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Sue Trowbridge lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. She is the co-owner of an independent record label, 125 Records, and web diva of interbridge.com.
Feedback: loudfan@gmail.com more weblog:
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7.31.05 trade-off
If I'm honest with myself, in my heart of hearts, I knew this day would come. I've feared it, dreaded it, but ever since the spring, it's been a sad inevitability.
It's over.
My favorite player, Yorvit Torrealba, has been traded to the Seattle Mariners.
New Giants catcher Mike Matheny has been enjoying a good year, so Yorvit has been playing less and less. Now he's completely faded away. In exchange, the Giants will be getting switch-hitting center fielder Randy Winn. The Giants also gave up Jesse Foppert, a pitcher whose name recognition comes primarily from the team's injury report.
I hope Yorvit, who has been in the Giants organization his entire career, will get to play more frequently, and perhaps help the bottom-dwelling Mariners move up a bit in the standings. I guess the next time I see him will be in September, when the A's play a three-game series against the Mariners (hey, Sept. 6 is Mark Kotsay Bobblehead Day!). In the meantime, ¡Buena suerte, Yorvit!
7.28.05 stubbed
A few years ago, Joe and I were visiting Rog and dropped in at his sister's house. She was a frequent moviegoer and had collected tons of movie ticket stubs in a jumbo popcorn bucket. I thought that was a really fun idea, so I immediately started collecting stubs (I never got a popcorn bucket for them, though, more's the pity). I have done so ever since, and have loads of them now.
Unfortunately, there's bad news for stub collectors: most of our local theaters are now using thermal paper, the kind old fax machines use. Anyone who's tried saving anything printed on thermal paper will know that it usually fades in just a few weeks' or months' time. I'm sure it's cheaper, but it's also sort of the End of an Era.
Before:
After:
7.27.05 a simple plan
Here is another New Rule: If you donate your used periodicals to the library's magazine swap, only donate issues which are completely intact. I hate picking up a magazine from the rack, taking it home, and realizing that the article I wanted to read has been torn out. There's a place for mutilated magazines: the recycling bin!
Recently, I grabbed a couple issues of Real Simple, which seems to be a popular read in Berkeley, judging from its frequent appearances on the swap rack (along with old Sunsets and the ubiquitous New Yorker). Judging from the title, you may imagine that Real Simple is a handbook for people in the voluntary simplicity movement -- you know, the kind of people who shop at their local food co-op, or give up high-powered careers in law or high finance to become itinerant netsuke carvers.
However, Real Simple is actually aimed at women who love their stuff -- they just wish it were better organized. RS is chock full of ads for luxury cars and SUVs, cosmetics, designer clothing, and high-end retailers like Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein. A "Products of the Month" column touts MP3 players and kitchen appliances. And there are many, many articles on how to make your home clean and uncluttered.
I can't bring myself to become a regular RS reader, although I guiltily recognize that I am firmly in its target audience. I love curling up with the Container Store or Hold Everything catalog; my TiVo is set to record every episode of "Clean Sweep" and "Mission: Organization"; and, most crucially, I fantasize about the day when I will have time to actually go through and organize my stuff, putting it into the pretty boxes I've purchased... not to mention, organizing my medicine cabinet, making a festive kitchen-sink sponge holder, and labeling my closet shelves. Maybe RS just hits a little too close to (my cluttered) home.
By the way, the ultimate example of Organization Porn is Real Simple: The Organized Home, a lavish book filled with lovingly photographed linen closets, drawers, and kitchen cabinets, with no dog hair or piles of newspapers and junk mail in sight. Mmmm... fantasies!
