Life, Simplified - Part 4: Smile, Redux

I don't think there is one among us humans who has not benefited from being told of, or who hasn't stumbled across a technique or process or a trick that makes life simpler. Sometimes it's an evolution of steps in an activity that we tend to pare down into a more streamlined way, only to be shocked some time later when reminded of how we used to do it. Other times it's a sudden realization that we could do a task in a totally different way that shaves time or effort from our day. Or sometimes it's much, much bigger than that.

In a series of posts — because I think one post to cover all of them would just be too long ...like that ever stopped me before — I will highlight the things I have discovered on my own which have made life better.

A Life Experiment, Perhaps
It has been a couple years since I wrote The Power of the Smile, and a couple more years since I began applying that of which I wrote, and I want to present an update. Go ahead and read The Power of the Smile again (come on! I linked it twice!) and then come back here to finish. I'll be brief. I promise. Go. I'll wait.

Welcome Back
Life will always have its ups and downs. Setbacks. Triumphs. Love. Loss. Two years ago I waxed romantic about smiling and finding love and, well, that romance was brief. Though I couldn't keep the girl, I kept the smile and, I must say, my words then still ring true today. Plastering a smile on my face daily no matter in what mood I awake really is the key to smoothing out the day. I have changed jobs since I wrote about smiles, and my daily work stress is probably greater than it was as a valet manager, and I still grumble when things don't run smoothly or when the crap seems to pile on more quickly than I can shovel. But now I take several moments a day to step back from it, look at myself, and smile. It's absurd. It's not brain surgery. It's the stuff of sitcoms. And I laugh.

The practice of smiling truly has changed my life for the better. I feel happier even though the circumstances of my life have not greatly improved. Moments of inevitable anger or frustration at the obstacles in my life don't last nearly as long as they used to. I have learned not to dwell on them. I have learned to smile. If smile dopamine is pumping through my body, anger mojo can't take hold.

It's the easiest self-help in the world: Just. Smile.



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Life, Simplified - Part 3: Within the Circle

I don't think there is one among us humans who has not benefited from being told of, or who hasn't stumbled across a technique or process or a trick that makes life simpler. Sometimes it's an evolution of steps in an activity that we tend to pare down into a more streamlined way, only to be shocked some time later when reminded of how we used to do it. Other times it's a sudden realization that we could do a task in a totally different way that shaves time or effort from our day. Or sometimes it's much, much bigger than that.

In a series of posts — because I think one post to cover all of them would just be too long ...like that ever stopped me before — I will highlight the things I have discovered on my own which have made life better.

Have a seat. Ease your mind.
Women haven't had to figure this one out....

For about 46 of my 53 years roaming the planet, I had made life more difficult for myself than it had to be. Like most healthy, able men, I had followed the male social norm of peeing while standing up. It's easy, our underwear is designed for it: just open the flap, whip it out, and let it flow.

However, also like most men, I have terrible aim. And really, it's not so much about the aim, but more about the starting and the stopping. What with an eager surge at the beginning and a dribbling finish, we sometimes (usually) miss the bowl and manage to hit the rim. Or the floor. Or the wall.

I got tired of feeling the impulse to wipe the rim clean with toilet paper, often ignoring said impulse, and subsequently got tired of seeing the dried, yellow stains clinging there later in the day ...or week. Yes, I'm also lazy.

So, one day, in an amazing moment of brilliance, I wondered, "How could I make it so I don't have to clean my toilet so frequently?"

A strange voice, unfamiliar to me in the dark, echoing chasm that is my mind, the voice that is rational, pragmatic reasoning, replied, "Stop peeing on the rim, idiot." My rational, pragmatic reasoning voice doesn't think very highly of me.

"But how do I do that?"

"By placing the source of the stream below the rim, you moron!"

Of course! The pee can't get on the rim if it's never above the rim! That's pure genius! ...or common sense. I often confuse the two.

And so, about three years ago or so, I started sitting down on the toilet to pee. I haven't cleaned my toilet since!

I'M KIDDING!

But it has made my life remarkably better. I'm not having to clean my toilet as often, nor feeling guilty for letting so much time slip in between cleanings. And it's better for my friends because I sit down to pee in their bathrooms, as well. My aim is no better there than at home!

Guys, it doesn't make you any less a man to pee sitting down. Do it. Your girlfriend will appreciate it. Your wife will love you more for it. You'll love yourself for it. Your buddies will... well, they'll probably bust your balls for it publicly, but then they'll go home, look at their disgusting toilets, and realize you really are the genius in their circle!

Really. It will make your life better. It certainly did mine!



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Life, Simplified - Part 2: Go Juice

I don't think there is one among us humans who has not benefited from being told of, or who hasn't stumbled across a technique or process or a trick that makes life simpler. Sometimes it's an evolution of steps in an activity that we tend to pare down into a more streamlined way, only to be shocked some time later when reminded of how we used to do it. Other times it's a sudden realization that we could do a task in a totally different way that shaves time or effort from our day. Or sometimes it's much, much bigger than that.

In a series of posts — because I think one post to cover all of them would just be too long ...like that ever stopped me before — I will highlight the things I have discovered on my own which have made life better.

With a V8, You Can Really GO!
Back in the aught decade, when Oprah! was still on the air, the Chicago affiliate ran it twice a day: once in daytime, and then again at night after the local news. I was still married then, and we would lie in bed and watch Oprah! 'til we crashed, or until Nightline came on. On one particular Oprah! in 2005 or 2006 she featured one of her regular visitors, then up-and-coming daytime talk TV superstar, Dr. Oz. He came on and made the audience squirm by talking about things we are too embarrassed to talk about to our doctors, one of them being our poop.

I'll warn you right now, this post will briefly get a bit graphic, so you may wish to skip to the end and work your way back....

Dr. Oz talked about how some patients had asked him how their poop should be, what it should look like. He said that it shouldn't be hard nuggets, nor should it be really soft or semi-liquid. What it should look like, he said, is a semi-firm, long, unbroken, S-shaped poop. To my relief, he didn't show photos. And to yours, neither will I.

But I lay there thinking, "Mine aren't like that. They vary wildly from one far end of that spectrum to the other and back." He babbled on about the way to achieve the S-shaped poop, but it all sounded like much effort, and I fell asleep.

Flash forward to 2009, and my earnest effort to lose some weight and get into shape. I hired a personal trainer who tasked me with keeping a journal of my diet. Of course, he gave me guidance along the way, with a focus on balancing the food groups and cutting out the sugary and high-carb things. What I had not been eating with any kind of regularity prior to his influence was vegetables, but he changed that with a stern expression and some kindly advice. Soon I was eating vegetables in two meals daily.

And, before I realized it, I was making two poops daily that were perfect Dr. Oz S-shaped poops. So easy, and so regular! Dr. Oz was right — as were about a billion other doctors! A healthy diet is key!

But, after a while, I hit a wall vegetable-wise; there were (are) only so many vegetables I like or know how to cook, and it had become expensive since the portions on offer at the grocery stores always seemed to be more than I could eat in a week — especially if I was trying to vary the menu — and I was losing a lot of vegetables to mold and decay in the refrigerator. I had to find an alternative.

After reading lots of labels in grocery store aisles, I finally decided on the low sodium version of V8 Juice. Each bottle is a cocktail made of eight different vegetables (in case you didn't know why they call it V8), and the ingredients list — at least for a major brand — is pretty brief. There is some added citric acid, "natural flavoring," and potassium chloride, but they make up less than two percent of the whole. So I switched completely over from buying and storing and cooking and eating vegetables to having an eight ounce glass of V8 juice with every meal.

My body didn't miss a beat. I still squeezed out those S-shaped poops!

I included V8 in my daily food journals, and my personal trainer said nothing about it until I asked him. Though he said he would prefer if I cooked and ate vegetables, he had nothing bad to say about substituting low sodium V8 for vegetables on my plate.

So, eight years later, though I've fallen off the workout wagon, I still suck down a glass of V8 with dinner. It never gets old. I never get tired of it. ...or of easy poops! Sometimes I forget, and sometimes I'll go out for dinner that is light on the vegetables, to an almost immediate and uncomfortable result in the bathroom. However, it takes only about three days back on the V8 regimen to get me back in that groove.

I suppose, with all the money I've thrown in to V8 in all that time, I should buy stock in Campbell's or General Motors or whoever it is that makes the V8. It has certainly simplified my life and it makes my life better.



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Life, Simplified - Part 1: Let It Go

I don't think there is one among us humans who has not benefited from being told of, or who hasn't stumbled across a technique or process or a trick that makes life simpler. Sometimes it's an evolution of steps in an activity that we tend to pare down into a more streamlined way, only to be shocked some time later when reminded of how we used to do it. Other times it's a sudden realization that we could do a task in a totally different way that shaves time or effort from our day. Or sometimes it's much, much bigger than that.

