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I remember the first time I saw Star Wars in the theater. I was maybe five or six, and I had that wonderful feeling of being completely lost in a movie, like the world I was familiar with had just melted away and, in its place, there had sprung up this whole other realm where people used lightsabers, and moved things with their minds. And I was not just a spectator of that world. I was part of it. I was convinced I had the force. (Still am, really.) And I think I had a crush on Princess Leia. (Still do, really.) And for the moments I watched that movie, I actually lived in that place. For real.

I'm sure there are many, many thirty-something boys (and probably a good many girls, as well) who had the same experience. Star Wars really set the bar for sci-fi/action/adventure movies for us. And I'm going to go ahead and make a bold assertion: despite all the advances in technology and special effects, there has been very little to live up to that bar since. These types of movies just don't give me that same feeling of complete immersion. Maybe The Matrix is one exception. But that's all that comes to mind.

I usually blame myself for this, more than the movie. I assume it has to do with my age, and the fact that I'm probably just more jaded about cinema. But thankfully, this past Wednesday night, the new Star Trek movie proved me wrong. Because it succeeded in making me feel six years old again. And I'm going to tell you this: it wasn't because of the special effects, though they were pretty dang special...and "effective." (I really liked the sound of the ships going to warp, for instance. This was Star Trek on steroids. But it felt good, and not overdone.) The reason I was able to get lost in this movie was because it did what Star Wars did so well back in 1977, and still does well today—it told a story. And it brought to life compelling characters. That's what it's all about, really. And it's sad and sort of disappointing that you don't see it so much anymore.

The new Star Trek movie is first and foremost about storytelling. It doesn't rely on gimmicks. The special effects enhance the movie without being the movie. It's just some good sci-fi drama. Smart. Funny. Character-driven. It even reminded me of that original Star Wars in many ways. It had a similar "raw" feel to it, which is one of the reasons I suppose I've always been more of a Star Wars fan than Star Trek.

There's been a lot of talk about how die-hard trekkies may not like this movie because of the way it's been billed as "not your father's Star Trek." I don't know. I can't really speak for die-hard trekkies, because I'm not one. I didn't start watching Star Trek until Voyager and I still have no interest in watching or catching up on older series. Thankfully, I have a wife who can get me up to speed on the pertinent historical points of the Star Trek franchise. But I can say that it would be a shame to miss this movie in the theater out of some ideological protest. Director J.J. Abrams and writers Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman have done a great job of re-inventing the story line and characters in a way that make them seem entirely plausible (in Star Trek context, that is). They've lifted the characters out from under the weight of past Star Trek movies and TV episodes and have made them seem more interesting and complicated (credit due to the actors, too, of course). More importantly, they have done the seemingly impossible task of preserving the precious Star Trek story-line that existed before, while at the same time creating an entirely new one. This should make everybody happy (but probably won't.)

I'm usually disappointed with today's sci-fi/action/adventure movies. They're often heavy on action and light on plot and character development and the whole experience is just entirely...forgettable. I realize this makes me sound like an old man. And if that doesn't, this will: I usually fall asleep during most of the action movies I watch these days. Admittedly, this might indeed have something to do with my age, but I like to think it has more to do with over-stimulation of the senses and under-stimulation of the brain. I prefer an even stimulation of both.

I'm happy to report that I did not fall asleep during Star Trek. I did, however, forget I was sitting in a movie theater, which doesn't happen very much anymore. It made me feel like a kid again. And it's nice to know that there are still things that can do that. Afterwards, it seemed way too adult to be sipping a Dewars at the premiere "After Party" with C. What this really called for was ice cream.

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I think I must have received a bad shipment. Which is enough to destroy any drug user's week. I have noticed the last couple of times I shot up, as that little mechanical plunger is pushing the stuff in my leg, it just hasn't felt the same going in. And I was beginning to wonder if maybe something was amiss. And then Tuesday I got this flare up of the AS. Which hasn't happened since ... September? And that sort of confirmed it. But that's a hell of a way to receive confirmation. Metal rod, creeping it's way up the spine. Concrete in the joints. And so I responded as any self-respecting chemically-dependent person would: by drinking too much and watching a great movie—twice—before passing out on the floor of our basement. Escapism through film and unconsciousness through alcohol are great American pastimes. And Tuesday I was a Patriot.