7.25.05 summer reading, part 3
Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, J.K. Rowling: I know Rowling has said that she plotted the story arc of her seven-part series several years ago, but you can't tell me that the new HP isn't influenced by current events. Voldemort and his Death Eaters clearly represent the shadowy terrorist threat of Al Qaeda, while Hogwarts headmaster Dumbledore is George Bush or Tony Blair, mistakenly convinced that he can keep his homeland secure. The wizard prison, Azkaban, is like a supernatural Abu Ghraib, where those accused of alleged ties to terrorism, I mean Voldemort, can be kept locked up indefinitely. I'm not a Pottermaniac, but I enjoy the series' inventiveness (though I wish I could have read the books as a child, before adulthood turned me into a hopeless Muggle). My college writing teachers would have taken a red pen to Rowling's prose, though, particularly her adverb addiction. Opening to a random page:
said Harry hastily
said Hermoine succinctly
said Harry quickly
said Parvati gloomily
said Harry firmly
said Hermione sweetly
suggested Harry bluntly
said Luna politely
And then, two pages later, we're back to "said Harry firmly" again. The book probably would have been considerably shorter than 650 pages if Rowling would get rid of some of those freaking adverbs already. Oh well -- "I'll be back for Book Seven anyway," said Sue resolutely.
Crossworld: One Man's Journey into America's Crossword Obsession, Marc Romano: I'm a confirmed crossword addict, so this book was a great find. Crossworld doesn't pretend to be a definitive history of the popular puzzles, although it does provide plenty of interesting stories about their origin, as well as interviews with America's undisputed crossword czar (or tsar, if you're an xword buff): Will Shortz, puzzle editor of the New York Times. Mainly, it's a personal tale of one man's attempt to hone his skills enough to enter (and not embarrass himself at) the annual American Crossword Puzzle Tournament. Now, I would never want to enter a crossword contest; I consider myself pretty fast, and can usually solve a Sunday NYT puzzle in about half an hour, but I can sweat for hours over the ultra-difficult Friday and Saturday crosswords (I usually require Joe's help on those). But I loved reading about the championship puzzlers, including an Internet acquaintance of mine, Jon Delfin. And I'm not going to argue with this observation:
Being what they are, crossword puzzles also tend to attract a disproportionate number of people who are deeply introspective and less adept at normal social interactions than someone grabbed at random from the greater population... these are the kind of people who, if they ever went to a shrink, would bitterly frustrate their therapist by lying on their couch for the whole hour, staring at the ceiling and feeling perfectly comfortable not saying a word except for "Hello" and "Good-bye."
Don't Eat This Book, Morgan Spurlock: After having spent several years maintaining the web site for The Strategic Alliance, I have developed an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Americans' poor nutritional habits. So I really didn't glean much new information from Don't Eat This Book. However, I have kind of a fascination with the charismatic, mustachioed "Super Size Me" star, and since Don't Eat... is available as an unabridged audiobook, well... the idea of spending eight hours listening to Morgan was as irresistible as a bag of Fritos with sour cream and onion dip. Spurlock does go into more detail about his "Super Size" experience, as well as the criticism he received after the film's release. It's a fun listen, and if you're not already a vegetarian, you may want to become one after Spurlock tells you just where your hamburger comes from. Speaking of which, what would happen to a McDonald's cheeseburger if you bought it, put it on a shelf in 1991, and left it there for the next 14 years? Read Don't Eat... and find out.
New Rules: Polite Musings of a Timid Observer, Bill Maher: This was another unabridged audiobook, and considering that it was only two and a half hours long, and the book is 300 pages long, I can only imagine that the dead-tree edition has more white space than John Goodman's ass. (Rim shot.) Anyway, the Libertarian comedian has something to offend everyone -- he takes potshots at Christians, Jews, Republicans, Democrats, gays, straights, etc. Since there are topical jokes about the runaway bride, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, and John Bolton, the book will be completely out of date within a few months. For a free sample of Maher's rules, check out the "Real Time With Bill Maher" web site. You'll probably be inspired to write some of your own. Here are a couple of mine:
New rule: Leaf blowers should be made illegal. For hundreds of years, we had something that worked just as well, didn't use gasoline, and didn't wake me up early in the morning. It's called a rake.
New rule: If you own a public restroom, don't remove the hook from the stall door. Let's see... the infinitesimal risk of someone reaching over to steal my purse, vs. the certainty of it getting dirty and germy when I have to put it on the floor? No contest.
7.24.05 up on the rooftop
I'm putting the training diary on hiatus for a bit -- I came down with a cold immediately upon returning from my summer holiday lack-of-sleep-a-thon, and took a few days off. This morning, I did manage to get up early and run an easy-paced three miles. I'm so glad to be away from the Midwestern heat and humidity. As of this writing (Sunday, 9:45 AM), it's about 65 degrees and breezy. I don't mean to brag, but -- well, OK, I do mean to brag, because there has to be something good about this place to compensate for the traffic misery and high cost of living.