In a series of posts — because I think one post to cover all of them would just be too long ...like that ever stopped me before — I will highlight the things I have discovered on my own which have made life better.

When It's Gone, Let It Go
From the moment I separated from the Air Force, I pursued a career in broadcasting and video production: earned my degree in Radio/TV at Southern Illinois University; two years later accepted my first career job at a very small-market TV station in southern Illinois (a stepping stone to fame and fortune); two years later jumped half a country away to a job at a TV station in Georgia; then to a cable outlet in the same town; then back to Chicago. In all, I spent 16 years in the industry.

It was perhaps two years or so into that career when I discovered I wanted to write. I was writing in my job(s) — a lot. As a matter of fact, the writing I did at work — scripts, mainly, for local advertisers' commercials — sucked up all my creative energy, so when I got home, all desire to write what I wanted to write was gone.

Flash forward to 2003 or so, and I had landed what was, for me at the time, a dream job: video production with extensive travel. While I was interested in the travel aspect mostly for the opportunity to see bits of the world, it was in 2003 that I capitalized on the hours of idle time on airplanes and started writing down the stories for which I had only previously scribbled notes. I felt like I was actually getting somewhere with my ideas! On top of that, I was still dreaming of the big time in video production while pitying the poor nine-to-fivers who went to the same job in the same place every day forever.

It all came crashing to a halt in April, 2009, when, due probably as much to my own pride as to the flattened economy, I was shit-canned from my "dream job."

I spent the next three years or so knocking on that career door which had been so unceremoniously shut. There were a few freelance gigs with the former employer, a few gigs picked up through a small network of similarly skilled folks, but in a glutted market that had gone stagnant, I wasn't making enough to support myself. But I was working, having entered the occupation of taxi driver. It was a new experience, being self-employed and building a client base and covering my responsibilities, but after a while I realized that taxi ownership was eating me alive — financially as well as psychologically. The hours were insane: 14-hour days, six days a week, just to make ends meet ...and I wasn't exactly making those ends meet. My debt was growing. I found myself longing to get out, even being happy with the thought of the daily nine-to-five in the same job in the same place every day forever.

But during this same period, I was writing — more so at the beginning. I had lost the momentum on the older ideas I had started, but was cultivating new ideas. I was creating! And I had made the realization that I could return to acting, my other passion, which had lain dormant for more than a decade. It became my primary creative outlet, and my writing tapered off to a trickle.

Still, in this period is when it hit me: I was doing things I wanted to do! It wasn't the career I had chosen that was fulfilling me, but it was in indulging my passions. My career leaving me opened my eyes to the reality that I had been living to work when it should have been the other way around. All those poor nine-to-five saps had been doing it right all along!

So I stopped letting my career drag me along, digging my heels into the earth, hoping for it to let me back in. I just let it go, stood on my own two feet, and watched it shrink to a dot on the horizon.

It took a couple of years. I had to get out of the taxi, so I took whatever I could get. It had been five years since the layoff; the economy had turned back around and was improving. Jobs were to be had once again. There was a false start with a photography company, then two years in a tenuous existence with a valet company who provided shitty pay and no benefits before I landed the perfect, mindless, benefits-rich, nine-to-five existence that leaves me time to my passions.

It has been a slow, grinding re-start to get my writing rolling, but it's coming along. I recently put about a week's worth into a screenplay idea I had a decade ago. I've joined a Facebook writers' group and have already submitted two-thousand words to participate in their challenges. I feel like the Tin Man in the land of Oz whose creaky joints need a little bit of oil, but then he's soon whooping it up with a scarecrow and a lion.

The new job doesn't pay a great deal more than the old, and doesn't make life much easier, but my new outlook makes living with myself much easier. And that makes life much better.



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Homeless At Home

I spent more than one-third of my life in the family home in the town where I grew up. For 19 years and change, I had the stability and familiarity of roots in the same patch of earth through the better part of my formative years. My siblings, all older than I, had been coming of age and leaving the nest slowly but surely, one at a time, throughout my childhood, scattering to nearby suburbs, still close to home, yet leaving me the lone bird. But, mere months after that 19th birthday, it was my turn to fly; I departed for adventures untold in valiant service to my country. And then, four years later, my Air Force career voluntarily cut short after the first contractual obligation, I moved back in with Mom and Dad. And my sister. And her kids. She had moved back home about a year before I left, pretty much the catalyst to my leaving in the first place. But there I was.

But I wasn't done adventuring; college, then a career in broadcasting that took me all over ...uh, two whole states. But always, I had that thin tether reminding me where home was.

And then love reeled me in and took me where? Home. Back to Chicago. Close to family once again.

But then things started changing, started falling apart. With Mom gone for some years, Dad finally sold the house, the home, my roots. What a strange feeling to see it there, nestled between the other homes I had grown up in-between, my home, but not my house, not any more. My boyhood home, the place where my biography starts. But now it's somebody else's home.


The boyhood home ...and the boy. And his sister, Marie,
far right, who passed away in 2014; and family friend,
Gloria, who moved to Florida a thousand years ago.


But that was okay. I still had Dad, and he was in the river house he had bought as a fixer-upper project that, once he had fixer-upped it, he and Mom had moved into. But then Mom was gone.

And then, though he had held up pretty well for a long while, Dad started falling apart, physically. He sold the river house, and another branch of my roots was severed.

And then he was gone, too.

Then my marriage withered and died. As a matter of convenience and economy, I moved to a town much closer to where I plied my trade, where I flexed my career muscles, where I buried my head in the sand of work, where pain and loss could be kept at bay.

And then the career left me. I found myself frantically treading water, working the only job I could find at the time, with a roof over my head, but no place that felt like home. None of my siblings lived in the town that had raised us any more. Sure, we were all scattered about the Chicago suburbs, but that one suburb that held all of my cherished memories was now devoid of all tangibles that were mine. I had nowhere to go to that I could call "back home."

I guess it happens to anyone who flies the coop and lives his life away. The wake one leaves eventually restores, and the stilled waters forget the rushing force that once cleaved them. Homes are sold, folks move on or pass on, and strangers occupy their void.

In the broader sense, Chicago is my "home," will always be my "home." Meet me in St. Louis and ask me what my hometown is. "Chicago," I'll say, because you've likely never heard of the puny suburb that actually calved me. But within that home town there's no place that holds me, no point in the earth to which I'm tethered. When I think about that, it makes me sad. The suburb where I live now is only where I live, now. I'm here only because I had to move out of the post-divorce apartment because I couldn't afford the rent any longer because my career quit me. My current apartment is my pad, but it's not my home.

I'm single. I'm unattached (again). Save for having just started a job where I once again have a track to retirement, I could live anywhere in this country I want to. But I can't think of any place I want to live. Chicagoland is the default because most of my surviving siblings are here, and I've lived in Chicagoland for all but 12 years of my life, and I'm here, now, so it's convenient. But where to live in Chicagoland — or outside of Chicagoland, for that matter? I couldn't decide if my life depended on it.

Ask me where I most want to live in the world. My answer?

Home.

Fade to Grey

There's always a gloom following the close of a show. Actors expend a lot of time and energy preparing for a production, be it a run of one performance or of hundreds. There's the audition process, which can be very easy (cold reads from a script) or very stressful (prepared monologues and repeated callbacks); and then there's the rehearsal process.

In my personal experience, rehearsals last anywhere from four to six weeks, usually nightly five or six days a week. During that time, an actor spends two or three hours each night with the director and the rest of the cast, and a bond forms, a somewhat familial connectedness between and among members of the cast and the director. Inside jokes are created that can last in the minds of each involved forever, and are recalled to the strange looks from unwitting company at the raucous, seemingly unjustified laughter.

A small group, a handful of people, or a throng apply themselves to the common goal of opening night and the performance run, each sharing in the joy, the stress, the exhaustion, and the exhilaration of gestating this baby through to its birth.

And then it's over.


The cast, crew, and director (seated) of End Days, by Deborah Zoe Laufer. (photo: Josie Rivera)


Though friendships have formed, each goes his own separate way into the gloom. The next step for one may be another show, but with a different group of people, with a different director, perhaps at a different venue. All needs to be learned again: names, lines, movement, inside jokes. The next step for another may be quiet evenings again for a while. But, whether jumping back in or laying low, the let-down is real. The depression has weight. It's withdrawal. Coming down from the heights of energy flow, adrenaline rush, the flush of the audiences' adulation — or at least their polite applause. Stepping out of the warm glow of the lights, of the focus of attentive eyes seeking to be entertained and hoping to be enthralled.


