Tuesday, January 04, 2011

I Got Them Busted Fingernail Blues, Oh, Lord


Again. Broke off all three of the useful ones on the right hand this week. Forefinger Sunday, changing over the laundry. Middle finger yesterday, washing dishes. Ring finger today, racking a 45-pound plate on the inclined leg-press machine. That one snapped off all the way to the quick.


There are classical guitarists who don't use their fingernails, keeping them trimmed ultrashort, but I prefer the sound that comes from the mix of nail and flesh. 


You can get a nail salon to glue some on for you, do silk wraps and what not, but those are a little harder to deal with, getting, and removing them. Better for steel string players, since they last longer. 


Fortunately, I have a little emergency repair kit, based on one I once bought online. I can't seem to find that kit for sale any more, but it's easy to cobble one together from stuff you can get at the drugstore. (Editor's note: I sit corrected -- I found 'em: Riconails, here.)


It's only a temporary fix, but they'll generally stay on long enough for a good session, which is all you need. 


Basically, you get some plastic or nylon nails, trim them short to fit, and stick them to your own nails using Glue Dots™. If you don't know what these are, they are essentially flat little circles of gummy stuff, kind of like preformed disks of rubber cement on a roll of paper tape, and conveniently about the size of a fingernail. 


You peel one off the backing paper, lay it on your nail, then press the artificial fingernail firmly into place. Unlike super glue, which is full of vile chemicals that can leach into your keratin and weaken it, as well as causing cancer, hair loss, and exploding testicles, the glue dots are harmless, temporary, and can be easily rolled up and off using an orange stick when you are done. The nails are reusable.


Back in the day, classical guitarists would repair their nails with glue and tissue paper or ping-pong balls. There's nothing quite like your own nails, but other things can be made to serve.

Monday, January 03, 2011

January Song


It was only a matter of time before I combined music and silat, I suppose ...


Haven't gotten the chords yet -- I'm thinking some in a minor key, to get a kind of haunting melody, maybe A-minor pentatonic, if I can figure it out ...


Editor's Note: Hereunder a slightly revised version of the lyrics, with chords. The recording is now available on SoundClick, here, or in the player down the page.



Knife Fighter
I.
Am                                               Dm
He’s a stone-cold lizard-eyed knife fighter/
F                                        G            Am
And he’s always gettin’ ready to die/
Am                                                  Dm
He’s got two in his pocket and one in his boot/
F                           G                   Am
And the steel is how he gets high/
Am                                                  Dm
He’ll dance with the Devil and cut off his whiskers/
F                          G                 Am
And grin like a fool all the while/
Am                                                        Dm
When the law comes for him, they better shoot fast/
                  F              G           Am
Cause he won’t be goin’ to trial.
Chorus:
F                              G  
Live by the blade, die by the blade/
Am
You know that’s how the story ends/
F                                                G
That’s how they'll write the epitaph/
                 F             G                Am
When the knife is your only friend.
II.
Am                                               Dm
He’s had more stitches than a sewing machine/
              F             G            Am
Jagged scars all over his face/
Am                             Dm
Each time he pulls out his blade/
                  F          G            Am
It always comes down to a race/
Am                           Dm                         F               G            Am
To see who Death claims this time, who’ll be going to Hell/
Am                            Dm                           F                        G           Am
Win, lose, or draw everybody bleeds, sometimes it’s hard to tell.
(Chorus)
III.
Am                                        Dm                           F       G                    Am
It’s edges and points and icepick grips, and saber hold for the reach/
Am                                              Dm                        F            G              Am
He knows ninety-six ways to kill a man, O the lessons he could teach/
Am                                                  Dm                                F                    G
He’s a bad steppin’ razor and an expert butcher as he slices and he stabs 
             Am
and he flays/
Am                                          Dm                       F                  G         Am                         
Never had a chance at the peaceful life, far gone in his killin’ ways.
Chorus:
F                              G  
Live by the blade, die by the blade/
Am
You know that’s how the story ends/
F                                                G
That’s how they'll write the epitaph/
                 F             G                Am
When the knife is your only friend/
                 F             G                Am
When the knife is your only friend
(Slow it down)
When the knife ...  is your ... only ... friend ...

Sunday, January 02, 2011

Changes


More than half of my adult life, my weight has been fairly constant. It might vary a pound or three in a given week, but thirty-odd years ago, my driver's license listed my weight at 205#, and until I decided to quit eating so much sugar a couple months back, that's where it stayed. (I drop six or seven pounds on days when I fast, but pick it all back up over the next few days, so I don't count that.)