We received a notice from the condo board that our roof is going to be replaced during August. This will, of course, cause noise that will make the Monday-morning leaf-blowing seem like the babbling of a tranquil brook by comparison. I'm not sure what to do -- I've been overwhelmed with work lately, though I suppose I could do more of it in the late afternoon (I'm guessing the roofers will knock off around 4 PM) and on weekends. But where would I go during the day? The library isn't particularly quiet, especially in the summer -- librarians are trying to escape that whole shhhh reputation, which frankly, I feel is a bit of a loss for all of us silence-lovers. I could go to the movies. Or to a coffee shop. But then I'd have to leave the dog at home, and he hates noise as much as I do. Decisions, decisions.
7.21.05 class, dismissed
I didn't bother posting a virtual "gone fishin'" sign here, since I would estimate that in the past seven days, I've spent time in person with a solid 90% of this blog's readership. To anyone I missed on my "Sleep? I don't need no stinkin' sleep!" tour of the upper midwest -- well, here I am again! Back in the land of humidity-free, 65-degree days which are ever so much more runner-friendly than 90-degree scorchers; back in the company of the dog; and on my nightstand, a copy of the new Harry Potter book freshly procured from the library, tempting me away from the 200 e-mails I still have to go through. I answered several messages this morning, and yet more keep piling up, "Sorcerer's Apprentice"-like, every time I return to my inbox.
As a result of all my travels during the past few months, I have become obsessed with the class system, as it plays out in the business of air travel. On this trip, I flew Continental, which features the very special blue carpet. You can only trod on the blue carpet if you are in first class or have enough miles to qualify for elite-flyer status. Otherwise, watch out! Don't step a plebeian foot on the blue carpet, or you will be severely chastised by the gate personnel! Because the blue carpet is reserved for very special people!
When I traveled to Sweden, I flew business class, since I was not eager to spend 11 hours each way crammed into a coach seat. Yes, I enjoyed the warm mixed nuts, the complimentary wine and the noise-canceling headsets, but once again, class reared its head -- I was not allowed to use the first-class loo (despite the fact that it was the one closest to my seat) or, in the airport, enter the first-class lounge. The moral: even after you've spent years clawing your way up to the next level, there's always someone looking down on you! Even if you do get to first class, there's still a hierarchy; a passenger chart is posted in the first-class galley, informing the flight attendants which passengers paid full fare and which are traveling on air miles or lucked into an upgrade. Guess which people get the best service.
I have a soft spot for the we're-all-in-this-together democracy of Southwest, the Greyhound Bus of the skies, but they often don't provide the most convenient service to my destinations (they're great for short hops to cities like Seattle or San Diego, though). My favorite airline ever, though, was Midwest Express, which offered everyone the same fabulous service -- wide seats, delicious food served on china, hot chocolate chip cookies -- at a reasonable fare. Unfortunately, they suffered financial difficulties and severely curtailed their service, including their daily nonstop SFO-Milwaukee flight. Which is a shame, because to me, Midwest represented the American dream, where everyone is entitled to a nice house, a nice car, a free glass of wine, and a delicious, freshly-baked cookie.
7.12.05 summer reading, part 2
Oblivion, Peter Abrahams: The reason I added this book to my library queue was because I read a review in which the critic said it was so exciting, he brought it along in his car to read at stoplights. I didn't find it nearly so enticing; after a strong start, I thought it was highly put-down-able, but I finished it anyway. Oblivion is not unlike the movie "Memento" in that the protagonist has serious memory problems. Instead of tattoos, Oblivion's Nick Petrov, a private investigator, keeps track of everything on little scraps of paper. Sometimes, he has to investigate himself -- like, who was the client who hired him in the first place? Intriguing premise, but by the end, I couldn't remember why I'd kept reading it.