Nelson has some questions for Arthur. Julio Knapp (left) and Tony Gasbarro. (photo: Josie Rivera)


My most recent turn on the stage, in a fun comedy-drama called End Days, just ended this past Saturday night, and I'm going through the typical stages of withdrawal, however there's a strange feeling of abruptness with this one. The past two productions I was involved in — two different summer runs, a year apart from each other, of a comedy called Lounging — were three- and four- weekend runs (15 and 20 performances), respectively. At the time, they seemed to go on forever, but — suddenly — they stopped. End Days was a two-weekend run of only seven performances; in comparison to the summer shows, it feels like we were chopped off at the knees.


Sylvia "encourages" the family to pray. Left to right: Emily Hosman, Julio Knapp, Tony Gasbarro,
BethAnn Smukowski (photo: Josie Rivera)


So, on top of the usual feelings of withdrawal, there is the feeling of having been cheated out of a "complete" run.

Regardless, it's done. Whether it's on to the next show, or laying low for a while, I'll keep you posted.



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I Don't Know What I Should Title This Post

Here it is, March of 2017. I have allowed to happen that which I vowed I would not: I let a full year lapse between posts at Farrago. It's quite an embarrassing thing for one who calls himself a writer.

Perhaps my life is ultimately uninteresting even to myself. Time spent sharing the mundane turns of my personal pages seems more and more time wasted — mine and, especially, yours.

But I'm a "writer." I'm supposed to write, if for little more reason than to practice, and to publish, in the form of blog posts, for others to see, to critique and, hopefully, to share.

There is passion, and then there is discipline. Passion is the drive to do something because you enjoy it; discipline is what keeps you doing that thing when the passion wears thin. It's not that you don't enjoy doing it anymore, but rather that you've likely found other things to do that you enjoy more. Passion's fickle nature is what reveals to you how little discipline you actually have.

But, lately, I have found my thinker rather devoid of thoughts. In my blogging heyday I used to seize upon a thought and it would fester within me until I had the keyboard at my fingertips, and then it would fly out of me and into the internet! I used to seize upon so many ideas at once that I couldn't hold onto them all, and some would fall away into the dark morass of my brain cave, never to be thought again.

But now? Something broke. That light bulb that would pop on several times a day seems to have burned out. Even in this most remarkable social and political ass zit time of our lives, I don't have a single thought to lend to the discussion.

And so, just feeling lately like I must write, I come to realize my blog has lain dormant for more than a year, but a year with several highlights about which I should have written:

--in May I applied for two different jobs within the State of Illinois

--also in May, near the end of the month, my sister, Pam, age 64, passed away due to complications of congestive heart failure and a DNR; she is the second of my sisters to die, and less than two years after the first

--in August I faced the financial onslaught of the litany of repairs needed on my 2002 Nissan Xterra, and began the hunt for a new(er), more reliable car, a somewhat less daunting financial onslaught

--in mid-September I signed the loan for a 2014 Ford Focus at Carmax; so far I am very pleased — both with the car, and with the experience of buying from Carmax

--in late September, having given up after nearly three months since the applications, I received a call to interview with the State of Illinois for an office coordinator position at Elgin Mental Health Center

--in mid-October, after waiting three weeks to hear from the State of Illinois, I finally received a job offer to the position for which I had interviewed; I accepted, and they set a November 16 start date


And there you have it. Six stand-out pages from the story of my life since last I wrote here. I hope you will come back. I promise the next post won't be another mundane diary entry. I just make no promise when the next post will be. I've left too many of those unfulfilled over the past few years.



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Seven Year Delay

This morning my iPod shuffle and the relative solitude of the drive to work provided me with the memory of a distinct moment of my youth. The song was "Time In a Bottle" by Jim Croce.

Jim Croce died in a plane crash in September, 1973. I was nine years old. I knew little at the time about popular music, and cared about it even less. I remember hearing of his death, and knew it was he who had recorded "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown," a song played often on the radio, and which I had enjoyed. That was about it.

About seven years later I was discovering the vinyl record albums my brother, nearly six years older than I, had been collecting and storing in the upstairs bedroom we shared. His stuff was generally off-limits to me, so, while he wasn't home, I made sure to be extra careful when handling his record albums.

The distinct moment to which my iPod brought me this morning was when I laid the needle on the first track of one of the two Jim Croce albums in my brother's collection. I lay on the floor with his headphones on so I could play it as loudly as I wanted. Even then I knew only that Jim Croce had recorded a couple of hit songs, plus one or two other popular pieces, and had died tragically while his star was still rising. With his songs piping directly into my ears, I was struck by the poetry in his words, by the emotion in his voice, and the weight of his music. And there, on my back on the hard floor of my shared bedroom nearly a decade after Jim Croce died, the full depth of the loss the music world experienced on the day of his death hit me. And I wept.





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A Bit of a Ramble, Mostly About Death

I was never a huge fan of David Bowie. I've been more appreciative of his music in my middle age than I was in my youth and young adulthood, and I understand the impact his recent death has had on the music industry and on his fandom.

What turns out to be the most disarming aspect of his death is that Mr. Bowie turned it into his final artistic expression. One can't know — at least at this point, one day after his death — if he intentionally timed the release of his new album to be around the date of his death (it was released two days before he died), or if it just turned out to be an ironic coincidence (someone involved with the production of the album has said that Bowie intended it as a "parting gift" to his fans). But what can be known — or at least perceived — is that, during the writing and creation of his final music album, he was fully aware of, and prepared for, his impending death. Aware, and inspired.

One need only absorb the disturbing themes, recurring imagery, and haunting words of two songs from the recent release, Blackstar:

Lazarus



Blackstar


Nobody outside those in his closest circles knew he was dying until word came late Sunday night, January 10, 2016, that he had passed.


Constructive Contemplation
People rarely think of a terminal cancer diagnosis — or terminal anything diagnosis — as a positive thing, but one can imagine that it certainly gives one perspective. Clearly, in David Bowie's circumstance, it gave him the sound and vision for his final curtain (see what I did there...?)

But what about the rest of us? Is there anything we should be thinking about for the rest of our time manufacturing carbon dioxide? Of course, there are life insurance and succession plans and wills and trusts, but those are things that take effect after we die. We tend to put off a lot of living in an effort to secure a comfortable life in our future. But isn't life today worth as much as life tomorrow? Why suffer through the now when tomorrow isn't promised to us? Life ultimately sucks when you look at it from the end of the run: if you had a great life that's ending, that sucks because it's ending; if you had a crappy life, well, that sucks, and now it's ending. Total suckness.

I used to feel that my biggest fear was to die alone. I think that's the top of the list for a lot of people. But I don't fear that any more, because, after all, everyone dies alone. Sure, you may be surrounded by family. You may even go flying off a bridge in a bus with a hundred other people, all fated to cease in the same instant. But even then, you'd be alone. Death is a solitary thing. No one goes with you.

No, my biggest fear is to be the last of my family and friends — but family, especially — to go. Not that I wish it upon any of them, either, but, being the youngest of seven children, I've known all of my siblings for my entire life! With my parents and one sister gone already, I don't think I can take that five more times as I stagger through old age.

What is your biggest fear? Don't you think that you — we — should go about the rest of our days seeing to alleviate that fear? Or at least face it, embrace it to assuage the stress it causes us while we think death is far away?

Does it take death facing us and our stocking feet at the end of a long, polished hardwood-floor, tilted hallway to give us the inspiration to do something interesting with our lives?

David Bowie lived an interesting life. May we all endeavor to express our lives as profoundly and as openly as he expressed his dying.

And my uplifting parting shot for this downer post, a guest-starring appearance by David Bowie on the Ricky Gervais HBO comedy, Extras. I hope you'll have a laugh:






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Star Wars: A Franchise Awakens

A child of the '70s, I was blown over like a corn stalk in an Iowa tornado by Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope. It was action-adventure like no one had ever seen, the perfect blend of action, drama, romance, comedy, and cliff-hanger, with a devil-may-care attitude toward the physics and science of space travel, that appealed to adults and children alike. I remember when the credits rolled, I wanted to scream, "More!" The film set the bar very high for even its own sequel to reach, and how clever was Star Wars creator George Lucas to make it "Episode IV?" Clearly there was more to come! The end of the film laid out all the loose ends for a second film to tie up ...if it was successful....

I heard somewhere along the way that George Lucas intended the Star Wars saga to be three film trilogies and, though I hoped and dreamed they would all be made, never in the wildest of those dreams did I imagine that I would be well into my fifties before the credits rolled on the final film.

Well, that final film is in development, its future set in motion by the release of the first film of the final trilogy a mere ten days before the writing of this review.

In development since the Walt Disney Company acquired Lucasfilm and the Star Wars franchise in 2012, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015) has some big shoes to fill. Not only is it the next film in the series, not only does it pick up with the characters — not to mention the actors — we left behind after Return of the Jedi, but it is the film fans have been waiting thirty-two years to see.