At the moment, I am down nine pounds, and have been pretty much that since the end of October. Had to tighten my belt up a notch. Which is great -- I feel good, I'm carrying less bodyfat, and I'm assuming my triglycerides have dropped -- I'll check that again the end of February.


However, when you lose subcutaneous fat, as I appear to have done, there is a small thing you might gain: 


Wrinkles.


I'm talking about a little under 5% weight loss, but some that has been from my face, and when that nice, smooth avoirdupois under the skin melted away, it left some slack ...


I've noticed this with other people -- they dieted some of the excess and even though they appeared better overall, they sometimes had a kind of ... drawn look, the lines etched a bit deeper than before.


Of course, I am getting up there and some signs of aging are bound to happen; still, those tend to come on more gradually, and dropping subcue fat does have something to do with it.


I figure the way to get around this is to build more muscle, and stretch the old hide out again. Back to the bigger weights, maybe ...


Never a dull moment. 

Thursday, December 30, 2010

On the Nose


Edward Arlington Robinson

In scriptwriting, there is a term -- "on the nose." What this means is, the line or lines in dialog are predictable and expected, they sometimes sound forced, because the writer wants the audience to get something. 


The protagonist says this, the villain says that, and the protag finishes the exchange with a snappy comeback. 


If you are a movie-goer or TV watcher, at some point, you almost certainly knew after you heard the handsome-but-overconfident-guy say something to the much-smarter-and-plucky-girl exactly what her response was gonna be.


I sometimes do this out loud, to my wife's consternation: "Okay, he's gonna say this, then she'll say that, then the last line is gonna be ..."


There are times when this is the way to go. People like certain tropes in their fiction, and some of them have become staples. James Bond would offer a witty remark now and then in the first couple of Bond movies; after a few more movies, he never said anything but that the writers labored over it to make it as clever as they possibly could -- and the star always gets the bulk of clever or funny or soul-touching lines. Many movie stars have their own writers on-call whose jobs are to go over a script the star plans to do to make sure they shine brighter than anybody else on the screen. Apparently the way to get past this is to offer: "Yeah, it sounds on-the-nose, but lookit, actually it's full of subtext, here, and here, see ... ?"


Subtext here being something going on between the lines that makes 'em mean more than they seem to mean -- in my books, I do a riff on this called "fugue," in which speakers say one thing but mean something else.


Actors love subtext. 


There are times when on-the-nose isn't appropriate. If a movie-goer is one step ahead of everybody all the time, s/he can get bored. Part of the fun, especially in mysteries or caper movies, or even romances, is having to figure out what is going to happen, and to be frustrated or surprised when it doesn't go quite the way you thought it was gonna go. 


You go to a sports movie, you figure the protagonist is gonna win the championship. But the first Rocky movie twisted that nicely -- Rocky's win was staying on his feet, even though he got the crap pounded out of him and he lost the match. He redeemed himself -- even losing, he won. 


You go to a romantic picture, you want to the the boy and girl wind up together. But in Crazy Heart, Jeff Bridges loses the girl, and yet the movie still satisfies. He redeemed himself.


There are cliches that brush past this nose-category. Think about Boy and Girl who Meet Cute. Or the classic Boy-meets-girl-boy-gets-girl-boy-loses-girl-because-of-a-misunderstanding-boy-gets-girl-back-and-they-live-happily-ever-after, which surely came in with the first dinosaurs. Shakespeare used that one, and most light romantic comedies at which you can point still play it. Catch White Christmas this season?


You know these cliches because you've seen them:


The whore-with-the-heart-of gold. Or the venal-smuggler-only-interested-in-money-who-comes-around. The cop who breaks the rules but triumphs in the end ..


These kinds of thing can be small or large, in the scheme of the overall story. 


When I was a boy, one of my classmates, Harry Jordan* lived one block over. He was a nice enough guy,  was in my scout troop, we got along okay. But he was an over-achiever. Great student, polite, well-mannered, a jock, wouldn't step on an ant, had all the merit badges, eventually made it to Eagle Scout. 


At some point, my mother went through a phase of comparing me to Jordan:


"Look at Harry Jordan, what a great job he does mowing the lawn."


"I bet Harry Jordan doesn't sass his Momma that way."


"What did Harry Jordan get on the test? An "A," I bet."


Even his haircut was better than mine ...


Probably she didn't do this as much as I recall her doing it, but it was enough that I can still remember it now, and more than enough to put me off Harry at the time. Harry Jordan? Piss on him!


So let's say I wanted to write a script using Harry as a character as an adult. 


After I set him up as Mr. Wonderful, then the obvious turnaround is to cast him as an impotent drunken homeless crack-smoker. Hey, Momma? Check out your precious Harry Jordan now ... 