Garlic and Sapphires, Ruth Reichl: Probably the weakest in Reichl's trilogy of autobiographies, Garlic relies way too heavily on descriptions of food. If you want to hear about dozens of meals in excruciating detail, from foie gras with strawberries to high-end sushi, this is the book for you. And yet, this book is also filled with absolutely priceless anecdotes, particularly the one in which Reichl must take a pompous blowhard who "won" her in a charity auction out to dinner at a fancy restaurant. (I'd love to know if he's read the book -- I assume names have been changed to protect the guilty.) Oh, and then there's the hilarious story about how she had to spend weeks arranging a Chinese banquet for a bunch of muckety-mucks at the New York Times, where she toiled as the restaurant reviewer. Or all the tales of the disguises she donned so she could be anonymous when visiting dining establishments -- I relished the adventures of "Chloe," the blonde bombshell, "Brenda," the friendly and vivacious redhead, and plain, frumpy "Betty." In other words, despite its flaws, this non-foodie found Garlic perfectly delectable.
I'm Not the New Me, Wendy McClure: I knew McClure as the "Weight Watchers recipe card girl", and I'll confess that when I heard she had written a book which prominently featured the cards, I thought, oh, how lame. Like, she had probably just s-t-r-e-t-c-h-e-d the admittedly funny cards and commentary into the sort of lightweight book you find near the cash registers at Barnes & Noble. Wrong!!! I'm glad a Chronicle review convinced me to give this memoir a chance. Out of the 27 books I've read so far this year, this is probably my favorite. McClure was an early contributor to Television Without Pity, so you know she's got a snarky, cynical sense of humor. The book deals in an incredibly frank and witty way with McClure's love life and her struggles to lose weight, and you might think that it's all building toward some triumphant moment in which Wendy sheds those excess pounds and meets Mr. Right, but it's more like Jerry Seinfeld's famous statement about his sitcom: "Nobody hugs, nobody learns." Well, maybe there are a few hugs and a little bit of learning. But not too much.
Where There's a Will, Aaron Elkins: I have read all 12 of the Gideon Oliver mysteries, about a globetrotting forensic anthropologist (or "skeleton doctor," as he's often called). Part of the reason is that I can't resist finding out where Elkins has set his latest volume; I have a strong suspicion that he uses his series as an excuse for tax-deductible travel. Gideon (and, I imagine, Elkins) has been in Italy, France (twice), Egypt, Germany, England, Alaska and Tahiti, among other exotic locales. Now it's time for Gideon (and Elkins) to set off for the Big Island of Hawaii. As usual, Gideon is only traveling in order to attend an academic conference and then enjoy a little downtime, but in an amazing coincidence, he lands smack-dab in the middle of a mystery involving his specialty -- old bones! OK, so it sounds a little lame, but these books are my literary comfort food, and I love reading about all the different places (it's not dissimilar to why I am hopelessly hooked on "The Amazing Race"). Where There's a Will is a good mystery with a satisfyingly tricky solution, and it gets bonus points for being about a family of Swedish immigrants. What's next for Gideon? Hmm, I don't think he's visited Australia yet...
Joe and I hold season tickets to two local theater companies, which guarantees a variety of experiences. Sometimes, I have to admit that I feel like I'm back in school -- dare I confess that I was slightly relieved when A.C.T. canceled its scheduled run of "King Lear" during the 2005-06 season and replaced it with a Kurt Weill/Bertolt Brecht musical? Yes, I feel that my mind has been expanded by the Ibsen, Camus and O'Neill plays I've seen; but once in a while, something comes along that's the theatrical equivalent of eating potato chips, or reading a trashy magazine at the hairdresser's.
Last night, we saw "The Goat, or Who Is Sylvia?" by Edward Albee, the final play of A.C.T.'s current season. I had heard of "The Goat," which won a Tony Award, but I didn't know what it was about until I read the review in the Chronicle last month. To put it frankly: "The Goat" is about a man who has an affair with a goat. As in, the barnyard animal.
The play is actually quite thought-provoking -- I believe Albee was trying to come up with an act that was so shocking and extreme that it could not possibly be forgiven, toss it like a nuclear bomb in the middle of a family, and see what effect it has on relationships. Martin, who has been happily married to Stevie for over 20 years, isn't just, uh, sleeping with the goat; he's in love with the goat. And when his wife finds out (how she finds out is another discussion-worthy topic), she does not handle the news well, to put it mildly. Pamela Reed, who may be best known for co-starring with the future Governator in "Kindergarten Cop," is excellent in a harrowing role that requires her to smash things and scream and generally go nuts.