And I hope all it is is a a bad shipment. Because if it's not that. If it's something else—like maybe the Enbrel just isn't working any more—well, that would be bad. But I'm starting a new batch of blue pens on Saturday and hopefully there'll be more kick to them.

It's weird how the body forgets pain. I've gone along for the last 4-5 months feeling normal. And when you're feeling normal, you tend to forget not-normal. You take normal for granted. And you begin to thumb your nose at not-normal and call it really filthy names, like "ass muncher" and "goat boy." And I'm real good at that. Because I sometimes like to burn bridges. And my body was ready to burn that bridge with not-normal and say good riddance. And I thought not-normal had gotten the message. Because he wasn't coming 'round at all. And I thought finally that annoying little fucker has left me alone. And I even started wondering if not-normal had just been a figment of my imagination. Like the monster under the bed. And maybe I'd just grown up and had begun to see that not-normal was nothing more than a coating of dust and few stray socks. And since normal was around to back me up, I was feeling a little cocky about all of this, getting more rigorous at the JCC, up-ing the weights, speeding up the stairs. And so there may have even been some chest-puffing going on. And I probably even told not-normal to go fuck off a time or two.

But not-normal heard me, and he was a little pissed. And so he worked his way in—just a hint at first—but then by Tuesday afternoon a full-blown limp had set up shop in my legs and my spine refused to go straight. And my mind recalled what this was like, and it didn't like it. Because he knew what came next. And so he gave me the green light to binge drink and watch movies. And do a little of the forgetting one might usually reserve for a really bad break-up or a death or something like that.

And I hate whining, especially on a day like this. Because it's sunny and crisp and there are signs of life on the trees. And it's Easter weekend, to boot. So I'll end this on a positive note and talk about the movie I watched. Because it was the glaring bright spot of Tuesday: The Darjeeling Limited. See it. It's now in my top-five favorite movies list, and if somebody would like to buy this for me as an anniversary present, I would give that person lots of kisses. Owen Wilson and Adrien Brody are fantastic. And so is Jason Schwartzman, for that matter. I think I'm just kind of partial to Wilson and Brody, in general. But all three really play off each other well in this movie and there is just some really great dialogue. In fact, this is definitely a dialogue-driven movie and I'm usually a sucker for those when they're done right. And Wes Anderson, who also did The Royal Tenenbaums and Rushmore, has a good reputation for doing it right. Here's one of my favorite lines: "I love you too, but I'm gonna mace you in the face!" This is probably one of those movies, however, that you will either love or feel completely indifferent about. And so if you don't like it, you'll probably wonder what the hell I was thinking, and if you love it, well we'll be able to just kind of nod at each other one day and maybe quote a line from the movie and that'll really be all we'll need to do, because we'll just know we appreciate the thing and it'll be enough. I'll say one other thing about it ... when you watch it, make sure you watch the 15-minute short clip called Hotel Chevalier which co-stars a short-haired Natalie Portman along with Schwartzman, and serves as a prologue to the main feature. It's so filthy and entirely good.

Okay. So now I'm just going to count the hours until tomorrow arrives. When I can inject this fresh batch of junk and hopefully feel that rush of calm come over me and a bit of the fatigue that comes along with it ... because that will mean it's good and it's working and this concrete in my joints should start going liquid once again and normal will come back.

link to this | comments (9) | File:  Reviews  Movies  Health  Back  AS 

Saturday, we went into New York to see a show. Hoshi was wearing her brand-new Jersey plates, which we had finally gone and picked up earlier that morning at the DMV. It was strange seeing her in that sickly yellowish color grade instead of the strong DC blue and white and red. But ugly as the NJ plates are, they do manage to give us a sense of "belonging" here. Because now when people randomly honk at us for accelerating at a normal rate instead of immediately hitting 60 from a dead stop (we can't all be like some blondes), we understand that what they are saying to us is: "Hey, Brother. Fellow New-Jersian. Look, I'm sorry to seem rude, but it's out of the utmost respect that I must give you this little toot of my horn, and beg of you, kind sir, to let's please have a move on, shall we?" And not: "Get out of my way you ridiculous foreigner with your out-of-state plates or I will drive over your ass and you will hurt mightily." It's a subtle difference, but I hear it now, and I get it. And I feel the love.