Episode VII starts with the familiar, goose bump-inspiring fanfare and the scrolling text that disappears into the infinite distance over the orchestral theme you'll never forget, and one can't help but fear a return to the days of George Lucas-helmed Episodes I, II, and III and the atmosphere of stories so overloaded with information and so rushed one could be led to believe Lucas had a terminal diagnosis and simply had to get them made as quickly as possible! And let the cavalcade of fuzzy, clownish, computer-animated characters remain unmentioned.

Director J.J. Abrams and co-writers Lawrence Kasdan and Michael Arndt continue to stroke us with the pleasantly familiar, as we see names like Luke Skywalker and Leia Organa (a general, now!) float past into oblivion. But the script leans a little too heavily on the familiar, as we see so many themes reminiscent of the original trilogy that at times this film feels like a rehash. Embers of the defeated Empire, now reconstituted as the First Order, search the galaxy to capture Luke Skywalker ...again. A scene in a cantina, replete with all sorts of shady characters from throughout the universe, and a quirky band ...again. The First Order are still in the planet-destroying business with a bigger, better version of the Death Star ...again. A villain wearing a dark helmet with breathing apparatus and voice enhancement set to "sinister." A battle of minds between father and son.

Thematically, Episode VII is a repeat.

But Abrams and company fill the screen with lavish imaginings of worlds and planets and beings, with enough fresh twists on The Force, new and likable characters, family dysfunction, and a few references to the original trilogy with tongue planted firmly in cheek — to make it watchable and — even better — enjoyable.

Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens has been a hot topic of filmgoers' conversation since Disney announced it was moving forward with the final trilogy. And as the release date neared, the hype grew exponentially, prompting many to ponder if the film could live up to it. For Disney and for Abrams and company, the pressure of meeting that hype pales in comparison to meeting the standards that the Star Wars franchise long ago established for itself. After the damage to the franchise and to fans' enthusiasm for it caused by the reception of Episodes I through III, the climb back up to that standard is formidable.

Does Episode VII meet the hype?

Unfortunately, it doesn't. A generation's worth of buzz and anticipation makes that impossible.

But does it meet the standard?

Yes. Yes it does. Each film in the Star Wars original trilogy triggered a response in its fans beyond and deeper than emotional; a gut feeling. In this film, that gut feeling is there, a muscle memory of the response to the original trilogy that is lacking for Episodes I through III. Despite a reliance on the familiar, "The Force Awakens" successfully resuscitates the Star Wars brand.

Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens — Numb Butt Cheeks® rating of 7.5* — may not inspire you to see it 20-something times like the original film did for many, but you may feel like that kid again, walking out of the theater wondering what could possibly be next for that band of rebels, and wanting to scream, "More!"

("Star Wars The Force Awakens Theatrical Poster" by Source. Licensed under Fair use via Wikipedia - https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Star_Wars_The_Force_Awakens_Theatrical_Poster.jpg#/media/File:Star_Wars_The_Force_Awakens_Theatrical_Poster.jpg)



*The Numb Butt-Cheeks® scale of zero to ten: a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of zero indicates such a disregard for the film that one could get up to go to the bathroom at any point without worry of missing anything exciting or important; a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of ten indicates there is no way one would get up and leave, save for a distinct tearing of bladder tissue.

Suicide Note

I didn't know you. I never will.

The closest I will come to knowing you will have been the distraught — distraught — woman who passed me several times a day all week through the entrance vestibule two floors below the Critical Care Unit to head outside for a smoke. Never was she far from tears — apparently having just shed them, barely hanging on the edge of them, or outright crying as she sped through. All. Week.

Or the parade of teenagers who came to the hospital today, wide-eyed, a little scared not knowing what to expect. And then, by ones and by twos, they stumbled out of the elevators, faces warped by sorrow, such young, fresh, pretty faces twisted in sad grimace.

A middle-aged woman stood in the the lobby, directing traffic, diverting and dividing the stream of adolescents, sending some to the elevators, some to the chairs to wait. I approached her. "Is it a teacher? A student?"

"Their friend," she said. "He was seventeen."

Was.

Until that moment I didn't know for whom your mother cried through the week. One assumes the loss of an elder, a parent or grandparent, withered by age or ravaged by some nefarious disease.

At that moment, I knew you were still alive. I had overheard it this morning; a man spoke about you in hushed tones into his mobile phone. "Yeah. It's over. They're gonna pull the plug today."

Still alive. Yet the middle-aged woman in the lobby said, "Was."

And so word had gone out that today is it: the technology amassed and arrayed around you in that room somewhere two floors above me, the hums and whirs and beeps that had prolonged your existence for much of the week, would be shut off. And the people who made up the stuff of your life, for whom you were the stuff of theirs, came to say good-bye.

A group of teens — your friends — later shuffled outside to the benches where they could talk, blow off some steam, and have a smoke. And cry.

I stepped outside and approached them. I broke a rule. "What happened to your friend?" I asked.

A young lady, perhaps more world-aware than most her age, said, "I really can't tell you that. I--"

"I can!" A young man spoke with a loud voice and a low threshold for a family's privacy. "He tried to hang himself."

"He did hang himself," said another young man, seated a couple of bodies away from the first. "That's why we're--" An aimless, formless gesture of one hand expressed everything he felt for you that his words couldn't.

I made what I hope looked like a sympathetic expression with my face, and I walked away.

Is this what you wanted? Are these the people upon whom you wished to inflict so much pain? Is their agony worth more than yours in trade? Is what any of them did to you — or didn't do for you — worth what you're putting them through, now?

Did you talk to any of them about it? Could you have talked to them? Were you not aware that so many people loved you? That many of them would have shared your burden? That one of them — just one — might have needed your help to get through?

Did you talk about it to an adult, someone who went through all of the same fear, sadness, anger, loneliness, despair, and pain as a teen, and who came out the other side understanding that you get through it! You get over it! It's not bigger than you! If it's not going to kill you on its own, it's not worth dying over.

But, clearly, you believed it was bigger than you. You made this day one that your friends will never forget. You've opened a hole in your mother that will never close.

I shed a brief tear as I bore silent witness to the heartache your final decision has wrought on everyone who loved you. My tear was for them — your friends, your teachers, your mother — because I know the pain of losing a loved one to suicide, and in that moment I knew your friends and your teachers and your mother.

But I didn't know you. I never will.



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Nostalgia: It Ain't What It Used to Be

The good old days weren't always good
And tomorrow ain't as bad as it seems.
--Billy Joel, "Keeping the Faith," An Innocent Man, 1983

We often look back and reflect on "the good old days," a time — or times — in our lives when life was better, smells were sweeter, food was tastier ...whatever. It was better. Unless a life has been nothing but total shit, we all do it; we pine for those days again.

Or do we?

Personally, I don't want to go back. I happen to like my iPhone and my computer and my Blu-Ray player and my TiVO (even though it's been on the fritz for about a year; I need to get that fixed (HAH! Good days to come!)) and cars with reverse assist cameras and selfie-sticks. What I find myself pining for is the feeling of yesterday, because that's what nostalgia really is.

Whenever I think about "the good old days," I remember that, back then, I didn't realize that then was a time I would look back on fondly and miss. Such realization makes me wonder if today is a day, or if autumn, 2015, is a period of my life I'll look back on in 15 years, sighing and smiling.

The passage of time has a way of softening the edges of our memories, shining a golden light on those we cherish, and often sugar-coating the ones we're not so fond to recall. As I think more about the days of yore, I realize that those days weren't any better than any that have passed since. Thirty five years ago our existence was still overshadowed by the Cold War and the lingering threat of nuclear annihilation, but I still got to see all of my friends every day. In the mid-1980s I enlisted in the Air Force and embarked on the adventure of a lifetime, but people bought the Yugo. I pursued a career that lasted 16 years, but its bookends were the deaths of my parents. I got married, but it ended in divorce. I'm in love with a wonderful woman, but Donald Trump.

Times are not good or bad. People fell in love and bore children while war raged. Mothers wept over their lost sons while the nation celebrated victory. Nostalgia isn't rooted in a time of our lives or in an historical era. Nostalgia is rooted in whom we surrounded ourselves with at the time and how they made us feel. And, usually, those times are associated with a period in our lives when we had fewer responsibilities and demands on our attention than we have now. It's easier to enjoy the company of friends when you don't have the insistence of a career or a young family pulling at you. The memories are sweeter when you could cuddle under a blanket with all of the kids and watch a silly movie together than when each teenager's attention is wrapped around a hand-held personal entertainment device plugged into their ears in some remote corner of the house while you sit at the kitchen table and crunch the numbers figuring out how to continue to feed them.

I believe we shouldn't pine for times that were great or special or "better." They weren't. You've lost touch with the people that made your existence then more enjoyable.