Turn that one again: Harry is only pretending to be an IDHC-S -- he's actually a Pulitzer-prize-winning reporter undercover to help take down a major dope-dealer.


Twist it again: Along the way in his investigation, he had to use drugs to fool somebody, and he got hooked on the stuff and --


Once more: -- he went into rehab where he met a gorgeous movie star and they have linked up and --


Or going another way, Harry is rich, famous, outwardly happy as everybody expected he would be, but inside, miserable -- a Richard Cory bound for suicide ...


Lot of ways to turn old Harry inside-out. At some point, it gets too twisty, and you have to leave it, but you get the idea. 


The questions you need to ask, are, Who is this guy, really? How did he get there from where he started? The what-when-why of it ...


How a writer makes it interesting for me is that s/he weaves things back and forth enough to keep me guessing, without getting me frustrated to the point where I don't care any more.


It's a tricky business, and the scope of some stories don't allow for it -- sometimes you have to go with the white hats and black hats. If you have the room, you can sometimes tinker with it. Darth Vader was lost in the dark side of the Force, would just as soon kill you as look at you, the corridors of his ship piled high with choked-out bodies. But in the end, he stepped up and did the right thing. Redeemed himself. Got him killed, but there you go ...


Something to keep in mind when you are telling your tale. At the right juncture, the unexpected turn can make your story really shine. (At the wrong juncture, it can lead to a dead-end. But figuring that out, that's the game, isn't it ... ?)
________________


* Harry Jordan is not his real name. Changed to protect the guilty: Me ...)

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

New eBook


This one, mostly essays from the blog, is another non-fiction addition to the e-bookery. According to the guy that runs Smashwords, ebook biz is going to get better in 2011, and he's predicting it could hit as high as 20% of total book sales by year's end. 

I dunno if that's so, but the times are a' changin', for sure.

Langmuir Windrows


As somebody who hasn't kept his finger on the pulse of modernity, I am sometimes surprised by terminology with which up I haven't kept. Swimming about in my own Sargasso, I get caught up in the Langmuir circulation and miss stuff outside my little eddies. 

Apparently, I need to get out more.


Case in point: I have heard the terms "mow the lawn," "trim the hedges," "landing strip," in reference to pubic hair grooming; even "metrosexual," but until this week, I'd never come across the word "manscaping "


The neologism apparently came from the TV series Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, in August, 2003. 


I can't imagine how I somehow missed that episode -- and series -- but miss 'em I did.


Bodybuilders in the 'zines have shaved it all off forever, and I know what it looks like; I just never knew it had such a ... well, faggy-sounding name ...


Live and learn. Never a dull moment.





Monday, December 27, 2010

Relative


Wife and I went to the gym yesterday to work off some of the holiday turkey and dressing. Got there when it opened -- not until ten a.m. on Sundays. 


Place was relatively crowded, some serious jocks there. As we worked out, we watched one little blonde girl who was maybe twenty, alternate between pull-ups and front squats, doing sets of three each for at least four sets, then doing walking lunges with a pair of big-for-her dumbbells. I haven't seen a lot of women at our gym do pull-ups at all, much less sets.


I worked until I was tired, went down to the aerobics room and did my djurus and some stretching while Dianne did yoga, then we came home. 


Later, we clicked on the TV and there was another round of the World's Strongest Man Competition, from South Africa. First event, the Giant Farmer's Walk, involved heats of two guys. Each had to grab a pair of looked like rectangular, file-cabinet-sized blocks of metal with handles amidships, hoist those off the ground, and walk a course, there and back, for time. 


As might a farmer carrying buckets of milk, hence, I suppose, the name.


Only, the weights were about three hundred and fifty pounds per block. So these guys were carrying seven hundred pounds like I would carry a pair of lightweight suitcases. 


After they were done, one guy flashed his hand, and the callus was torn right off his palm, the flesh bloody. This was the first event, and he had to go through several more, moving big rocks and deadlifting mountains and all like that. The guy with the shredded hand had to bandage that and wear gloves to finish. 


He eventually won the day to qualify for the finals. 


The guy he edged out for first, who also qualified for the finals, was eleven weeks post-op for a torn and partially-detached biceps tendon. A large British fellow, six-five, pushing four hundred pounds in weight. Kind of fellow puts the Incredible Hulk into the shade.


These guys would give Hercules a run for his money. 


One of the ads was for a MET-Rx contest: Send us a vid of your killer workout and win a walk-on role on the new cable series, Spartacus. 


My wife said, "You should enter." I just laughed. I just watched guys bigger than Goliath play through pain that would send me crying to the ER. 