Since we were heading up-town, we took the Lincoln tunnel. Our other trips into the city had been via the Holland, so this was new territory for us. We had a Google Maps printout along with C's Blackbery Navigator. But all our modern navigational accoutrements couldn't anticipate a road closure on the other side. We were supposed to take this particular ramp that would take us to the West Side Highway via 42nd, but when we were delivered out of the depths of the tunnel into the city, we discovered it was tragically blocked off for no apparent reason. Just these menacing orange cones standing in our way between here and there. And the really frustrating part was that we could see clearly that if we had gone through the right-most tube of the tunnel, we would have come up exactly where we wanted to be and would have had no problem entering the ramp. But having gone through the left-most tube, we couldn't cut over. Or rather, we could. It was possible. It's just that these cones were in our way. Funny the influence that cones have over our driving, isn't it?

Okay. No problem. We'd just resort to our instinctual "city sense," you know, the kind that naturally develops after four years of driving around Washington DC, with its strange two-ways that become one-ways or that dead end altogether, only to resume a couple of blocks later, and the circles and diagonal state streets intersecting the letters and numbers at random places. With C navigating and me driving, we'd be good. If by "good" you meant taking a series of "gut-instinct" turns only to wind up on a one-way stretch of pavement that took us straight back into the Lincoln heading west into New Jersey. There was no passing "Go." No collecting $200.

I guess if you wanted to put a positive spin on all of this, you could say that we enjoyed our trip through the Lincoln so much, we were willing to pay another $8 to do it all over again. Back on the Jersey side, even though there were more orange cones indicating to me that I should not, under any circumstances, cut back over to the east-bound lanes, I had no more patience for their senseless warnings. And so I cut across anyway. Because I had no doubt that if we continued on our current trajectory we might wind up in Pennsylvania. And I was in no mood for a cheesesteak. I felt I might have a harder time getting away with a cone-crossing move now that I had local tags. Because one advantage of being a foreigner is that people are a little more forgiving of you, even if it's with an attitude of "you poor sod, go on, then." But nobody said anything. Not even a honk. I really don't think it matters what you do on the road here, as long as you do it quickly and decisively.

So we paid our $8 and went through the tunnel again, this time going through the right-most tube, and we finally made it to the Upper West, and even found street parking, which was a bonus. And while I'd love to tell you that all of this effort was for some Broadway show like Avenue Q, or Wicked, or Grease, that shit just ain't the truth. The truth is that we were heading to Symphony Space to see 5 Centimeters Per Second, which was showing as part of a "Children's Film Festival" there. C is on a mission to make me an anime fan. And I have to admit that this series of three short films went a long way toward that goal. It was definitely my kind of story, laced with just the right blend of tragic longing and melancholy. Makoto Shinkai is a master at making the viewer ache along with the characters. The final film in the trilogy was a little disappointing, but the first two were great. Here's a trailer, though the narration is kind of bad. One reason I liked it so much was that Shinkai loaded the film with all of these visual details of Japanese culture. Weird little things like the hand rings in the subway, or the water bottles, or the coffee machines. And it all really brought back our trip from last year.

After the show, we met up with Kelly and her friend, walked around central park a bit, and then stopped for dinner at a grill where I ordered Shepherd's Pie and Guinness in honor of St. Patty's Day. And while we did manage to do the Lincoln in only one trip on the way back, we couldn't help but experiment with an alternate route back to our house, which wound up taking us way out of our way and through Newark. Unfortunately, the best way to learn your way around a city is to get lost in it a lot, and we still have a lot of learning to do.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Hoshi  Ho_Hum  Japan  Movies  NY  Weekend 