Reach out. Find those people. If lines were crossed or bridges were burned, maybe it's time for reconciliation. If it's simply that too much time has gotten between you and those people, maybe they're thinking about those "good old days," too, and a word from you out of the blue would make their day. Or their month.

But don't forget the people around you now. Take stock of them. Appreciate the good feelings you can associate with them, for they are the stuff of tomorrow's memories.



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Magic, Fleeting

I am a morning person. It's not by choice, but by fate; it seems I always have to roll out of bed at oh-dark-thirty to silence a wake-me-up-unwillingly device. Don't get me wrong, though. I do like mornings. The problem is that I also like late nights. The two, it seems, don't get along together too well.

Browsing through some old photos recently, I came across one I took of a group of young men with whom I was in training to be a Security Specialist in the U.S. Air Force. The photo dates to late winter or early spring of 1984 at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas, and was taken in the morning, probably a half-hour or so after sunrise. There were many such mornings during the first 18 weeks of my brief Air Force career, but I recall a much different feeling about them then than I have now.


The photo that inspired this post.
Lackland Air Force Base • San Antonio, Texas
winter/spring, 1984 (photo: Tony Gasbarro)

Prior to my time in the Air Force, if I was awake before sunup it was because I had either stayed up all night, or I had been dragged out of my bed by my father for some unwelcome assist for which he insisted upon dragging me out of my bed, after which I most likely leaned my head against the window of his truck on the way to wherever and slept until all the normal people were awake.

When the Air Force insisted that I get out of bed while the surrounding world was still dark, I felt a more urgent need to comply. As the old Army commercials used to say, I found myself doing more before 9:00am than most people did all day. No, seriously, when was the last time you drew an M-16 rifle from an armory and climbed into the back of a two-and-a-half-ton truck and rode to a firing range, hmmm? But there I would be, in the classic, military "hurry up and wait," standing around with other young men drawn from their bunks by their sense of duty — or their fear of military courts-martial — and looking at the eastern sky.

Back then there was something magical about a sunrise; thick, black darkness, the horizon purpling and then brightening, blending to orange, clouds illuminated from below, puffy reds and pinks against rich blue. It was a sight I had rarely seen before as a diurnal sleepyhead. There was a magic in the stillness of the morning, then, that could even drown out the horseplay of those other young men around me. The air never held a sweeter aroma at any other time of the day than it held in the early hours, nor a sweeter sound than the morning birds as they busied themselves with their tasks. I remember often wishing that, somehow, the day could stay like that all the time and never grow bright and hot and difficult.

But as military training carried into regular duty, and surreal twilight carried into responsibility and routine and real life, that sense of magic wore off somewhere. I trudged along in life, returning more or less to the diurnal sleepyhead that I had been before. Circumstances later in life have brought me back to the oh-dark-thirty game, but now — somehow — it seems easier to do without threat of military courts-martial or the wrath of Dad. Do I require less sleep? Is there some subconscious reasoning, informed from many years of routine, that says, Just get up and get going! Lying here won't make it any easier? Has breakfast become that important to me?

Probably due to that same subconscious reasoning, my return to early mornings has not brought along with it the magical morning feeling. Been there - done that, I guess.

I still look to the east, still regard the dazzle of the sunrise firing up the clouds, still hear the birds singing, still notice the stillness... but no magic.

Maybe it's the fade of youth, the slow ebb of testosterone. Maybe, as morning is to the day as spring is to the year, I realize I'm in the autumn of my life.

Maybe.

Maybe I'm just tired of getting up so damned early.



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The Power of the Smile

This is purely anecdotal; if you seek documentation on any of this, I will not — CAN not — provide it, however my word is gold and you had better believe it or poo on you.

I've spent most of my adult life rather self-conscious of my appearance; weak jawline, head — in my opinion — too small for my body, two eyebrows that would prefer to be one, and now, for the last nearly 20 years or so, male pattern baldness. I will admit that these drawbacks are, perhaps, perceptions that prevail from my days of low self-esteem as a teenager and young adult. There is one attribute, however, that bothers me more than the others here listed.


Dammit, I AM smiling.
It would appear that I tested the old wives' tale that recalls your mother yelling at your pouting former child self: "Wipe that frown off your face or it'll freeze like that!"

Now, I didn't have a particularly sad or troubled childhood. I didn't have a particularly happy or exciting childhood, either. Admittedly, I was a fairly mopey, moody, pouty child for no good reason. And I think those youthful days of rapid cell-division and lack of excitement and having to take no for an answer and resenting it really did freeze my face into somewhat of a sad pout. It bothered me often whenever a friend or acquaintance would see me engrossed in a task or absorbed in contemplation, and would say, "Hey, cheer up!" or "You should smile more."

It wasn't until about three or four years ago that the old wives' tale stated ringing in my ears. I felt beaten down by four rotten years of pain and loss (separation and divorce, father's death, job layoff, taxi "career," Jon & Kate Plus Eight canceled), and I could almost feel my face collapsing in on itself. The shit show tapered off to a lame revue in 2011, and through 2012 and '13 — despite growing debt while trying to defibrillate the taxi endeavor — things felt like they were turning around. But in photos I still looked sad. Was it true? Could my pain and sorrow of the prior years make me look pained and sorrowful? Always? Did my face indeed "freeze that way?"

I decided that it had. And I decided that if constant moping about the rotten things in my life, if frequent — perhaps perpetual — pouting could "freeze" my face in a permanent frown, then could I not reverse it by smiling? After all, I figured, is it not just muscle conditioning? Could smiling not retrain the muscles? Could the simple manipulation of the muscles of my lower face and jaw train them, strengthen them, to stay that way ...or at least train them not to draw my face downward into the visage of a bitter hermit? I decided that it could. I decided I would try it.

So, alone most of the time in the taxi, I started exercising the smile muscles. As often as I could remember to do it, I did it. At times I smiled constantly for as long as I could, until the muscles in my cheeks began to spasm and hurt. Then I would relax for a while, and then I would do it again. Day in and day out I practiced, alone and with customers in the car; they couldn't see my face, usually, or, if they could, I just looked like a happy guy. Or crazed, maybe. But mostly happy.

Mostly.

After several months I assessed in the mirror the progress of my little physical therapy project and determined that there either was no merit at all to my exercise theory, or it would take much longer for me to turn my frown upside down on my relaxed face. It had, after all, taken 45 years to bring it to that point.

But then I noticed something peculiar.


What sunshine is to flowers, smiles are to humanity.
--Joseph Addison

In my previous life — my video career — I spent quite a lot of time on audio/video crews for large business meetings and conventions. Many of the keynote speakers there weren't talking about number crunching or sales goals or building client lists, but rather they talked about the how paying attention to the basic elements of life affected numbers, goals and lists. Quite a few of them talked in varying detail about attitude, and how it affects not only you, but how it affects those around you. A positive attitude, you see, is essential for moving forward, they said. And they said that the first step toward having a positive attitude was to smile.

Wait. What? "Smile?" What a bunch of horse shit, I thought. How can you smile if you're feeling crappy? How can you smile if life just took a dump on your head? But quite a few well-paid keynote speakers delivered that same basic message. Their claim: the physical act of simply smiling releases dopamine in the brain; if you just smile, you instantly feel better; and if you feel better, you perform better; and if you perform better, you serve better; and if you serve better ...blahda yada yada....

Horse shit.

Some years later I found myself assessing my mug in that mirror, bending my face into what had become a most familiar position — a smile — in an attempt to not look so down in the dumps all the time, and, though not particularly happy about anything, I realized that at the moment, and throughout the exercise, I had experienced a peculiar sense of well-being. Even though smiling had begun as purely a physical exercise, the smiles triggered a sort of muscle-memory of happiness, and I experienced happiness that was anchored only in the smile. Doing this daily had truly improved my general mood. Though it seemed I still had a relaxed bitch face, smiles came more easily, more quickly, and they fit my face better than they ever had. My interactions with my taxi customers had become more relaxed; I more easily took the negatives in stride; and my bad moods cleared more quickly after setbacks.

Had smiling really enriched my life? Well, I can't say with any certainty that smiling had a direct impact, but shortly after I retired the taxi, I met Donna, and I've been smiling a lot more ever since.

The words of all those keynote speakers have since faded, but their message has stayed with me:

Smile. It may not make the world a better place, but it will make YOUR world a better place. And what better place to start?

Alimental Journey

I don't know... maybe I should just start a film review blog....

It seems that, ever since Big Night (1996), I've had a soft spot for cuisine films. I never saw public advertisement for The Hundred-Foot Journey; I only saw trailers prior to other films, but even then the film looked delectable. Set in southwest France, the film starts off in India, and tells the story of a family who run a restaurant until political change and unrest make them refugees. Through the eyes of Hassan we see the initial upheaval, the attack by political or religious opponents which kills his mother, and the family's arrival in Europe to begin life anew.