By the time Martin starts telling Stevie about a therapy group for zoophiles that he joined, I was practically mesmerized. I mean, you don't even get stuff like this on "Jerry Springer" (I remember reading that once, Springer was supposed to have on a man who married a horse, but it was deemed too hot for TV and the episode was scrubbed). Only one of America's most revered living playwrights, and Albee definitely belongs in that category, could get away with this kind of subject matter.
"The Goat" is, of course, rich in marvelous dialogue -- theater buffs will chuckle at sly references to Albee's own "Tiny Alice" and the absurdist play "Oh Dad, Poor Dad..." -- but every few minutes, one of the characters will yell that Martin is a "goat-f@#%er!" and slap you right in the face with the show's sordid subject matter. The third act, if you can believe it, gets even more extreme. And the final scene... well, I'm just surprised it didn't give me nightmares.
In short, if you know what "The Goat" is about and still want to see it, well, you'll definitely get your money's worth. Albee may be in his 70s now, but he is still a world-class provocateur.
7.10.05 special bonus bragging edition
Defamer linked to one of my web sites (click on "Jay Leno's face"). I have never felt cooler. I got 600 extra hits out of it yesterday, too.
7.10.05 my training diary: week 5
My dad e-mailed me an article from the New York Times about Team in Training and similar charitable programs. I was afraid that it was going to be a scary cautionary tale about novice exercisers collapsing on the track, but aside from some anecdotal evidence from a personal trainer who runs a swimming program ("They push themselves over the finish line, and a lot of them end up injured and in the pool with me"), it's actually more of a feel-good story. A man who had to learn to walk again after a stroke finished numerous races and now coaches potential marathoners; five sisters hope to raise $30,000 for Team in Training. "For many participants, the majority of whom are women, taking time to exercise every day is an indulgence they would not otherwise allow themselves," says the article. "Often, competing on behalf of a charity is the incentive they need to justify taking time away from their families or jobs."
I believe that. One of the beginning runners on my team has an infant, and her husband is taking care of the child while she trains. In this judgmental society, would she feel like a "bad mom" if she was parking the kid with hubby several times a week in order to do something less altruistic?
Meanwhile, I, feeling no guilt about leaving Hobie at home with Joe, awoke at 7 AM yesterday in order to go to a coach's run at Lake Chabot, about 25 minutes away. It was drizzling and around 60 degrees when I arrived. I would have given anything to be back home in bed, reading the paper and eating a bowl of cereal. However, after some warm-ups and stretches, I felt less chilled, and ready to set off on a hilly six-mile run. Well, as ready as I'd ever be, anyway.
To pass the time between the fluid stops, in which volunteers offer little paper cups of water or sports drink to the runners, I make up haiku in my head.
Oasis ahead
Is it just a mirage? No
Gatorade awaits.
The weird thing is that I realized that if I had been an outsider visiting the park and noticed all these people in matching T-shirts running around, cheering each other on, I probably would have felt slightly envious of all the camaraderie. One of the coaches banged on a cowbell as people ran across the finish line. Runners were tired, but smiling. It looked like...fun. It was actually kind of fun. Imagine that.
Afterwards, my thigh muscles were sore from the hills, but I felt like I'd passed another milestone. As I've said before, I've never considered myself much of a "team" person, but I can definitely understand how being a part of something larger can help motivate you to do things you wouldn't be able to accomplish on your own.
I am soooo close to reaching the one-third mark of my fundraising goal (I'm at 29% as of today). You guys rock! Here's the link that will enable you to enjoy the warm, fuzzy feeling of helping raise money for cancer research, without going through the whole business of getting out of bed at 7 AM on Saturday mornings.
7.8.05 summer reading, part 1
For some reason, I rarely write about books in this forum. I read quite a lot of them, though. My regular goal is to read 50 books a year. A few years ago, I actually made it to 100, but that was before my businesses really took off and I had a lot more free time on my hands. Anyway, so far this year I've made it to 27.
