking, see concerts, go out drinking some more, have coffee in Mrs Bertholt’s cozy little flat. As so often happens during the early “falling in love” stage, something happens, a breach the romance is too nascent to endure; something happens, and suddenly, there’s an endlessly ringing, unanswered phone, with a frustrated lover on the other end.

We have Captain Harrison Byers (William Shatner (no, really!)), who’s been living in Nuremberg for two years. He’s young, and he has a beautiful German girlfriend, Elsa Schleffer. You can tell their love is deeper, more familiar.

More familiar still is the love between Judge Haywood’s housekeepers, Mr & Mrs Halbestadt. They’ve been married for many years. They had two grown children who died in the war, but the couple endures. They answer for each other and complete one another’s sentences.

What do all of these types of love have in common?

Simple: I’m not in any of them.

It’s weird, that. It seems like I’m always moving into or out of some kind of relationship. If I’m not with somebody, there is at least somebody on the love radar, some prospective suitress I’m chatting-up. After my Summer of Discontent, I haven’t thought of love. This didn’t dawn on me until tonight. It’s been an adjustment just getting to a point where I can stand being Tom, much less trying to add another to my world. I’ve begun working from home for awhile,  so I’m not really meeting anyone new.

I’m not saying my life is devoid of love. I have a loving family and lots of good friends. Most of my friends are women, so I’m also not devoid of female company. I guess I’m just not in a position for any type of romance. Happily, this doesn’t bother me. I’m used to living on my own, and I like it. Plus, down on 34th Street and 22nd Ave South, there are plenty of inexpensive hookers.

I kid.

(There really ARE hookers down there; I just don’t hire them)

Judge Haywood has had to adapt to the other extreme. He was married for a number of years, and his wife died in his late middle-age years. He has a daughter and four grandchildren, all of whom love him, and whom he loves in return. Despite this, he has had to learn to live alone after so many years with his wife. It must be hell to lose ones soulmate and life-partner; I can’t even imagine. A few years have passed, and now Judge Haywood finds himself in a flirtation with the widowed Mrs Bertholt. His awkwardness is palpable, as he tries to learn how to play the game again, but he obviously feels something for the executed general’s widow.

There will come a time when I’m ready, when my brain is fixed and my head screwed on straight, when I’m ready to take that big-ass chance again.

Then, and only then, I’ll be ready to act…

…and go rent me one of those crackwhores.

Sorry. I mean, “start dating again.”

Happy Half-Priced Candy Day.

Lent in Deutschland

Nuremberg poster, Deutsch-style

I’m cheating a bit, fudging the date on this post, so don’t feel like you’ve missed anything.

As you may have guessed from this post’s title, I have chosen Germany for this year’s Lenten slog. This will include cinematic Germans and representations of Germany, plus German films, all cooked up with sauerkraut as a combo platter.

This won’t be quite the same as “Lent in Casablanca” a couple years ago. Most of those posts were tied directly to “Casablanca,” be it critical analysis, assessing different viewpoints, creating different scenarios within the world of Rick’s Cafe Americain, even–perhaps most notoriously–inventing new characters (Testarossa Ferrari was invented; believe me, Annie the Soapmaker is 100% real), and mashing characters from other works into “Casablanca.” If nothing else, my Casablanca is probably the only place where Hermione Granger and Lisbeth Salander are lovers, and hang out with a real 21st century soapmaker and a bunch of people from a 1940′s film.

“Judgment at Nuremberg,” as an example, is a less-fun film than “Casablanca,” and in many ways, it’s more real–real-life isn’t always fun. Germans would never make “Tommy Boy.”

Many of these posts will tie to films you have seen–”Nuremberg,” “Inglourious Basterds,” even “Casablanca,” perhaps. Other films will be ones you haven’t seen, like “Wings of Desire.” (Everyone should watch “Wings of Desire”. Call off of work if you need to). Originally, I was going to limit this only to “Judgment at Nuremberg.” I decided to change it, to open it up to other films and other perspectives. Also, “Judgment at Nuremberg” is over three hours-long, so I’d be spending roughly a whole day watching it each week.

Anyway, as always, this an experiment, and I thank you for stopping by whenever you can. (Also, I’m glad I’m not Catholic, so I won’t go to purgatory for missing a night here and there (or for cheating, and saying this was written Ash Wednesday))

And thus, onward! Guten Nacht.