I've always fancied myself an aficionado of the pop culture, particularly of any variety born or raised in the 80s or 90s. And while I'm not the encyclopedia of information that my friend Mitch is, I am, perhaps, something of an abridged coffee-table reference. Or maybe a pocket dictionary. I remember once playing Trivial Pursuit, 20th Anniversary Edition with C's family several Christmases ago and being given the following question: "Who was the front-man for the 80s rock band Twisted Sister?" I remember how they had all looked at each other like maybe they hadn't read the card right, or perhaps it was written in a different language or something. And whoever had read the question began to put the card back in the box and pass the lot to the next person because, you know, what the hell was a "Twisted Sister" anyway? And, whew! sometimes this game really tossed some crazy shit out there, and well, better luck next time, Dave, and . . . "Dee Synder" I said, confident and matter-of-fact. "I'll take a wedge, please." They all looked at me with wonder and awe. And I sat back and smiled, basking in the glow of my own pop-acumen, a byproduct of my grueling after-school regimen of MTV and Fruity Pebbles. It was tremendously satisfying given the fact that I normally have to sit on the sidelines of most of C's family's discussions because they're apt to involve the finer points of business strategy or physics, subjects which often render me completely mute.

But C got me back last night. After watching our old NFC-East home team get beaten by our new NFC-East home team, C told me to fast-forward past the post-game recap and sideline interviews with Eli and Romo and get on to the next show. We always TiVo football these days so we don't have to watch the commercials. I didn't know it at the time, but C had extended the record time to be sure to catch the show that came on directly afterwards, the pilot of The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

I zipped past Eli in his shag cut telling Pam Oliver how his brother's loss earlier in the afternoon was "tough." Translation: Suck it, Payton. This time I'm the one going to the Championship. Then, I slowed things down when the next show started. At this point I still wasn't sure what the show was. But C seemed excited about it, so I watched the first minute or so. And after seeing a bit of the opening sequence, which involved lots of gun fire and a frightening, indestructible robot, it dawned on me: "Oh, this is that Terminator thing, right? I think I heard about this."

C nodded and eyed me suspiciously. It was as if I had just uttered, "Oh, shoes are things people wear on their feet, right?" — something ridiculously apparent like that. "Yeah," she said, "The Sarah Connor Chronicles."

"Was Sarah Connor one of the characters in the movie, then?" I asked.

Again, I detected some skepticism from C, if not downright distrust. She paused the show. "Yes," she said, minor annoyance brewing. "She was the mom. Remember?" She rewound, then started the action again. Clearly this was not a time for talking.

"Oh sure," I said. I immediately recognized that "the mom" probably should have sufficed as an answer, not — as it did for me — open up more questions, like: You mean there was another character in the movie besides Ahhhnold? Wanting to keep my pop-culture cred in tact, I kept this one to myself and instead decided I'd just let C watch the show in peace and maybe sneak upstairs and look up "The Terminator" on IMDb. I started to get up from the couch. C paused the show again.

"What? You're not going to watch it with me?"

I hesitated. Weighing my options. "Sure," I said, "But . . . you know . . . I . . . " It was time to come clean with her. After all, she was my wife. She'd understand. "You're going to have to bring me up to speed." C looked confused. "I've never seen the Terminators, okay?"

I can't be positive, but I think this was the most outrageous and hilarious thing C had ever heard uttered from anybody's lips, let alone mine. She erupted in laughter, betraying her complete incredulity and wonderment.

"You've never seen the Terminators?"

I shook my head.

C's hilarity gave way to stunned silence and an aw-shucks sort of bewilderment, as if this piece of information was actually making her doubt my very existence. As if she was thinking, by God, who is this man and how did he wind up seated across from me in this living room?

"What else are you going to tell me?" she stammered, clearly disturbed and perplexed over this tragic revelation. She almost seemed sorry for me. Like I had been deprived in some vital way. "I mean, did you ever see . . . Sesame Street? Or how about drink water?" Her eyebrows raised. "Is that something you ever did in your life? Did you ever breathe?"

And that was about the crux of it: For C, a life without science fiction was akin to a life without water or air.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Pop_Culture  Music  Movies  Football  Cowboys  Cath 

I don't often see movies that I feel like mentioning here. But last night C and I rented Conversations with Other Women, and I had to jot down a few words about it. First off, I would highly recommend it, and not just because I have this thing for Helena Bonham Carter that I could only (politely) describe as "indecent." The script was great and both Carter and Aaron Eckhart delivered compelling, irresistible performances. They had an on-screen chemistry which felt real and intimate. So much so that you almost felt a little dirty watching them. (But in a good way.) I do have one warning about the film: the director, Hans Canosa, employs this split-screen effect throughout the entire thing, which I found kind of distracting at first. But it did grow on me as the film went on, and I can see now how it even helped reinforce the themes of the story.

