A Welcome Prize

I'm pleased to report that my Little Miss Sunshine review won an online contest from m80 and I now have a sparkling new copy of Little Miss Sunshine (movie info) as a prize. Like my theater work, I don't expect to be compensated for writing, but I sure do appreciate any sort of pay when it does come. Ideally, of course, I'd be compensated commensurate to the time, sweat, blood, etc. I've put into the two crafts I love so dearly, but if I did either of these activities for the money, I'd have left them over ten years ago. So I will take a few seconds to bask in the appreciation of the moment.

'Kay. I'm done.

Regardless of contests or compensation, I firmly believe that Little Miss Sunshine was the best movie of the year last year. The Departed, Babel, The Devil Wears Prada were all fine movies, but did not fulfill as much as LMS did. I'll gladly post thoughts about those movies later to show their worth. I'm sure I'll write about Pan's Labyrinth and Children of Men as well, but in the realm of storytelling, meaningful comedic reflection, and ensemble acting, nothing's touching LMS for a long time, if ever.

More reviews to see:
Hot Fuzz
The Descent
Musings on M. Night Shyamalan

Clarity in Amsterdam, Part Six.

03/15/07 UPDATE: This piece was originally in five parts, but I've made changes. There will be one more post after this one to complete the revisions.

PART ONE
PART TWO
PART THREE
PART FOUR
PART FIVE

We take many walks throughout the city to sample the different coffee shops; on the third walk of the third day, I decide to try the hashish hot chocolate, dubbed “Little Slice of Heaven” by our group. The mixture goes down easily enough, but after fifteen minutes, even standing and walking is an adventure. As I repeatedly demand to know if everyone is getting as high as I am, we somehow decide it’s time to return to the hotel for the evening.

The closer we get to the hotel, the higher I go. We stop off for dinner just before the Luxer. Like the lousy American I am, I’m stoned out of mind and behaving like an ass. During the meal, I watch Edmond float above the table, and I decide I need to see some great football (meaning soccer in Yank-speak) while I’m in Europe.

I don’t remember getting into my hotel room, but I’m lying on one of two single beds in the room and the TV’s showing great football. Edmond is my babysitter. We’re watching Manchester United versus Arsenal. As with all European football games, the crowd sings different songs throughout the match. I say, “Ooooohhhhhh my God, how do they all know what to sing at the same time? The fans are all singing the same song at once! It’s so beautiful! How do they do that?”

Edmond smiles and says nothing.

I continue gushing. “Do they have a choreographer who tells them what to sing when?”

I have never seen something as spectacular as this football game nor heard music as beautiful as the fans that sing in unison this night. Every pass is extraordinary. The game is close and the crowd swells in anticipation at every goal possibility. All is thrilling. I never freak out.

Eventually, my bed stops spinning beneath me and I feel like I’ve come down and taken enough of Edmond’s time. I tell him that I’m fine and feel great and that it was good of him to sit with me for a bit. He needs to get out so he can get as stoned as I am.

After Edmond leaves, I take a shower to help me get down enough so that I can go downstairs to the bar, get drunk, and talk to Jeff the bartender. Jeff is American and a former professional basketball player who has lived in Amsterdam since 1982. He’s good for conversation and getting guests in the bar to talk together. Jeff is a comfort bartender.

As I shower, the lights in the bathroom occasionally go to a blinding brilliance, sometimes accompanied by a soft crackling sound like the bulbs are shivering. I think about everything that’s happened over the past three years, yet I feel no pain, no embarrassment, no hate, no anger, no sadness. Just a relaxed objectivity of looking at events as facts and not how they affect me. I think about how my wife and I are living together again, that we’re talking about our problems and fighting constructively instead just throwing venom at each other. I think of reasons to be scared and reasons to be hopeful. I marvel at how easily all the hoarded hate and grief has washed off.

I’m standing still in the shower with my arms crossed. I look down and see my shadow washing its hair. My shadow has long, thick hair that billows and swirls. I think of Beauty and the Beast, of transforming into something that’s horrible yet beautiful. A voice from somewhere says, “You really need to like yourself better.”

I spend a nice long night in the bar, drinking heavily and smoking frequently. Sometimes I have company, sometimes I’m alone. I don’t have a sense of contentment or reassurance, but I’m not really actively looking.

To be concluded...

UPDATE: THE CONCLUSION

Another Quarter in the Bag

My latest class are at an end except for the 700 pages of final papers I need to read. This was a good quarter in the land of Academia. Teaching three writing classes is difficult and tiring, but not the impossible task some would have you believe. Living on not knowing how you're paying rent and bills is an impossible task. However, it is also a task to be directly combatted. I loved teaching, I loved getting to meet and read more students, I loved practicing my teaching, and I've had interesting developments in work and pedagogy at my University (more on this later, especially if the strange political winds continue to blow, and even more especially if they continue to bring a smell I'm really not liking). My best friend has taken up the blogging torch to my great delight; he tells great stories and I'm looking forward to reading them. Spring is in the air, college basketball is in full fever pitch (sorry Mr. Hornby), and Chicago is the greatest city in the world to reside in during this time of year. Now if only I could put a few more quarters in my pocket.