I don't think I'll be shooting that video ...

Friday, December 24, 2010

Holiday Greetings


I tend to be a little to the Bah, humbug! side because Christmas now starts around Hallowe'en and that's too long for me, but Christmas Eve is close enough so I can get into the spirit. 


We'll have family over, in a couple of shifts tonight and tomorrow, and this evening, I'll settle down with A Christmas Story and watch Ralphie scheme one more time upon how to get the Daisy BB gun he wants.


For those of you who celebrate the holidays at this time of year, let me offer my wishes that they be both happy and healthy. I hope you can be with those who make you smile.

Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Colors, Man, the Colors ...


Got another opthalmic migraine. Happening right now. Per the advice of my eye doc after the first one, I'm just sitting back and enjoying the show. Not nearly so nerve-wracking when you know what it is ...


I'm getting swirly flashes of light at the right periphery of my left eye, mostly gone after about twenty minutes.


Cheap entertainment ...

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Dragon Eats Moon


Total lunar eclipse last night, first one that happened on the solstice around here since the 1600's, so they say.


It was raining on and off at my house, but the clouds cleared enough so that the moon was visible part of the time, and pretty much straight overhead. Got a good look at about two-thirds coverage, and during totality, when the moon was a kind of muddy orange. I've seen better, but also (haven't) seen worse. 


If you are an astronomer, first-hand views of the night sky might be found elsewhere most of the time. 

Sunday, December 19, 2010

Christmas Party




We go to this party every year, bunch of old friends. Check out the electric hat ...


(All three women seen in the clip are Mensa members ...)

People Who Don't Have Enough To Do





Steampunk Nerf™ guns ...

Old Time Country - Little Jimmy Dickens


They don't make 'em like this any more ...

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Inspiration


Lew Hollander 

Sat in my recliner this afternoon while my wife napped, and watched on the tube, the Ironman, on the Big Island of Hawaii. 


For those of you who don't know, this is a race, starting with a 2.4 mile swim, followed by a 112 mile bicycle ride, then a full marathon, 26.2 miles. Seventeen hundred entrants, I believe.


So happened we were on the Big Island on vacation one time they ran this thing, back in the eighties. Saw them trudging across the lava fields as we drove around in our rental car. My. Look at that.


I thought they were crazy then, and I can't say my opinion of their sanity has gone up much ...


But here I was, snuggled down in the leather with the dog on the chair next to me and the cat on my lap, and came the stories about some of the runners:


A vet from the Iraq war who was recovering from major chemotherapy for testicular cancer. 


A mother of four who works two jobs and who got hit on her bike once and broke all kinds of stuff. 


A racer who got into a collision with another cyclist during the race and was hurt bad enough that he could only limp the entire marathon at a slow walk. 


A woman with a broken foot who got through the swim and bike okay, then strapped on a walking-cast style boot and continued on with the marathon.

And my favorite, Lew Hollander, an eighty-year-old man from Bend who still works as a motivational speaker, and who was running his twenty-first Ironman, having finished them all.


None of these folks were in the running to win. A couple of them barely made it under the wire for the midnight deadline, after fifteen or sixteen hours doggedly going at it in the hot and humid Hawaiian climate. 


But they all finished, which is passing amazing.


And sitting there, I thought, Well. I have no excuse for not staying in shape. Not if guys old enough to be my father are running in the Ironman and finishing.


Geez, Louise.

Prophet


The myth is, Apollo had the hots for Cassandra, and he offered a deal -- come across, and I'll give you the gift of prophesy. Okay, she said, deal. So he gave her ability to see the future. But when the god showed up to get his ashes hauled, she changed her mind. That for you!


Apparently the gift wasn't a hundred percent, because she didn't see what was coming.


Screwing with the gods -- literally or figuratively -- is usually a bad idea. Apollo allowed Cassandra to keep the gift, but he gave it a little tweak: She'd still be able to see the future, only, nobody would believe her when she told them what it was. (One version has it that how she expressed it would be in riddles so arcane that nobody could figure out what it meant, but the point is the same. You have great power, but you can't do anything much with it.)


Such is the curse of many prophets -- they have knowledge, but nobody can hear it.


(Also, I should mention, this is the curse of most parents ...)


Second thing:


When I was a hippie and full of newfound wisdom about life, the universe, and everything, I had a discussion with my father. I explained to him how his values were basically for shit, all that nose-to-the-grindstone, materialism and keeping up with the Joneses and all, and how he should get onboard the train leaving for the Age of Aquarius ...


Didn't go over well. At the time, I just wrote it off to his ignorance and stubborn nature, and piss on him, I was going to go out and change the world, and then he'd see ...