Hassan, the oldest son, is a gifted cook, carrying with him his beloved mother's culinary teachings, philosophies, and instincts, as well as her carry-case full of Indian spices. Nomads in Europe at first, the Kadam family are led around the countryside by their father, who claims to speak to and hear his deceased wife, and he follows her word faithfully. Fate in the form of failed brakes in their junker caravan and a generous stranger lead them to a small French village and an abandoned restaurant up for sale. Much to the disdain of Madame Mallory, the owner of the restaurant directly across the street (played by Helen Mirren), the available restaurant is sold to the family, and they begin to set up shop and make the restaurant and the town their home.

The Hundred-Foot Journey pits the Kadam family against Mme. Mallory's kitchen "family" on three tiers; the aspect of direct business competition first gives way to the arrogance of class, as the French matron d', her chef, and her sous chefs scoff at the Indian cuisine, which they pass off as merely curry. But, with the surprise popularity of Kadam's Maison Mumbai — thanks in part both to Papa Kadam's aggressive marketing technique and Hassan's culinary skill — Mme. Mallory finds herself in a petty "war" with Maison Mumbai. Her chef, however, allows his deeper racial hatred reveal itself in an act of violence. When Mme. Mallory learns that the chef's actions have resulted in damage to Maison Mumbai and injury to Hassan, and that he may have been motivated by her own words, her heart softens, and she offers an olive branch to Maison Mumbai, an olive branch that is a key in a door to new worlds.

This film can easily be described as a love story, but it is about many loves — people, food, culture, country — and how our differences can interfere with our growth or let it blossom. The love story between people is an easy given; we know who we want to be with whom, and the film, quite frankly, telegraphs that. The same can be said of the cuisines at odds; if you love to cook and/or experience cuisines, you can enjoy the journey on which this film has invited you with your mouth watering. The other issues are a bit unexpected and may make you feel a little squirmy, but what is a great film if it doesn't do that just a little?

The Hundred-Foot Journey (2014), directed by Lasse Hallström and starring Helen Mirren, Om Puri, Manish Dayal, and Charlotte Le Bon. Numb Butt-Cheeks* rating of 8.0 out of 10. Delicious!

*The Numb Butt-Cheeks® scale of zero to ten: a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of zero indicates such a disregard for the film that one could get up to go to the bathroom at any point without worry of missing anything exciting or important; a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of ten indicates there is no way one would get up and leave, save for a distinct tearing of bladder tissue.

A Redemption Most Wanted

A month or so back I watched The Muppets (2011), the first Muppets film produced after Disney company's acquisition of the Muppets franchise. I did not write a formal review of the film, but I was generally disappointed with the writing and with the humor, which in the past, under the helm of Jim Henson Productions, had always been wry and sometimes subtle, a trait which carried on even after Muppets creator Jim Henson's death, so I suggested that it was perhaps actually attributable to Frank Oz, who had been with the Muppets from the beginning, and had continued with Jim Henson Productions beyond Henson. Well, Frank Oz no longer appears to be involved with the Muppets film franchise, and to that I attributed the film's dull thud.

Had I not already long ago entered into my Netflix queue the next film in the franchise, Muppets Most Wanted (2014), I never would have put it there, thanks to my disappointment in the prior film. But there it was in my mailbox, so I figured I would let it kill two hours of my life.

Almost from the first frame it launches into a musical number, set up, actually, by the closing scene of the prior film. Amid the post-wrap let-down, the Muppets turn and notice the camera still on them, and the music rolls up for "We're Doin' a Sequel," which unexpectedly — considering my experience last time — delights with an immediately likable melody and wry, self-effacing lyrics:

We're doin' a sequel
That's what we do in Hollywood
And everybody knows that
The sequel's never quite as good...

And the catchy, clever chorus:

Until the credits roll
We've got another go to show
That we can do it all again!

The plot of the film takes flight from this number as, clueless about what to do next, the Muppets throw around ideas, to include Gonzo's brainstorm for a self-gratifying film starring him and lots of chickens (his personal fetish), a Muppets remake of a timeless classic, only renamed to Gonzo With the Wind!

When a film smacks me in the face and starts talking to me in my own language — pun — I take notice.

Led around the world by their new booking agent, Dominic Badguy — "it's pronounced 'bad-jee;' it's French" — portrayed by Ricky Gervais, their tour is paralleled by a string of art museum heists that Interpol and the CIA link to the Muppets. Meanwhile, "the world's most dangerous frog," the number one most wanted international criminal, Constantine — a perfect double for Kermit, save for a huge facial mole — has escaped from a Russian gulag and made his way to Berlin, where Kermit is duped into going for a lonely walk in the fog at the harbor. In Berlin. Landlocked Berlin. Constantine surprises Kermit, glues a fake mole onto his cheek, and then disappears. Kermit is mistaken for Constantine and captured, and sent "back" to the Russian gulag.

There is more subtle, wry humor here, as the Muppets see a marquee outside the theatre venue touting their upcoming performance. "Die Muppets" gives them uneasy pause until Dominic Badguy points out to them that it's German for "The Muppets." One doesn't have to understand German for that to be funny. When Kermit is captured, he is tossed — literally — into a Polizei van atop which, as if a bus, a destination marquee flips from destination PLOTPOINTBURG to RUSSIAN GULAG.

It was at this point in the film that I realized I had already seen and heard a great deal of subtle things, to include nods to old gags from earlier Muppets days and even "Sesame Street." At the point of Kermit's capture Constantine, looking on through the fog, says, "It's not easy being mean." Later, after he has fooled the rest of the Muppets — with the help of Dominic Badguy, who, it is revealed, is the number 2 most wanted criminal in the world, known as The Lemur — into believing that he is really Kermit, and that his Russian accent is only the result of a cold, Constantine says to Walter in his thick Russian accent, "Let us get on with the show and enjoy our family style adventure during which we shall bond and learn heart-warming lesson, perhaps about sharing, or waiting your turn, or the number three."

The second musical number is Constantine reminding the resentful Dominic Badguy that the latter is number 2. If anyone is surprised by Ricky Gervais singing in a musical, then that anyone does not realize that Mr. Gervais was once one half of a very obscure 1980s New Wave duo Seona Dancing that ...well, was very obscure. But the boy can sing.

It was after the "Sesame Street" dig, and a second cleverly sculpted song that I realized I was watching something special. The Muppets are back. More importantly the essence of the Muppets is back!

The film is chock full of cameo and guest starring appearances, with the likes of Tony Bennett, Lady Gaga, Ray Liotta, Tina Fey, Sean (P. Diddy) Combs, Celine Dion, Danny Trejo, and Stanley Tucci, to name just a few, some with hilarious turns!

One of my favorite lines: after Walter and Fozzie Bear have escaped Constantine's clutches, having learned his nefarious plan, Constantine — again, still ignorant of who the Muppets even are, and in his thick Russian accent — tells the rest of the Muppets that "Walter and Fonzie have left the 'Mappets.'" Perhaps it was the Scotch leeching into my bloodstream by that point, but I was literally rolling on the couch from that one (no, literally rolling)!

Plotwise, it's typical Muppets family fare. Lots of funny sight gags and one-liners, and truly enjoyable, cleverly written songs. It's not a spoiler to say that it ends happily.

It wasn't until the credits rolled that I was able to identify one of the Russian gulag prisoners' face, a character that was featured in one non-original song ("Working In a Coal Mine"), played by Jemaine Clement. (More on that in a moment.)

I also learned in the credits that the original songs were written by Bret McKenzie, and I thought, "MAN! That guy is a good songwriter."

Then, in the Blu-Ray Extra Features section was a music video of one of the original songs, "I'll Give You Anything You Want," starring the songwriter himself, Bret McKenzie, and that's when it dawned on me: Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie together are the music and comedy duo The Flight of the Conchords! NO WONDER why the songs were so fun, funny and clever!!

Disney redeemed themselves and the reputation of the Muppets franchise with the production team they hired for Muppets Most Wanted. After 2011's The Muppets, which garnered a level of critical acclaim inexplicable to me, they retained director James Bobin and screenwriter Nicholas Stoller, both on hand for the prior film. The difference here is the absence of Jason Segel, who co-wrote and starred in The Muppets. In addition to directing, Bobin co-wrote this time around, which, in my humble opinion, makes Muppets Most Wanted the far superior film.

Muppets Most Wanted (2014). Numb Butt-Cheeks* rating of 7.8 out of 10 ...with a ±2-point Scotch Intoxication Factor.





*The Numb Butt-Cheeks® scale of zero to ten: a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of zero indicates such a disregard for the film that one could get up to go to the bathroom at any point without worry of missing anything exciting or important; a Numb Butt-Cheeks rating of ten indicates there is no way one would get up and leave, save for a distinct tearing of bladder tissue.