The latest book I finished was a super-easy, and utterly delightful, read: Nick Hornby's The Polysyllabic Spree, a 140-page book of essays about reading. The book's conceit is this: every month (the book covers a 14-month period, one chapter per month), Hornby lists all the books he bought during the previous month, and those he actually read. As any book lover will understand, he buys far more than he has time to read. (The guy has three kids, for heaven's sake.)
I grew very frustrated when a favorite of mine would show up in Hornby's "books bought" list without making it over to "books read." I just pray he eventually got around to reading Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon, which is one of my all-time favorites. And The Amateur Marriage by Anne Tyler -- how could you not want to dive into a new Tyler novel right away? Yet it was purchased in March 2004, and remained unread by November of that year (the final chapter).
The Polysyllabic Spree is filled with funny and insightful observations. For instance, in September 2003, Hornby read Pompeii, a book written by his brother-in-law, Robert Harris. "It has to be a rule, I think, that when a family member gives you his new book, you stop what you're doing and read it. Having a brother-in-law for a writer could have turned out really, really badly. He could have been more or less successful than me. Or he could have written books that I hated, or found impossible to get through. (Imagine if your brother-in-law wrote Finnegans Wake, and you were really busy at work. Or you weren't really a big reader.)"
Many readers will find themselves wanting to add books from Hornby's "read" list to their own TBR (to be read) stacks. Like A Fiery Elephant, for instance, Jonathan Coe's biography of experimental novelist B.S. Johnson, a self-promoting egomaniac who killed himself in 1973. The book "doesn't have a U.S. publisher, which seems absurd," writes Hornby. "Your guys seem to have been frightened off by Johnson's obscurity, but we've never heard of him, either; the book works partly because its author anticipates our ignorance." Coincidentally, the day after I finished Hornby's book, I read a rave review of Like A Fiery Elephant in the San Francisco Chronicle -- an American publisher finally released it a couple months ago.
To be honest, I enjoyed The Polysyllabic Spree more than I did A Long Way Down, Hornby's latest novel. Better than How To Be Good, but not as good as About a Boy or High Fidelity, A Long Way Down tells the story of four people who plan to kill themselves on New Year's Eve. They all run into each other on the roof of a tall building before they take the leap, and decide not to go through with it. The book follows their lives for the first few months after their aborted suicide attempts. Hornby is such a good writer, but it's almost as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with his quartet once he got them down from the top of the building.
So my recommendation is to pick up The Polysyllabic Spree -- if you purchase it, instead of check it out of the library (as I did), your $14 will help fund 826NYC and the Treehouse.
7.7.05 off the hook
No jury duty for me; no BART strike. Hooray.
A couple of links:
My friend Aaron's remembrance of his mom, who passed away earlier this week
Bangkok street dogs: the blog
7.5.05 i, the jury, part 2
Getting a jury summons in the mail is bad enough, but when your summons date turns out to coincide with a local transit organization's strike deadline, well, things could get ugly. Last year, I phoned the jury hotline the evening before my summons date and found I didn't have to report. Will I have to do my civic duty this year, which would involve getting up at six A.M. and fighting potentially hellish traffic for 25 miles to get to the courthouse on time? Tune in tomorrow and find out.
Hey, 25 miles -- that's almost a marathon distance! Maybe I could get up at four A.M. and just run it.
7.4.05 my training diary: week 4
One month down, and I've increased my mileage to four. It took me around 45-50 minutes to cover that distance.
A couple of people have asked me if I've lost weight since I started training. I've actually gained a little bit, probably because running makes me really, really hungry. I expect that as I continue, it'll level out. But I'm glad I'm not doing this only to slim down, because I'd be rather disappointed.
Until I started training, I had never tasted Gatorade. It was suggested that we use Gatorade as well as water because of its electrolyte and sodium content. I have to say, the stuff works. Downing 8-10 ounces of Gatorade after a run is just indescribably refreshing. I'm partial to the raspberry lemonade flavor.
Fundraising watch: According to the donations chart on my Team in Training page, I'm 22% of the way to my $1,800 goal. Woo hoo! If anyone else would care to kick in a few bucks, I'd be grateful. When I'm feeling lazy and having a hard time motivating myself to go out and run, I really do think about the fact that I'm not just doing this for me, I'm raising money for an important cause. So far, it's worked every time.
