Lunch

I never eat lunch in the breakroom. I never eat lunch at my desk either if I can help it. It's not that I don't like the company. I just can't stand the thought of not being able to leave that "work" mode for even an hour during the day. My mind already spends too much time there the way it is. I have to get it and my body away or I go insane. I don't dislike what I do, but there has to be a balance. If I'm not eating lunch with my wife or friends or kids, I usually spend the time alone, which is just as important. Time alone heals.

Mostly I spend my lunches in parks or by the lake. It's peaceful without being completely solitary. I like to watch the ducks swim, and the ground squirrels begging for food is pretty hard to resist. I find they like French fries above most other things, although I try to throw some lettuce once in awhile to keep things evened out. Most days I try to walk around the lake if there's time. Eases the guilt of kicking back all those cheeseburgers.

I read some writing once from a Zen teacher concerning the importance of meals, and even more so, what the actual meals represent. Each bite is building something new, transferring you into something different. Be thankful of where the food comes from. Take knowledge in all those who helped bring it to its final product. I try to look at the parks and lakes in the same way, primarily in what they offer me and my well-being. Most days I succeed. Other days there's plenty of reminders present to keep me in line. When I being to neglect the importance of space and time and thought and reason, I'm usually able to recognize it, but it takes some help to turn the neglect into something less difficult to contain.

The King, Movie Trailers, and God

The other day I was watching movie trailers at Quicktime. I ended up watching a trailer for a film called "The King," and I'm glad that I did. It was pretty riveting, and it definitely did the job of making me want to see more. If a movie's promo ad looks interesting, I'll check it out just for that reason. This promo shot was pretty cool, and the actual preview got me back to thinking about an article I read not long ago about the people who direct and edit the actual trailers for major motion pictures.

Evidently, the director and his team are usually busy editing the actual film and putting the final touches on it right up to opening day. The article I read centered around a woman who worked from home putting trailers together. It was pretty interesting. She described the job as being able to still have an artistic life without all the pressure or time committments of directing the actual flick. Every couple of months, the studio sent her a script and select pieces of a film. She read the script, put the story together in her head, and then used the pieces of film to create the trailer. From there, the studio picked and pulled at it, until it got to what we see in the theater.

The trailer for the "The King" was so good, I'll make a point to see it when it's released. It 's not a film that will stick around for long where I live, if it makes it here at all. But I'll rent it or track it down. The trailer was that compelling. And I'm a fan of nearly anything William Hurt does, and he looks very different in this film. Cowboy meets preacher meets hippie meets zealout. Very moralistic, very strict, and very demanding of his family's faith. But apparently, he has some secrets in the closet, including a son (yes, his name is Elvis) who is getting out of the Navy with the intention of finding the father that left him when he was young. When the two finally meet, it doesn't go according to the son's best hopes. In fact, William Hurt's character, David, wants nothing to do with him and tells him to split. The son has other ideas, some of which include David's family, although not involving violence from what I can tell. Oh yeah, did I mention the son's name is Elvis?

I happened upon a good article about the film, plus the other religiously focused films out now ("The Da Vinci Code," "The Omen") from the NY Times.

I won't spoil the plot twist of "The King," but I will say it reminded me of a Korean movie I saw about a year ago called "Oldboy." Check out the promo for this one. Tell me that doesn't suck you in. Anyway, the movie had the greatest twist at the end that I've seen in a film, and I've seen lots of films. It isn't for the squeamish, but if you like things left of the dial, and you like great, great turns, this one is for you. Take a guess at what really got me to see the flick? That's right, I saw the trailer first.

In case you're wondering, here's the lowdown on "Oldboy", as from IMDB.com:

On the day of his daughter's birthday, Ho Dae-su (Min-sik Choi) gets completely drunk and is arrested. His best friend No Joo-hwan (Dae-han Ji) releases him from the police station, and while calling home from a phone booth, Dae-su vanishes. Indeed he has been abducted and imprisoned in a room for fifteen years. One day, he is suddenly released, receives clothes, money and a cellular. He meets a Japanese chef Mido (Hye-jeong Kang), and they feel a great attraction for each other. However, Dae-su seeks for his captor and the reason of his long imprisonment. While looking for revenge, Dae-su discloses deep secrets from the past.

My backyard.

I've never been a person who spends much time in the front yard. I'd much rather be in the back. I'm not sure if that's a statement on my life in general, but I feel more comfortable there. My favoritism doesn't even stem from my dislike that the front yard has seemingly come to signify making an impression to anyone passing by, because I probably fall prey to that mentality more than I'd care to admit--as much as any other suburban monkey I suppose. But the backyard is where the serenity, peace, and privacy lives. It's the oasis and paradise and eden. If you build it right, the backyard is a haven.