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Passions

It was last year, in between the deaths of my friend and former military comrade, Scott Aubuchon, and of my sister, Marie O'Donnell, when I had what I call an epiphany in which I decided that, approaching — at the time — age 50, I was no longer going to put off the things I've "always wanted to do," and just do them. On the horizon at that time was the third annual Wüschheim Air Station 38th Missile Security Squadron reunion in Las Vegas. Prior to my epiphany, I had decided I was not going to be able to make it to that, my second, reunion, but in the throes of the epiphany I decided that I would indeed make it to the reunion, credit card be damned ...and I would DRIVE there!

Also among the things I decided I would no longer wait to do were to get out of the taxi job that was taking up all my time and creative energy, and to find a "meaningless" job which I would not take home with me every evening, and which would allow me the time to pursue my passions, which are writing and acting.

Well, it has been more than a year since that epiphany, and I did accomplish a few of the things I vowed to: I did make a road trip to Las Vegas, and I did get out of the taxi job. The problem now is that the meaningless valet job that I wound up with coughed up a management opportunity, and now I'm stressing and taking it home and — worst of all — I'm not writing. I have been acting, though, but the pursuit of this particular passion requires that I climb out of the trench I seem to have dug myself at Northeastern Illinois University and find companies and venues that can lead to paid work.

It's time for another epiphany, one that tells me it's time to either shit or get off the pot, to put Facebook on a shelf for most of the day and use the free time I have to tackle those passions. Hopefully this desired epiphany won't involve the death of a loved one.

While I haven't been using any free time constructively in the area of writing, I have been successful in breaking away from the Northeastern rut ...in a manner of speaking. At this writing, I am in the middle of a three-week run of "Lounging," a dark comedy in one act. Though it is produced in conjunction with Northeastern, it is at least at a venue other than Northeastern's Stage Center; it's at Raven Theater. Baby steps. And though it is still small theatre, I have received some incredibly encouraging words about my potential as an actor from someone — a theatre professional — whose opinion I regard very highly.

So maybe this is one of those slow-burn epiphanies, as epiphanies go, and I should just lean toward the acting thing for now, and the writing will come later? I have felt the inspiration and the urge to write lately, but it hasn't resulted in any actual writing, yet. ...well, except for this blog post.

HEEEY! Wait a minute!



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A Sister's Words

To say that losing a loved one — in my case, a sister — is an understatement is itself a gross understatement. There are not enough words to describe the pain and sadness and loss of someone you've known your entire life since even before you knew you knew her.

So, I hope understandably, I can be excused for trying to escape the pain at the time of her death by putting off something that I saw then as only prolonging the pain, exacerbating it. But now I find I have the resolve I lacked then, and I choose the first anniversary of Marie's passing to finally share.

At the funeral I passed out my extensive remembrance piece, a rambling, five-page(?) essay on my sister. But another of my sisters, Denise, stepped to the front of the room and delivered her own sweet remembrance that touched every heart within earshot. I was asked by several family members and friends of the family to transcribe her handwritten tribute, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. Until now:

By Denise Gasbarro Snowdon

I work at a hospital and one of the days before deciding on hospice for Marie, I went into the chapel there to pray. I went up to the small altar and found the Bible open to this passage in the book of Ecclesiastes: Chapter 3, verses 1 to 8

A Time For Everything

For everything there is a season;
a time for every activity under heaven.
A time to be born and a time to die.
A time to plant, and a time to harvest.
A time to kill and a time to heal.
A time to tear down and a time to build up.
A time to cry and a time to laugh.
A time to grieve and a time to dance.
A time to scatter stones and a time to gather them.
A time to embrace and a time to turn away.
A time to search and a time to stop searching.
A time to keep and a time to throw away.
A time to tear and a time to mend.
A time to be quiet and a time to speak.
A time to love and a time to hate.
A time for war and a time for peace.

Life, with its many cycles, is a gift. Sometimes living life is unfair, over-burdened, and just plain hard.

But... LIFE IS GOOD.

We are all born, and we all must die, some sooner than others. What we do with that time between is up to us — our free will. Our main purpose in life is to love and respect God. Then to reflect that love to all those we come in contact with. And that is just what my sister did.

Looking around this room today, one can see all the lives she touched. She raised two outstanding young men that were her true treasures on this earth. I am sure, too, that she played a role in helping to shape the lives of their many "buddies" that entered her home through a door that was always open to whoever came over. AND ...those that did ...she made sure they never left hungry!

Every family has a favorite aunt, and Marie was that — Aunty Ree to all her nieces, nephews and their children, too, always greeting them with open arms and a warm heart. Even their friends called her "Aunty Ree," too.

She had many "families" outside of her blood-related family. Her childhood, lifelong friend, whom she cherished dearly, flew in from Florida the week before Marie went into hospice, spending several hours every day with Marie until she flew back home last Sunday. She flew back this week to be here with us. I hope you know, Glor, how much that meant to Marie and all of us. Thank you for giving her so much love and friendship for nearly 50 years!

She still had a very close relationship/friendship with our cousin, Jan, whom she graduated high school with. Every Sunday morning, up until Marie got sick, they would go out for breakfast, and shop at WalMart. They would even go on occasional day trips together to summer festivals and things like that. Thank you, Jan, for all the love you gave and time you spent with her.

She was a great neighbor, especially while living in South Chicago Heights. She was still friends with those neighbors, many of whom are here today and visited her while hospitalized. Even the now grown children of those neighbors are still friends with her and her sons. In fact, one of those young friends adopted Marie as "Grandma Ree" to his son a couple years ago. And for that, Justin and Violet, I thank you. That little guy brought her so much joy, she loved him so very much. Just seeing him, even on a cell phone screen, would make her face light up!

The many friends she made while riding on the train when she worked in Chicago became another family to her; they actually are a group of people who call themselves the South Shore Train Family. She enjoyed all the parties and gatherings they had. Several of them helped us out so much while Marie was hospitalized, hanging out with her there and keeping her spirits up. To them I say thank you, and I will be eternally grateful.

Those who knew Marie's life story know the many trying times she and her sons endured during their young life. But yet, she carried on, still with that beautiful smile and "infectious" laugh, as our brother Tony called it.

Her illness, I have to say, was the hardest of all, especially for her, but yet, she NEVER EVER complained. She would just look at me, shrug her shoulders, and say, "It is what it is." She fought it as much as she could, but the "demon" cancer took over. God came to her rescue, though, knowing her body could take no more, and He took her home, where she now has a new body, free of pain and suffering. And ...as she met Him, I am sure he said to her:

"Well done, my good and faithful servant."

You will be missed, Marie, more than you will ever know.

--June 23, 2014

2014: Year In the Rear View

I don't usually write year-in-review messages or blog posts, but 2014 was a particular doozy — for reasons both happy and sad — and I feel compelled to share my thoughts about it.

I came out of 2013 a bit shaken, what with having received news of three friends' passing all within a week near the end of the year, specifically around Thanksgiving. As with all New Years, I hoped 2014 would be better. And so it goes....

January
The year took off to a white, wintry start. We all were assaulted not only with snow and bitter cold, but a new term: "Polar Vortex." No longer is it an "Arctic blast," or just plain "winter," but a "Polar Vortex" to make the weather forecasters sound cool, and the rest of us to sound like idiots.

February
Aside from the unusual temperatures, winter was business as usual for me in the taxi; the worse the weather (especially falling snow), the better the money, though the money was never actually good. Better than crap is better, not necessarily good. The month's take on the Polar Vortex did bring me at least one spectacular sight...


Parhelion, a.k.a. Sun Dog, February 9, 2014


March
Just more treading water. Nothing of note occurred that I can recall.

April
Early in the month I finally gave up on someone I had considered a friend for about a year prior. I realized that while I endeavored to be a friend to her, she put in no such effort and merely used me. Call it a hero complex, but I had convinced myself that I could coach her through the steps she needed to take to reverse the death spiral that her alcohol problem had set into motion. But, alas, the most important person who needed to believe in her chose instead to stay nestled in the dubious comfort of a bottle, and in the company of those who were happy to keep her drunk. I will confess a physical attraction in addition to the instinct to save, but that only served to make more difficult the decision to break away.

The end of the month was also a time of anxiety, as my sister, Marie, was diagnosed on the 29th with adenocarcinoma of the lung, stage 4. She was admitted to the hospital almost immediately and began her battery of chemotherapy. Her prognosis was not good, but there was a chance she could beat it. She wanted to to try.

May
In the following two or three weeks, Marie suffered a mild stroke. Doctors said it was due to a disorder that caused her blood to thicken.

Marie was in the supposedly capable hands of her doctors, and was being nurtured nearly 24/7 by her sons, so, at mid-month, I decided to go ahead with a long-desired road trip to North Carolina.