7.3.05 kids today
I wouldn't call myself a fan of comic book or superhero movies, though I do usually go see them if they get good reviews ("Spiderman 2," "X2," etc.). Since "Batman Begins" has been praised by many critics and friends, Joe and I decided it would be good entertainment for the holiday weekend.
We got to the theater about 10 minutes before the movie started. A family with two small children (one infant, one 5-year-old -- I know how old he was because he announced his age at one point) was sitting behind us. It turns out this was the 5-year-old's first visit to a movie theater. He was wearing a T-shirt with the Batman logo and made mention of his many Batman toys.
First: previews. "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," coming July 15. Remember how Johnny Depp channeled Keith Richards in "Pirates of the Caribbean"? It seemed to me that his main influence as Willy Wonka (this impression is based solely on a three-minute trailer, mind) is Michael Jackson. Depp definitely seems to be playing Wonka as a manchild, and the chocolate factory is his Neverland. As for the Oompa Loompas -- well, I won't go there.
"Batman Begins" begins with Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale) in jail in Bhutan, where he gets into a brutal fistfight with several inmates. Then he's rescued by Liam Neeson, and is taken to a remote mountain cabin, where Bruce learns a new fighting technique that's unstoppable. Flashback: Ten-year-old Bruce's parents are shot and killed in front of him during a street robbery. This all takes place in, oh, the first 20 minutes of the film. I figured the kid would have run screaming for the exits, but I turned around and he was still there.
The two-hour, 15-minute film is noisy and violent, filled with car crashes and fires and nightmarish visions and crooked cops and evil madmen. If I had seen it at the age of five, I would have had nightmares for the rest of my childhood, and quite possibly beyond. But I guess the kid sitting behind me has probably seen all sorts of scary movies on DVD, and was completely unfazed by "Batman Begins." Heck, the family even stayed through the end credits (my favorite: Morgan Freeman's hair stylist gets a credit. Is it really that complicated to fix Morgan's hair?).
As for my adult opinion, I didn't connect emotionally with "Batman Begins" the way I did with the much more endearing "Spiderman 2." "Batman" is, quite frankly, not a very fun movie. It has some very enjoyable aspects -- the cast, which also features Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, Liam Neeson and that chick who's dating Tom Cruise -- is top-notch, and Bale does a good job of portraying both Bruce Wayne the shallow, handsome party-boy and his tormented, crime-fighting alter ego. But the whole thing just takes itself so seriously, especially the first hour or so. Once Bruce starts dressing up as a bat and flying through the air -- a guy in a bat suit wearing a helmet with little bat ears -- that's just funny. "Batman" has a tiny bit of fun with it, but not enough to shake the unrelenting air of ponderousness.
7.1.05 taxing
First, thanks to Josh -- yes, the Josh! -- for the pic. I used to live about three blocks away from that joint, and while I always adored the sign, I never managed to photograph it (or, I might add, go inside).
Every couple of weeks, the "Giants Jottings" e-newsletter features a new installment of "Ask the Giants," in which fans get to ask members of the team incredibly probing questions such as, "What's your favorite thing about San Francisco?" or "What kind of music do you like?" The current installment features closer Tyler Walker. Walker thinks playing for the Giants is "great, super," and he's a big fan of crosswords (yay!). Interestingly, Walker prefers the USA Today crossword, which I've always found to be a very underrated puzzle. Since the newspaper is so graphically oriented, you might think its crossword would be about on a par with the TV Guide puzzle, but you'd be wrong; it's quite tricky.
Anyway, Jo M. asks Tyler, "Being a local guy, how many tickets for each game do you have to try to get for family and friends?" Walker's response: "Not many. Since we get taxed on them, I only leave them for family or friends on rare occasions."
Taxed on them!! Now, Walker earns a mere $326,000 a year, peanuts compared to what many of his fellow major leaguers rake in, but c'mon, Tyler, give your pals some free tickets already.
In other Giants news: Yorvit Torrealba hadn't played since June 23, but he finally came back last night after a week of all Matheny, all the time. And it was a fine, fine evening. Giants beat the D'backs 9-2 and swept the series! They're still in fourth place in the NL West, but perhaps these wins will give them the confidence they need to beat #1 San Diego over the weekend. A girl can dream.
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