Mind you, I find certain aspects of a front yard so appealling. I love an old-school front porch that wraps around both corners of a house and carries on to the back. It makes me wonder who sits there at night and what she's thinks or sees or believes. I love those same porches more when the rails are lined with plants and sculptures and expressions of personalities. I love big, wide picture windows when they're open and inviting and when they reflect the life that's living outside back to the outside. I love fat, wooden porch swings that look sturdy but feel free. I love them more when they're tall enough to dangle your feet from and when they're big enough to fit two adults on each side and a child in the middle. I love long, winding sidewalks that slink slowly up to the front steps, which are lined with lights and plants and rocks and bushes. I love aged trees that hang over a house, hovering and protecting it like a parent. I love a front yard that ever-so-patiently slopes down from the house's edge to where the street takes over; it's as if the yard stretches forever because the people living there have no where to go because they don't want to. I love those yards more when plush, dark-green grass spreads from side to side--like a plantation but without all the guilt. I love ivy and moss and stones and boulders and subtle signs that pets are on the premises. I love front yards that lead to pastures and paths to the barn and walkways down to the pond. I love a screen door that swings open and shuts gently, and not one that crashes to a close. I love roofs that overhang and drip rain and store icicles and that give the impression of being superior to all that would seek to do harm. And I love driveways that circle around, giving you the option to stay or go without having to move in reverse. I love walking sticks kept at the ready. Muddy shoes left outside. Bird nests hidden but heard. I love sidewalk chalk and above-ground sprinklers and bikes left laying, the kickstand never bothered with. I love a front yard at night that glows from the street light and that dances in shadows when the wind blows the trees.

Maybe I like the front yard more than I thought.

I'm the guy who can't finish a story.

Not spoken stories. I have no trouble boring people with the words I speak aloud. It's the written ones I can't finish (although the boring factor certainly carries over here, as well.) There's probably three dozen or so half-written, half-thought-out, half-conceived, half-believed, half-assed attempts at literature (as it were) laying around in drawers, notebooks, glove departments, book shelves, compost piles, etc. I'm not a finisher. I'm the guy who gets you up to the finish line but breaks your heart. If my stories were leftovers, the fridge would never be empty. And I hate leftovers. They're cold, they're lifeless, and they've seen their better days. So it's time to get to steppin'. Delila Dunko deserves to know how her life is going to finish. So does that boy rhino that my daughter and I started to write about. Hell, we gave that kid a girl's name but never bothered to tell anyone why. So does the dog named Spike that I left hanging on for dear life in a tree branch so long ago. Dude's been in that tree going on 20 years now. That mysterious guy with no name that drives an old Jaguar and always seems to end up in front of my house for some reason, he, too, needs some closure. Bob Dylan helped save my goldfish in one story, but damned if I know why or how. Didn't bother thinking that far ahead. And therein lies the problem. Thinking ahead. Is it better to begin something and not finish it or to never begin it in the first place as to not disappoint anyone, including yourself?

Thanks goodness for guys like Rod. He's odd. He's round. He's green. But he's a frickin' survivor and a damn fine poet.

Happy Birthday, Bob

65. Retirement age for sure. And Bob's earned the rest. But I don't think he wants it. Musicians don't retire. Neither do poets or writers. Neither do ideas or passion or melodies or addictions.

If I was a younger man without constraints, I'd get to Hibbing tomorrow, put on a party hat, blow a silly whistle or two, and eat some birthday cake. It's been a while since I've been to a good birthday party, and Hibbing looks like it's doing it up sweet. Maybe exploiting Bob for its own good, but who cares? I'm sure Bob understands.

And if that garage door isn't the coolest damn thing ever . . . I'd like to meet the cat who lives there.

On Music

Ever get that feeling when you meet someone that you're really going to like him or her, but there's also something just a little threatening there that you don't like? Like for me, I like music an abnormal amount. I used to take pride in knowing more about it than others, but I finally figured out I loved thinking I knew more about music than I was actually loving the music. I've since changed my priorities, and now it's all about the music. That said, I still get a little jazzed about knowing more than the next guy. But as I get older and meet more people, I find more people know just as much and often a hell of lot more than I do.

For example, have a friend now who knows more than me, and I think he does because he loves music more than I do. And he lives the life more than I do now. And it's probably more important to him than it is to me right now. And that's saying something. But having kids makes you rearrange and retract when you used to plow ahead and expand. So, anyway, I don't like that feeling of being the backup guy. But it's good to be humbled, and it's good to be in awe, and it's good to know you have smart friends.

My dog is a pup.

This dog, Slim, he follows me around all day like I'm his dad or something. I tell him I have three kids to keep my eyes on already, but he sees my bluff. He's a smart dog, being just a pup. I bet if he was a boy, he'd be a ladies man. He's smooth and good looking with these steely blue eyes, and he's cocky-sure. I like his style most days, but he's relentless. One-track mind dog. Dogs are pretty cool, though. Good teachers, too. Slim's teaching me about confidence. Pure-breed little bastard.




Long live Miles The Great, the king of all dogs and his snoring, big tail-exploring, problem-ignoring big bad heart. Not a day . . . Miley. Not a single day . . .