Seen from the Blue Ridge Parkway, somewhere in North Carolina, May 19, 2014.


Down through Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia and the Appalachians into North Carolina, and then back up through Tennessee and the Great Smoky Mountains, and Kentucky, I took what felt like a thousand photos and spent way too few hours with friends whose hospitality seemed boundless. During the trip I received word that Marie had suffered a second stroke. Despite her doctors' words to the contrary, her strokes seemed to be direct results of her chemotherapy, as each had occurred shortly after a chemo treatment. Where the first seemed to have momentarily knocked her silly, the second one took a clearer toll, affecting her speech and her vision. An attending neurologist saw months of rehab in her future.

June
Not long home after the road trip, I received news on June 9 that an Air Force friend, Scott Aubuchon, had died suddenly in his home in Rogers, Arkansas. He had only four months prior celebrated his 50th birthday, and had only three months prior married his love, Jennifer. Plans were made hastily and, at the end of the week, I embarked on my second road trip in as many months, this time for the solemn occasion of Scott's funeral.

During the drive home I received a text from Ed, Marie's elder son, that Marie had opted out of any further treatments, out of any further attempt to save her life. She was going to be moved within a day or two to a hospice facility. She was going to die. I drove on through a blur of tears and decided that I was done planning for some day in the distant future when I would have all of my bills paid and enough money saved and my retirement planned. I accepted in those moments that I will never have all of those things. The last five years of my life have destroyed any serious hope I may have had about retirement. I will work pretty much until the day I die or — much like my father did — until the day my body finally gives out. Until that day, I am going to seize every opportunity I can to do the things I want to do and go see the places I want to see, because we are not promised tomorrow, and waiting to do or to go until the time is just right only postpones them indefinitely because the time is never right. Marie had a pleasant retirement planned, just a few years ahead of her. She was waiting until the time was right to sell her house and move into a quiet retirement community, and to make a trip to Italy, a place she had wanted to visit all of her life.

Marie died on June 18th. She was 59.

July
Her passing was, in retrospect, like a switch was flipped on my life. Of the many things I want to do, writing and acting are two of them, and the taxi job was sucking the time away from those and just about every other activity I was interested in. A change had to be made, but quitting the taxi — rather, firing myself from the taxi — and collecting unemployment for six months seemed foolish on the boundary of madness. But then I received an e-mail in response to a résumé I had sent — apparently — a month or so earlier. Long story short, I received and accepted a job offer at HR Imaging Partners to be a school portraits photographer.

But the job was only part-time, and they assured me that the fall semester rush would slow down by mid-October, and I would be hurting for work. I shut down the taxi on July 11 and started at HRI on the 14th.

On the 26th, after a surprise Facebook message — an invitation to a Meetup.com event — from a woman I had found interesting and with whom I had traded comments only a few times, I went to the Northwest Suburban Atheists meetup in Cary, Illinois. By night's end she and I had a date set for dinner later in the week! The Wednesday evening dinner at her apartment went well and before I knew it I had a girlfriend!

August
Just two days later I left for my third road trip of the year, to the Third Annual Wüschheim Air Station reunion, in Las Vegas. It was a trip I had all but decided I couldn't do, but, thanks to the epiphany I had on the road home from Arkansas, I did.

September
On the weekend of my birthday, September 5, Donna treated me to a very nice birthday weekend, with dinner at Bistrot Margot and a late night comedy show followed by drinks, all in Old Town. Niece Ashley and her hubby Steve joined us. Then we spent the night at the W hotel downtown, riding on niece Katie's employee discount, after which we spent Saturday afternoon sightseeing, and the evening at my monthly karaoke do! It was a fantastic weekend!

Later in the month I was cast in Northeastern Illinois University's production of Christopher Durang's Why Torture Is Wrong, and the People Who Love Them, without auditioning. It's good to be on a director's short list!

October
was a blur mainly of intensifying play rehearsals and weekends with Donna, with season 5 episodes of The Walking Dead sprinkled in there for variety.

November
As October tilted toward November, I saw the HRI gigs drying up. My option with HRI was to jump into sports and event candids, but that entailed weekends and evenings almost exclusively, and that was absolutely out of the question. One long evening of frantic Craigslist ad browsing and responding yielded an interview with HealthPark Hospitality for a job as a valet. The job paid shit, but they offered an agreeable schedule — day shift, 40 hours. It was the easiest interview I ever had in my life, almost as though they were looking just to see if I would show up! I turned in my notice at HRI to end on November 7, started training with HealthPark on November 10, and started full-time at Northwest Community Hospital, Entrance 2, on November 17. It is surprisingly a fun job, not difficult at all and, best of all, allows me the time once again to do the things I want to do! ...like acting. Why Torture Is Wrong... opened its seven-performance run on the Thursday before Thanksgiving.

December
The last month of 2014 was another blur of work and play. THE play, to be specific; it closed on the first weekend of the month. Weekends were with Donna, in what has become the usual. She is a smart, sensitive, sensual, beautiful woman with a soft voice and a passion for wine and a love of cooking! We settled in to each other very quickly, and our time together is usually spent cuddling, laughing, and watching movies. I have never found easier talking to a woman, and her laugh is unrestrained and delicious.



So 2014 was indeed a doozy of a year! Despite the losses of people I loved, I think I got my brain turned around the right way, and my world turned upside down in the best way. I can only hope the trend continues into 2015.

But I ain't holding my breath.







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A Rapid Undoing

It was near the end of my day. A car pulled up to the doors to Entrance #2 amid a brief flurry of business and I went out to the driver's door with a valet ticket in my hand. "Do you want valet service today, sir?" He was an elderly man behind the wheel of the late model Honda.

"Yes," he replied. "You staying warm?"

"Yes, sir," I said. "This job keeps me moving; I stay pretty warm!"

"It's okay," he said as he gripped the interior handle of the open car door and slowly pulled himself to his feet, "you don't have to call me sir..."

"Oh, I call all men--"

"I was only a sergeant," he said, cutting me off; he hadn't heard my response. "I wasn't an officer." He offered up a handshake. I took his hand in mine.

"Thank you for your service, sir," I said. "Army?"

"Nineteen-forty-two to forty-five." He had read the next question in my mind.

"My dad was in from '42 to '46. Were you in the Pacific Theater or in the..."

"Europe!" His hearing was perfect, now. "I was with General Patton."

"Now, was he First Army or Third?" My father served in Europe during World War II, so I have the smidgen of European Theater of Operations knowledge I learned from him.

"First," he said.

"Ah," I smiled. "My father was in the Third Army." I couldn't think of the general's name who led my father's neck of the war. "Were you in the Battle of 'The Bulge?'" Another thing I had learned about my father's service. (Patton's First Army was in position to the north of the Belgian town of Bastogne, while General Omar Bradley's Third Army was about equally as far to the south of Bastogne. A thinly defended supply line was established between the two armies, and that supply line is where the German Army attacked in an effort to recapture the harbor of Antwerp, Belgium. The American forces along the line fell back westward in an effort to contain the German offensive, thus forming what the press of the time described as a "bulge" in the line.)

The gentleman smiled slightly and nodded.

I laughed. "You may have rubbed elbows with him!"

"How's your father?" he asked me.

I put my arm high up on his arm, near his shoulder, and said fairly matter-of-factly, "He passed away in 2008."

Then the man said, "I'm 91."

"NINETY-ONE?!" I blurted. The really quick part of my brain — the part that never shows itself for any practical purposes other than avoiding traffic collisions and recalling useless information — momentarily thought he was guessing my father's age, because, in that instant, without having to do any math, I knew 91 would have been my father's age this year. "You're doing good! You're doing GREAT!" I patted him on the arm in the same spot.

He hobbled past me toward the entry door to the medical building. "The good lord gave me a great life."

I walked ahead of him to open the door, and suddenly found myself struggling mightily to hold back tears. In that instant, I missed my dad terribly and I wanted desperately to sit down with this gentleman and ask him a million questions. What a tremendous obstacle placed before the men of his generation that they overcame! Most of them, anyway. And the sacrifice and the loss. The fear and the pain. What images must float up in his mind when he says things like, "I was only a sergeant, 1942 to '45!"

And now they're dying off to the tune of hundreds a day; maybe thousands.

I couldn't regain my composure quickly enough, and as he stepped through the doorway and away from me, my wish to him to "Have a good afternoon, now," came out as a wobbly, warbling croak, which I was grateful he couldn't hear.

Choking on the lump in my throat, I walked back through tear-blurred vision and quickly inspected his car for any prior damage, got in and headed to the valet stalls where I parked his car. And I let it happen. It was brief. I wiped my cheeks and my eyes with my hands, and I trotted back to Entrance #2, happy for the flurry of business that prevented me from dwelling on what had just transpired.



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