Conversations also had a great soundtrack. Of course, any movie with a Rilo Kiley song in it (Ripchord) will automatically score high marks in my book. But I was also pleasantly surprised by the other songs, which were all from Quelqu'un m'a dit by Carla Bruni. Bruni is an independently-wealthy, Italian supermodel turned singer, and — after reading her bio — I have to admit I really didn't want to like her music. But I do. A lot. I downloaded the album right after we finished watching the movie and have listened to it several times this afternoon. All the songs are in French, and I only understand a few words here and there. But I don't mind. The songs are catchy in any language. And this might be shallow of me, but when an Italian supermodel with a velvety, smokey voice is singing to me en Français (And she is singing to me, isn't she?) it really doesn't matter what she's saying.

link to this | comments (0) | File:  Movies  Music 

We'd been wanting to see Spiderman 3 on the big screen ever since it came out May 4th. But between moving and rental preparations, we just never got around to it. So when we looked last Friday and found that it wasn't playing at any of the major theaters near us, momentary panic ensued. Had we missed it? Were we doomed to watch this special-effects extravaganza on our 32" TV? Please, please, say it ain't so.

Then we found a listing at a dollar cinema, Beltway Movie 6 in northeast Baltimore. Seemed promising, but I was skeptical. No stadium seating? Only six theaters? What kind of place was this, anyway. I promptly turned my nose up at the very idea of setting foot anywhere near this so-called 'theater.'

But C was insistent. Which meant this was not a thing that was open to discussion. I don't mean to imply I didn't have a choice in the matter. Clearly, my choices were: Spiderman 3 at Beltway Movie 6 or a lifetime of quiet pain and suffering.

Going to the 'dollar cinema' these days will actually cost you somewhere in the ballpark of $3.50. Still, seven bucks for two people - I actually thought the guy had made a mistake when he quoted me the price. Seven bucks? It seemed entirely improbable. Maybe he hadn't realized C was with me. When you pay seven bucks for a movie, you tend to have low expectations about the quality of the theaters. Especially when you've come to see twenty bucks as the norm. I figured the theater would smell of sweaty little kids. I figured my shoes would stick to the floor. I figured I'd be greeted by a cold damp seat cushion, a gift from the prior occupant's spilled coke.

But all those expectations turned out to be wrong. The theater was really well maintained. It even smelled . . . good. And the layout of the entire building was refreshingly simple. You walk back to the ticket taker and there are three theaters on the left, three on the right. And you can see every movie title from that one vantage point. No endless, labyrinthine hallways. No need for a compass and plenty of water. Wow. So quaint. I'd almost use the word 'cute.' It lifted my thoughts right out of 2007 and all its worries and set them quietly down smack dab in the middle of 1984. I thought of the great movies I'd seen in places like this. Indiana Jones. Cloak and Dagger. This was escapism at its finest. And the movie hadn't even started yet. Hell, we hadn't even sat down. I'm a dollar-cinema convert.

And the movie? It was great. A bit sappy, even for a Spiderman movie. But holy crap there were some incredible effects going on. The Sandman stuff was great.

The only down side of the evening turned out to be the crazy old man who sat down behind us just as the trailers started. He had a long white beard which lay like a grizzly old blanket over his extended belly, right down to his navel. I could hear several of the kids in that row whisper the word 'Santa Claus.' "That's right kids, I'm Santa Claus. So you better be good during the movie, or no gifts this year." He had a sharp, cigarette-tinged voice. If Kris Kringle had retired from gift-giving to drop acid and dance naked back in the 60s, then this might have very well been him. But I had a hunch this was somebody altogether different. The only thing he had in common with Santa Claus, aside from his beard of course, was his booming voice. He made loud sarcastic comments during the movie, laughed (loudly) at inappropriate times, and insisted on yawning (again, quite loudly) anytime things slowed down a bit in the action. C came very close to saying something to him, but we figured engaging this man might make it worse for us in the end. So we put up with it. Mostly, the movie was loud enough to drown him out, anyway. We got our money's worth, and some.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Movies  Ho_Hum