When the train to the Age of Aquarius ran slam into Disco and Yuppies in their Volvos, and crashed off the rails, it took me a while to climb out of the wreckage, clean up, and revisit the notion that we were all gonna hold hands and sing Kumbayah. Hard to do when Disco Duck is playing on the boombox ...


In retrospect, I figured out a couple of things. One was, that my certain knowledge was maybe not so certain. Two, that if you are trying to convince somebody to change their mind, starting out with the notion that what he knows is total bullshit doesn't gain you much ear. 


So, lemme get it straight: My whole life has been a total waste? All my values are meaningless and worthless, and I should dump 'em into the toilet and take up yours?


Yeah, that's pretty much it.


Good luck with that one ...

Friday, December 17, 2010

Lucasfilm Christmas Card


Gotta love it ...

Henry Mancini

Hard to do a post about Blake Edwards without thinking of the late Henry Mancini (d-1994), whose music graced dozens of Edwards's movies. 


In 1952, Mancini joined the Universal Pictures music department. During the next six years, he contributed music to over 100 movies, most notably The Creature from the Black Lagoon, It Came from Outer Space, Tarantula, This Island Earth, The Glenn Miller Story (for which he received his first Academy Award nomination), The Benny Goodman Story and Orson Welles' Touch of Evil. 

Mancini left Universal-International to work as an independent composer/arranger in 1958. Soon after, he scored the television series Peter Gunn[2] for writer/producer Blake Edwards, the genesis of a relationship which lasted over 35 years and produced nearly 30 films. Together with Alex North, Elmer Bernstein, Leith Stevens and Johnny Mandel, Henry Mancini was one of the pioneers who introduced jazz music into the late romantic orchestral film and TV scores prevalent at the time.

Mancini's scores for Blake Edwards included Breakfast at Tiffany's (with the standard "Moon River")[2] and Days of Wine and Roses (with the title song, "Days of Wine and Roses"), as well as Experiment in Terror, The Pink Panther (and all of its sequels), The Great Race, The Party, and Victor/Victoria. 

Another director with whom Mancini had a longstanding partnership was Stanley Donen (Charade, Arabesque, Two for the Road). Mancini also composed for Howard Hawks (Man's Favorite Sport?, Hatari! — which included the well-known "Baby Elephant Walk"), Martin Ritt (The Molly Maguires), Vittorio de Sica (Sunflower), Norman Jewison (Gaily, Gaily), Paul Newman (Sometimes a Great Notion, The Glass Menagerie), Stanley Kramer (Oklahoma Crude), George Roy Hill (The Great Waldo Pepper), Arthur Hiller (Silver Streak),[4] Ted Kotcheff (Who Is Killing the Great Chefs of Europe?), and others. 

Mancini's score for the Alfred Hitchcock film Frenzy (1972) was rejected and replaced by Ron Goodwin's work.
Mancini scored many TV movies, including The Thorn Birds and The Shadow Box. He wrote his share of television themes, including Mr. Lucky (starring John Vivyan and Ross Martin), NBC News Election Night Coverage, NBC Mystery Movie,[5] What's Happening!!,[6] Newhart, Remington Steele, Tic Tac Dough (1990 version)[citation needed] and Hotel. 

 Mancini also composed the "Viewer Mail" theme for Late Night with David Letterman.[5] Lawrence Welk held Mancini in very high regard, and frequently featured Mancini's music on The Lawrence Welk Show (Mancini, at least once, made a guest appearance on the show).

Two of his classics, and my favorites:



Thursday, December 16, 2010

Blake Edwards


Director Blake Edwards (1922-2010) has died. Everybody will bring up The Pink Panther, and some of the movies he did with Julie Andrews -- his wife -- I loved SOB, but I'm remembering the Peter Gunn movie from the mid-sixties, sparked by the TV series, both of which Edwards also worked on.


There's a scene in the movie I dimly recall. The Peter Gunn character is in a bad-ass bar somewhere, and a bad-ass comes up to him, nose-to-nose. I remember the BA as having a pool cue in his hand, but it's been forty-some years, so who knows. He's ready to kick Gunn's ass.  


Gunn is the epitome of cool, and it bugs the BA:


The bad ass says, So, what, are you some kind of karate expert? One false move, and zap, I'm wiped out? That it?


Gunn smiles and the camera pulls back to reveal that he has a revolver almost touching the guy's belt. It's a visual gag, and there is a follow-up line -- I can't remember it, but something to the effect of, No, I'm the guy's gonna shoot your dumb ass if you don't get out of my face ...


Adios, Mr. Edwards. Let me play you out: